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In The Library Ch. 01

By: electricblue66



I made my way to the far end of the Memorial library to my favourite waiting place, down on the ground floor. Along the west side of the library there are a series of floor to ceiling windows looking out over a wide expanse of grass and then down to the band of trees by the river. 

The windows catch the afternoon sun, which streamed in on this beginning of winter day, warming each bay. Inside, the windows are separated by tall stacks, double sided, mostly filled with older reference books but also some of the library's collection of art folios. Within each private space there is a single high backed chair which can be moved around and angled for the best motes of sunlight. 

I would often come down to this place at the end of a long day in the upstairs stacks, researching or writing for course work. Today was no different: I had a bundle of books I intended to borrow, a mind buzzing from study, but an hour or so before the library shut to watch the sun go down and the shadows lengthen, so this would be a quiet time before the long walk up the avenue to the halls. 

I made myself comfortable in the chair, angled it slightly to catch the sun. Outside I could see the shadows and light shift and move - a quick sun-shower threw some splashes of rain against the window and then passed by, golden light shining onto the carpet before me.

I reached to the shelves and found an art folio - a collection of art deco prints and paintings, objects and curios. The colours of the paintings had the strong block colours of the 1920s and 1930s, and the figures were stylised and futuristic. The men and women stylish and svelte, women wearing low cut backless dresses, short bobs and jewellery. 

Here's a painting named Le Modele - a nude girl facing away from the viewer, creamy white skin sinuous down the centre of the painting, her left leg pushed slightly forward tilting her lovely rounded ass down to the left. The minx, she's wearing just a pair of silver shoes - clearly getting dressed or undressed slowly and in an unusual order. 

She's leaning forward on her boudoir table, hand held mirror lying on its top surface, a vase of calla lilies, white and phallic and pudenda both at the same time. She's got just a string of pearls around her neck and some large stone rings on her left hand, nude and naked together, accessories only. Someone has just entered the room and she is lazily turning her head over her shoulder to see who it is. Her eyes are closed as if she is dreaming, and I can see her bright red lips and a single loop of hair on her cheek. 

We have just come in from a long night partying and she has gone to make herself comfortable for bed, and has got most of the way through undressing and then just lost herself in a dream. She's delectable. I want her to keep her hands where they are on the table, but to take a step back with both feet, spread them apart a pace, so I can see the dark cleft between her legs, dark hair, shadows.

And here's another painting, The Perfume of Ecstasy. Wow, this girl is getting off on something, she's kneeling in front of a burning byre, fumes wafting up and swirling all around her. She's a slave girl or servant, or maybe the youngest daughter of the vizir, bare feet, loose purple pants tied with a flowing green coil of cloth around her hips. 

Large bangles on her ankles and wrists, she's arching her back in desire, thrusting her firm breasts high, nipples pink and rosy and erect, both breasts cupped in her hands as if offered up to a god. Her head is thrown back, eyes closed, red lips pulled back in a sigh of desire, white teeth showing, her neck long and proud.

I'm roused from my own reverie by another spray of rain on the glass in front of me, but it's as if time has slowed. The rain slowly patterns on the glass, and I realise the whole building is really quiet, a preternatural hush in the air. I hear a tap tap tap and it is a currawong out on the lawn, tapping on the glass. That's strange, I've not seen that before - the glossy black and snowy white bird, trying to get my attention? Tap tap tap. 

And then through the silence I hear a squeak of a wheel on a library trolley. One of the librarians is doing some late book returns. 

I hear the trolley stop in the bay adjacent to mine, the swish of stockinged legs (so she's a lady librarian) as books are taken from the trolley and I hear the clunk of books as they are re-shelved. So just a minor interruption. I turn the page of the folio in my lap, just as the trolley wheel squeaks again, and then it must be at the end of the stack sheltering my bay. Books to go on these shelves then, I hope this doesn't take too long. I'm quite enjoying this collection of paintings.

Her shadow passes over the book as she moves to the small step ladder at the end of the stack, three small steps to reach the top shelves. I glance over at her and my heart stops and a pulse starts deep. 

She is all shapes and curves, shapely calves sheathed in white laced stockings, small black ankle boots with a row of tiny buttons down the sides with a three inch heel maybe (just like the girl in the painting). Her legs rise to a tight black skirt slit front and back, tight over her glorious ass full and rounded, strong thighs. The skirt is tight and I can see the lines of her stocking garter up the back of her legs, making a ridge under the cloth. 

Her waist is tiny, she's an hourglass and time is running out. She's wearing a white blouse, short sleeves, buttoned at the front, slits of cloth stretched by her magnificent full breasts, god they are full, barely contained by the white cup of bra that I see peaking inside her silken covering. 

Startlingly, she's got a thread of black pearls resting on the pale almost translucent skin, that delectable triangle at the base of her throat. Her long throat, milk- white, and god that is a face to paint a thousand paintings. She is quite exquisite, a pale heart shaped face, full heart shaped lips, pale blue. 

Her eyes are dark dark dark. And her most starling feature is her silver hair, cut in a crisp bob, with a long blaze of black, jet black hair on one side of her head. She is all black and white, crisp solid shapes of contrast in her clothes, but her skin, where it shows is almost luminescent, almost transparent, ethereal.

She has some books in her hands, and takes careful steps on to the small ladder, reaching up to place the books on the top shelf. As she stretches her skirt rides up her thigh and I see a delight of bare flesh at the top of her stocking, the thin ladder of her garter ridged under the cloth of her skirt. She is on the top step now, legs apart to keep her balance as she reaches for the top shelf. I see a dark cleft up between her legs, but cannot tell if it is shadow or dark hair nestling between those splendid thighs. 

It is just as well I have the folio in my lap, as my cock is pulsing with this vision of black and white chess set loveliness. Time has stopped, and her movements are slow and languid. She turns towards me, strong gaze from her eyes commanding me to look. She raises a finger to her lips, ssshhh, we're in a library, don't talk, don't make a sound. 

Her skirt remains high on her thighs as she delicately and teasingly steps down the three small levels and bends down before me, breasts almost spilling out of her blouse. She lifts the book from my lap, lightly brushing the rise in my pants, and places the folio on a low shelf, bending low. She turns back to me and places her finger on my lips, god her finger is startling cold, and then edges the tip of her finger between my lips.

Even if I wanted to speak I am speechless, and she is commanding. With her finger slowly thrusting into my mouth she one at a time undoes a button on her blouse and then a button on my shirt so that our flesh reveals together. I am now sucking on her finger urging warmth into it with my tongue and the heat of my mouth. 

Icy cold she pulls on my tight nipple and twists it between her finger and thumb. The bud of my breast is hot and pointed, a nerve connected directly to the base of my cock which pulses, still tightly bound. I arch my ass off the seat, urging towards her body, but with a stern pressure from both her hands she pushes again into my mouth and palms my whole breast so that the ice of her hand almost burns my skin, forcing my body down into the chair. 

Moving her head down now she darts her tongue to my burning nipples, tasting from one to the other. Her tongue is now hot but her lips are cold and her teeth nip the buds on my chest to hard peaked points, almost painful. Her hands are now on my belt, skilfully un-notching its buckle, and now she wants me to lift my ass from the seat so she can pull my pants down my legs, trapping my ankles on the floor. 

She is kneeling now, her curving thighs straddling my shins, her skirt pushed higher, her full breasts grazing the tops of my thighs as they sway below her body, milky veins showing like sinuous threads just below her skin. I reach for her back, my fingers stumbling to undo the hooks, and her breasts tumble free of her bra and they too are cold against my flesh, her nipples tight blue nubs, as long as the end of a finger. 

My cock is now straining against my briefs, and with a strange warble in her throat, the first sound she has made, she pulls the cloth back and my cock rises free and is encased in the cleavage of her breasts. It is as if a hot poker has touched ice, both of us hissing back with a burning pain and then forcing the flesh to contact once again. 

My brain is numbed and I cannot think but she is a succubus and I am succumbing she is pulling the life heat out of me but I cannot resist. Her ice palm closes around the crimson heat of my shaft, and the nails of her other hand gently pinion my balls and pull them down from my body. I feel five sharp points holding my balls, every now and then a gentle pressure, as if in warning, don't move.

With one dark eyed piercing gaze she looks into my eyes, stilling the back of my brain and commanding me, be still, this is my cold you are my heat I want your heat, let your heart beat your hot blood. And with a swoop her cold mouth is down onto the head of my pulsing cock. Her tongue swirls over the purple helmet of my prick, and I feel her teeth nipping the delicate flesh. 

Her hand starts an aching slow grip and slide on my shaft and her palm tightens on my balls. The heat of my groin is burning, my nipples are tight and erect, my muscles are shuddering tight as she strokes and sucks and licks and bites pulling my heat into her mouth. My cock is rigid now, harder than iron, hotter than hell, her hand twisting and pulling on the shaft while her tongue, hot now, and her lips now red with burning heat velvet suck on the head. 

Her hand tightens over my balls, squeezing and massaging them deep between my legs and a slow burning heat is at the base of my spine and building within my body. 

She is inexorable, sucking my shaft deep into her mouth, cheeks sucking inward as she pulses and throbs my burning cock and then her tongue narrows and tightens and lengthens and twists itself around the head of my cock and I am building deep heat deep in the shaft and my cock is throbbing pulsing purple crimson heat her hand grips tight her lips rich ruby red are burning with my heat and then my spine arches as I feel her tight dagger tongue pierce down inside the opening of my cock and a thin blade of heat pierces down the centre of my cock as her demon tongue pulses into the centre of my being to taste the rising semen as it first boils and churns at the base of my belly and then spurts lunging up my shaft and deep into her throat and she sucks on life itself as my orgasm explodes my throat arching silently, my mouth open in a soundless sob of ecstasy as I come and come my creamy semen cascading down her throat and I hear her moan, "it burns, it burns, come burn me alive."

I am spent and speechless, lying wrecked in that library alcove, while this nightmare beauty stands up tall and proud, legs still straddling mine, her full magnificent breasts thrust with nipples rich red tight above me. 

She pulls the half cup bra down over her breasts, deftly reaches behind her back and clips the strap. One at a time she buttons each pearl button into its loop, slowly unrevealing her voluptuous breasts and with a slight shudder she steps back and away from me. Holding my gaze firmly she again forbids sound and her magnificent black and whiteness, mouth and tongue rich with redness and heat fades behind me, her silver hair now threaded with a wider band of black. 

I hear a single squeak of the trolley wheel once again and it's as if the library has awoken. I hear the hum of the air-conditioning and another spray of light rain against the window and the shadow of a flutter, and the tapping bird has brushed its wings against the window and is gone. Stunned and cold myself now, I shiver. 

My cock still aches, lies shrinking between my legs. In heaven and hell where have I been, what has this been, who is this woman? Questions unanswered swirl in my head as I dress myself, then I just lie collapsed in the chair until the bell tolls and the library is cleared. I stagger home to the halls, but a drug is in my veins, haunting me and entrancing me and drawing me back in time and mind and lust.

In The Library Ch. 02



I moved through the next days in a daze, catching the memory of that hour and trying to resolve if it was a dream or a nightmare, sleeping or awake. It made no sense and I could not share it with anyone for surely they would think I was mad. I was mad, mad with the vision of her, in a mad maze. 

As more days passed I found myself eating to build up my strength. At night my cock would rise and waken me from dreams of smoke and brimstone, hot and cold, shivering and sweating. But I would not touch myself, I needed to keep the heat because she was so cold and had drained me. As more days passed, the vision faded to a memory and I thought a fever must have peaked that afternoon in the library, as she could not have been real.

Some two weeks later I was again in the library, again finishing a long day's research, and again unthinking went to my quiet place at the end of the stacks, at the end of the building. The afternoon was again drowsy and slow, the library lulled and quiet. As I was about to make myself comfortable I wondered what was on the top shelf, that my black and white vision had placed up so high on that day dream of madness or hallucination. 

I expected to see a full shelf of material, maybe a set of dictionaries or reference books but instead found a series of bound leather volumes, each volume marked with a year and the month. There were a number of gaps in the series and I had no way of knowing which volume the dark librarian had put back - but obviously that was the explanation: the gaps were there because the material was being used by someone else for research, and nothing had been put back that day because she was not real. I shook my head at my strange train of thought, but reached for a volume anyway. 

Climbing down from the steps I settled myself into the chair and opened the big journal. Inside I found it was a series of newspapers from the 1920s, rough black inked headlines and a feature photograph on the front page of each edition. 

Flicking through the pages there were politicians and personalities from the city, names long forgotten but vaguely remembered - the university had been founded in those days and some of the older campus buildings would have been built in that era. 

As I flicked through the newspapers I realised that there were several articles featuring the same names, the same family. Intrigued, I turned back until I found the first story which was accompanied by a small photograph of a family. The faces were small and blurred; it looked like a wealthy family with father and mother and two daughters. It was difficult to make out their ages or any clear features, but one of them was clearly a debutante. 

"Grace, the eldest daughter of Mr and Mrs ___________ of Eastside, was introduced to society..." The girl was tall, well figured, her face half hidden under a wide brimmed hat, her long dark hair falling in a swirl around her shoulders, her hand resting on the shoulder of the younger girl, her sister. And in the faded unclear picture, I felt that this was my vision in the library - Grace. But how could this be, more than eighty years later?

As I read, I slowly came to realise that the library was again sheathed with a veil of silence. The noises of the building were muted, background voices were fading, and outside the window a flash of movement caught my eye. A brightly coloured lorikeet splayed its wings as it landed outside the window... and behind me a shadow swirled against the wall and my heart stopped and thumped down into my chest as my madness whirled around me again and she was there. 

That same exquisite face but somehow now surrounded in a blaze of colour, extraordinary vivid green eyes, swirls of iridescent blue and green shimmered around her body, long slender legs and long body slinked in front of me. But how could this be? 

It was her, but somehow not - her presence before had been voluptuous and curves, now she was long and lean and slender but still undeniably the same essence of woman. I could not imagine someone so different yet so much the same. But I was numbed and knew what to expect but could not know what to expect as she was the same woman but so different.

She moved the tome of papers away from my lap and sat herself upon me, luscious long legs stretching to the floor, her long body, long and lean sheathed in multi-coloured iridescent silk, stretched against mine; and she placed the palm of her hand against my lips. I shuddered as her hand was cold against my lips. But she slowly pressed one cold finger between my lips and turned my face to look at her. Her eyes were black and deep, and pierced my soul. 

Silently, her eyes commanded me to kiss and caress her hand and palm and delicate wrist. It was then that I noticed a fine trace of veins and colour on her forearm - her veins blue and fine, and her skin was covered with a fine tracery of iridescent colour, like smoke had been tattooed onto her skin.

I touched my lips to her palm once again and began to caress and suck on her fingers as if they were small cocks, eager to be pulled straight and hard as they pulsed into my mouth. First one delicate little finger, fine and small, then each finger in turn pressed between my lips as if they were tasting my mouth and teasing my tongue, exploring my mouth as a honey bee seeks nectar, or as a leech seeks blood. I was repulsed and aroused simultaneously, my mouth as if it had a mind of its own was seeking out those long probing fingers and the delicate web of skin at the base of each one. 

I sucked each long finger into my mouth and to the back of my throat, sucking down hard and nipping her flesh with my teeth. As I suckled on her fingers I felt each one warm, and then there were two. Two fingers now, forcing my mouth open more with a wider pole of flesh. As she suckled her fingers into her mouth I felt her other hand trace a line down my chest, pausing at each button of my shirt and popping each button free. 

Soon enough I was bare to the belt of my jeans and her hand brushed firmly onto my roused cock trapped inside the denim. She gripped my fullness and then her hand was gone. Entranced, I watched her hand crawl like a spider to the top of her own blouse and the same movements repeated themselves on her cloth, iridescent lace and brilliant colours, as each pearl button popped loose. 

She turned ever so slightly away from me so that both of her breasts were exposed within their half cup brassiere. Rouge nipples, half hidden by the lace of her lingerie, pushed erect, tips long as the end of her finger.

I was astonished to see that the markings on her skin continued into the gentle cleaved valley between her breasts, long swirling patterns almost liquid on her flesh, patterned over the swell of each pushing warmth of breast. Her breasts were like an open wine glass, perfectly sculpted but skin patterned as if with fire and water. 

Her smooth belly was also laced with colour and movement, her tight muscles almost fluttering with each breath as she sighed beneath my lips. 

Now my tongue traced a pattern on her delicate wrist, and then a long slow lick up the smooth skin of her arm to the crux of her elbow, smooth and cupped. 

She slowly and rhythmically began to bend her arm and each time it bent a small fold of skin presented itself to my tongue and to my fingers. I caressed it gently, as one would the lips between a woman's thighs, as if it were a small delicate cunt, a slip of erotic flesh far away from the usual place. 

My mouth and tongue slowly moved higher, up towards the pit of her arm, my fingers trailing over the soft smooth flesh of her forearm and then her upper arm. Both my hands were now tracing the ends of my fingers over her arms, smooth yet strangely textured. 

Her skin was soft, like down, but somehow not like flesh. However, I no longer cared about the strangeness of her flesh as she was starting to respond to the firm touch of my fingers, her body undulating in my lap, her tight ass pushing hard against my cock still trapped in my jeans, her sweet full breasts pushing against my chest. 

The lace of her bra caught my hard hot nipples and caused a delicious sensation as she moved her flesh and cloth against my bare chest. Sighing into my neck, she brought a hand to the front of her glorious chest and un-snicked the clasp of her lace frothed bra and gently pulled one cup aside. Cupping one pearlescent fleshed breast in her small hand she offered the mound to my mouth. 

Her nipple was red, long and engorged and peaked hard from the curve of her flesh. It was as if her nipple itself was pulling the mound of her breast tightly upwards towards my mouth, her nipple so tight and pointed, corrugated on the tip of her breast. I suckled my lips around the tight nub and pulled as much of her breast into my mouth as I could, my tongue swirling around her tight hard, hot hard thrust of flesh. Beneath me her body jerked and astonished, I felt a warm flow into my mouth.

My god, I was suckling her breast and she was streaming warm milk into my mouth! I drank down the warm liquid, which was sweet like honey and even smoother. Her breast milk was delicious to taste and it felt that the more I suckled the more there was. She was feeding me now, one hand caressing my hair, the other still insistent and hard on the cloth over my cock. I could hear and almost feel a soft warbling in her throat as she let down her milk into my eager mouth. 

And then she pulled herself away from me, her engorged nipple popped from my mouth. I looked down at the rich red bud at the tip of her breast and saw that it was beading small drops of milk, just as my cock would bead small drops of pre-cum when it was thick and hard. I could feel her fast pulse under my fingers, one hand near the top of her arm, the other resting gently against her hard pulsing belly.

Holding my head to her chest with one hand, she raised her body from my lap and twisted herself onto the chair. With her other hand she eased out the buckle of my belt, and unthreaded the leather. She twisted undone the button of my jeans and pushed them down away from my body. I managed to raise my ass from the chair and she pulled the waist of my jeans down, and my jockey shorts. 

My cock snapped free, hard against my belly and again I heard a growl from deep in her throat. Her clever hand reached around the shaft of my cock and squeezed once, hard. Her fingernails were clasped around my shaft and the sharp ends of her nails pushed into my flesh, five strong points of possession.

I was trapped, one taloned hand around my pulsing shaft, the other still holding my head against her warm breasts. She shifted her body again, and her other splendid tight full breast was pressed into my mouth. Again, I felt her breast swell as it filled my mouth, and my tongue swirled the hard hot nipple. But this time, her other hand started a slow steady movement up and down my cock, her fingers now tightly squeezing, now softly stroking. 

The sharp ends of her nails traced tightly down my hot flesh and then the tips of her fingers gently caressed my balls, squeezing. And then the palm of her hand rotated around the soft hair on my sac, causing them to pull in tight. 

Her hand slowly moved from the base of my cock to the tip of my cock, nipping and caressing the helmet; and then down once more to the base of my belly. I felt a sharp finger press against the pucker of my ass and then gone, palm up the shaft and over the head of my throbbing phallus.

And as she relentlessly stroked and scratched and probed my cock and thrust a sharp finger nail into the little hole on the head, and then my tighter hole at the base of my body, I felt her breast start to thrust into my mouth with the same urgent rhythm. As I sucked on her full hot nipple she would pull up on my shaft. As I swirled my tongue around her engorged nub she would swirl her palm around the head of my cock. 

As I caressed and pressed the palm of my hand onto the hot stickiness of the breast that had given up its milk, she would caress and press the palm of her hand around my tightening balls. As I would press my tongue against the hot end of her nipple, she would press the end of her finger against the tight warmth of my asshole. 

As I thrust my tongue into the flesh of her breast, she would press her finger into my hole. And we set up a full rhythm of cock and hand and nipple and mouth, finger and stroke and palm and press, both of us getting tighter and more urgent now, yet still tantalising holding our pace. 

It was as if we both knew we should alternate fast and slow, scratch and smooth, nail and palm, suckle and push, but ever increasingly stroke and twist, palm pressing balls and finger pushing hard into my hole, tongue pushing hard around her breast and yet again our pace quickened and our heat was shared and her finger probed up and my tongue probed down, and the head of my cock filled hot and hard with blood and her nipple filled hot and hard with blood and I began to throb from my base and felt my come start to rise through by shaft and I heard a long moaning sigh as she laced her finger up my cock and twisted over its purple head. 

And with a shudder she let down her milk and grasped my cock and pulled one last time and I pulsed against her hand and over her belly, and her warm milk flowed in to my mouth, honey warm and smooth. And her milk flowed so plentifully as I suckled her breast and she cooed and milked my cock to pull the last long stream of come from my throbbing balls.

As I continued to suckle the milk from her tight hard nipple, she swept the warm milk of my come from her belly, sticky between her fingers and into her mouth. So we drank of each other but who was feeding who? Both our bodies shuddered in the aftermath of our ecstasy and our mouths, stick with each other's juices, touched and we fiercely kissed, pulling each other's tongues into our own hot mouths and shared the hot fluids from our bodies in some devilish nectar.

But never a word was spoken, just my hot breath heaving in my own aftermath, and her faster breath trembling in her throat. Her heart beat fluttered, a fast pulse on her neck, and again, that warble from deep in her throat, slower and somehow contented.

We eased into comfort on each other, her head with its long lustrous hair resting peacefully on my shoulder, my hand caressing her soft silken hair. One of her hot small hands pressed against my chest and my nipple, the other curled peacefully around my shrinking cock.

If anybody had peered into that darkened alcove they would have seen a slender young woman draped along her boyfriend's body, diaphanous cloth swirling around the length of her back, her long legs shimmering under the folds of her long gown.

And her flesh still glowed and flickered with colour, like a hundred tattoos all moving together, every colour of the rainbow glowing. 

And then she moved away from me, and I saw that she had a patch of whiteness in the middle of her belly where my hot seed had spilled, like a burn on her hot flesh. 

Gazing into my eyes with her dark dark glance, she reached to the mound of each breast and gently cupped them into the froth of lace and took them away from my eyes. And she buttoned up the pearl buttons on her blouse, flicked her long hair away from her beautiful face, and with one long hot kiss from her crimson lips and one final caress of the hair on my head, she left me. Like a breath of wind on a hot day, the air swirled and she was gone. 

One small word echoed on the air: "later" she sighed, and I knew that this was not the end, that some magic and mystery was still singing on the wind. In the distance a door banged shut, the stillness in the library started to move. 

And outside, on the lawn, a bright lorikeet flitted up from the grass; and as it did so I saw a blaze of white feathers on its body, catching the light of the dying sun with a bright flash of brilliant white, surrounded by reds and yellows and blues, a brilliant iridescent bird.



In The Library Ch. 03



Over the next few weeks I found myself wondering exactly who the exotic demon girl was and what it all meant. Was there only one girl or was the one girl somehow able to shape shift into different bodies, and what did the presence of the birds mean? I could not keep clear in my head what had happened - I could not separate my memory from my imagination, my vision from my madness, my dream from my nightmare.

I took the opportunity to read through the rest of the journals, half afraid she would return while I was in the library, and half hoping she would. I had no way of summoning her and there was nothing in common between the two visitations except the chair and the alcove. Several times I sat in the same place but nothing happened. So like before, I began to think that I was the crazy one, and the family in the old papers was nothing but a coincidence, and her voluptuous body and then her long slender body were just products of my fevered brain.

What the newspapers did reveal was that Grace, the eldest daughter, had died young and in mysterious circumstances. I read that she had disappeared when she had just turned 22, and her body had never been found. Items of her clothing and a string of precious pearls had been found near the university clock tower, but no evidence of any violence was found by investigators, despite a huge reward posted by her father. An extensive search was carried out, which continued for many years, until finally the family accepted that she was gone and conducted a private funeral as closure. It was one of the great tragedies of the city.

And now, of course, more than half a century had passed and even if by some miracle she was still alive, Grace would have been an old woman.

Over time I was able to concentrate on my studies and slowly the girl in the library (I had resolved that she must be just the one demon girl) became as a dream. About one month after those wonderful milk drenched breasts had spilled their honeyed warmth into my hungry dreaming mouth, I was sitting at a small cafe in the quadrangle outside the library. From where I sat I could see the window of my alcove and could just see the chair, empty now, where my succubus had entranced me. The coffee was hot and spicy, the small cake crumbling in my hand. The book I was reading was a favourite of mine, many times read, yet it still captured my imagination and held me there for many hours. 

The sun was warm on my back and then, all of a sudden, I felt a chill and a shadow edged onto the table in front of me. I realised it was the shadow of the clock tower and the sun had moved in a small arc across the sky in the time that I had been sitting there. And then I saw a spiral of swifts above my head, lacing through the sky like smoke, weaving shadows across the sky like a cloak, a many winged cloud of separate creatures acting as if one. As they spun above my head I could see flashes of white on the bellies of some of the birds, small stains white as milk and as white as cum. And as the darkness of feathers flashed through the sky I could feel the base of my belly throb and my shaft tighten, and my nipples grew stiff against the cloth of my shirt. My hand shook on the handle of my cup and the saucer rattled - she was coming, but this time, how?

A small group of the tiny birds dived out of the bigger cloud and rushed down the air towards me. Their small black wings brushed my hair and I felt a swirl of feathered wind about my face. The birds, maybe six or seven of them, fluttered to a landing on the table in front of me, and squabbled over the crumbs of the biscuit on the plate. I could see their sharp little beaks peck at the biscuit, and their alert black eyes dart their vision over me. Their feathers were glossy and black, so black they shone almost a sheen of darkest darkest blue.

And then with a sudden gust of wings on the wind the flock spiralled away from the table, and darted into the sky. I followed their dark shape as they flew beside the wall of the library, casting multiple rippling shadows onto the wall of the building. And suddenly the tiny flock, half a dozen birds, no more, flitted around the corner of the building and were gone. And then l heard the patter of running feet, and around the same corner came a small group of girls, maybe six of them or seven, but running and weaving so fast it seemed as if they were many more. But the girls were nothing like the young women who had come to me in the library - these small fey creatures seemed younger, tiny and graceful, slim bodies with no curves but with limbs like colts or small deer, delicate and graceful.

And their laughter rippled around the open space, their high pitched voices chattering to each other as they ran around the quadrangle. The girls were like a flock of sisters, all very similar but with subtle differences - some with long hair, some with hair in a bob; but always glossy blue-black hair flitting and flowing with their movement. Their faces were pale, dark eyes bright, lips full and red. Their movement was constant, swirling and dancing, their shifts and skirts flowing with their turbulence.

They seemed young, innocent and free, and it was hard to see how there could be relationship between them and the young women in the library. Yet they had to be the same, some incredible incarnation of the erotic demons who had drained me of my sexual fluids and fed from my vitality. The presence of birds followed by a fantastic visitation of human kind could not be a coincidence, and this time the presence was so bizarre and so unexpected that it could not be my mind creating the visions. These girls were too maddening for them to be my madness.

I realised then that the girls were spiralling their circle inwards around my table, yet this time there was no sex or scent in the air - it was as if there was too much innocence and the pure joy of playing in an open space. Had the deadness that I had felt with the older girls somehow nurtured itself into a joy for life? God, had they sipped so much on my life force that they now had energy to spare, and if so, how long could they last before they needed to feed again? I shuddered at that thought but at the same time wondered what the next feeding would be like. And then one of the girls touched me, and this time warm and soft, fingers lightly tracing my arm. So there was now warmth in in their blood, heat in their veins, and oh so obviously joy in their hearts. Some innocence somehow, thriving in a multitude of souls and just living for the pure joy of it.

But then there was a sharp tug on my hand, and sharp nails wrapped around my wrist. I was pulled to my feet and then all of the girls were jostling my body away from the table and over towards the window. And in the window I could see shapes moving, a figure in the chair and another crouched in front of him. For I could clearly see that there was a man in the chair, just as I had been there, and just as the hauntings had been there, there was a black clad pale girl, voluptuous and cold, blue lips (I knew they had to be cold and blue) suckling deep on his hot living cock.

Entranced, I watched the back of her head gently sway over his lap (as she had swayed over mine) and her hands caressed his chest and throat. Long talons clawed his neck and I could see his head arch back in impossible ecstasy and pleasure, and at the same time in a rictus of pain. Stunned, because this was clearly the girl who had plunged her tongue into my body, but who the hell was this guy? 

Because as I watched her take her nourishment and him make his loss, I began to notice his clothes were from another era, decades back in time. It was as if time had twisted, and was paralleling the 1950's with today. For the man was dressed in a conservative pair of suit pants and look, there on the back of the chair, there hung a jacket. Her dress was no different than when she had taken me, but I now knew that she would always be dressed as from the 1920's, so her impossible presence made sense. But the man - how was I ever seeing someone from fifty years ago? Was this how she was surviving down through the years, taking and feeding every decade?

And what happened to each of her food sources - for I was coming to the horrified conclusion that is all I was - some life force that she would suckle and feed upon, what was going to happen to me? My heart thumped with the horror of my thoughts - God no, don't let the girls surrounding me hear my heart beat, they too will want to feed... I had to force myself away from the window, I had to make myself look away, to break the spell. And somehow get away from the girls in the courtyard, as my life depended on it.

I heard a giggle at my side, and looking down, I saw their sweet evil faces gazing up at me with the smallest curve of a smile on their dark lips. Fuck, are they reading my thoughts now, how the hell am I going to hide what I am thinking? Ahhh, shit, there must be something I can do to distract their vampire minds, give myself time to think, to escape, to run.

And they began to run, once again these little evil innocents began to run, dance, run. Fucking running... they can read every thought! And they spun and swirled around me, laughing laughing laughing mocking flocking feathers flying swirling whirling hair flying around their faces, arms flickering in the shadows, feet pattering on the stone, black and and white flashes in the light, shadows against the wall, shadows under the sun, sun light on the stone sun light on the wall white light no black no blackness no shadows on the wall just the wall just the stones only the empty glass empty alcove gone. Sunlight but no moving shadows. No darkness. No black no white. Gone. They had gone. And on the air one final high bright song note, sung note, high pitched girl note, sighing song throat note: "waiting, we'll wait, wait, wait..." 

And I trembled. She would wait for me. But could I wait for her, my delirium dancing in my head, thumping through my heart, blood beating, the base of my belly aching. And, astonished, I reached down and touched the front of my jeans, come wet, sticky wet come, marking my jeans just as my come had marked her belly. A decade ago and a decade before that, she kept on feeding from me. I realised now that the man in the alcove was me, me then, me now. Circling, time was circling, and she was at the centre of the spiral, circling her dance around me. 

So who the fuck am I?



In The Library Ch. 04



Disturbed by the last visitation and the revelation of myself in the library in different times, I needed to find some way of making sense of all this and, especially, to see if I could figure out what I was doing in two places, two times. For I was convinced that I had seen myself in the library alcove, so I needed to know what had happened to me (him) back then, and whether she too had left her trace in that time, another veil in place, another place in time.

Puzzling on this, I wandered back up the long avenue to the hall where I lived. And I spotted the old guy who looked after the grounds - hey, he must be seventy if he's a day. He might even remember something - I'd heard that he had worked the grounds all his life.

"Hey, Mack, got five minutes for a chat?"

"Sure do boy, any excuse for a smoke!"

"Hey, how good is your memory of when you first started here? There's some weird stuff I've heard, wondered if you knew anything about it." I continued on with some of what I had read in the papers about Grace and her disappearance.

"Before my time, boy, but I do recall something of the aftermath." And then he paused, looking long and hard at me, "do I know you, son?"

"Don't think you'd know me, only been here this last year. But what do you mean, aftermath?"

And he went on tell me that many years after Grace had disappeared, and after her parents had died, the police caught someone who knew just a little too much about the girl's last known days. And even though they never found her body, they found enough evidence to hang him for her murder. Fuck, this was getting weird.

"What did they find?"

"Dunno son, but they found it in the clock tower, whatever it was. And here's the strange thing for ya, ever since they hanged the bastard, the fuckin' birds in this place have just been fuckin' odd as you like. Lots of 'em for a start, and weirdest damn breeds I've ever seen in this town. Know somethin' else? Damn clock tower had a dove cote in it, once."

Now this was seriously strange.

Amazed and disturbed by this latest information, I made my farewells to old Mack, and kept on up the avenue to the residential halls. As I left him, Mack called after me, "I do know you boy, I seen your picture, I sure as shit know you from somewhere. I seen you, boy."

Crazy old bastard, how the hell could he have seen me in a picture? I'd only lived in this city less than a year. I came from a small rural town in the north of the state, no way could he have seen pictures of me. Hell, I'd hardly seen pictures of me.

"Fuck this, I need a drink." So I turned back on my tracks and made my way back to the bar, which was on the other side of the quad from the library. It was dark now, with a bright three-quarter moon climbing the cloud whipped sky. The moon was so bright that it cast a shadow from the clock tower. And the words of old Mack rang in my ears, "damn clock tower had a dove cote in it once." 

And then, with a rush and a flash of silver wings, a huge owl beat the air around my head, talons drawing a skein of blood from my scalp. Instantly my prick hardened and I felt a surge in my guts and in my balls, whoa, here we go, here she is again. And then one last conscious thought, "that's one fucking big bird," before my mind switched into blind acceptance and instinct. Because I had no choice here, she was going to manifest somewhere, and I was going to be food and prey for her silver incarnation. 

Ten minutes later, somehow, I found myself by the back stair of the library, where the old metal fire escape climbed the building wall up to the base of the tower. Like a zombie I climbed the cold stair till I reached a door. This must be the old caretaker's apartment, deserted now. Carefully I edged the door open, hinges rusty creaking, old paint flaking. But at least it was dry. Moon silver light spread through the room, and there on the bed in front of me, there lay the long body of a naked silver-sheened girl.

She was stretched out on the bed in front of me, arms straight above her head, hands linked together. Her long torso, spine straight, swept down to the most glorious swellings of her ass. Long strong legs, firm thighs and fulsome calves, long feet with long nails on her toes. Lean and long, she had the muscle tone of an athlete. Edging closer I saw a magnificent mane of long silver hair, thick and waved like some silver pre-Raphaelite painting, spread rich and long over the pillow.

Edging even closer I could see on the nape of her neck a small triangle of silver hair, almost like soft short fur, running down her neck to just above her shoulders. And the trail of fur-like hair was repeated in the cleft of her ass cheeks, thicker there.

And I heard a soft voice, not fully human but not something else either, softly sigh, "caress me, heat me." So bidden, I was commanded. So I carefully climbed onto the bed beside her and knelt above her, the cloth of my jeans touching her legs.

"Flesh, hot flesh," the sigh repeated and again I was commanded. So I stripped off my clothes and again knelt above her, my hot balls nestling on the crack of her ass. Her flesh was cool but not cold, her soft hair silken against the hair of my sac. I began to gently circle my fingers and the palms of my hands across her shoulders and up her strong, firm arms. I could feel the strength of her muscles under her skin, taut flesh, tight flesh. My fingertips trailed hot lines over her skin, softly, gently, caressing warmth into her. I felt more than heard a soft purr in her throat, and her body rippled and relaxed under me.

Encouraged, I circled my hands lower, over her shoulders and the upper part of her back. Pulling her long hair away from her neck I lowered my mouth to the downy triangle of hair and felt softness against my lips. I kissed her throat and she turned her head so I could also kiss her cheek. Her eyes were closed and again she nestled down lower under my touch, softening and warming as I caressed her. My own blood was moving now, and the soft coil of my cock began to fill and thicken. And as I did so, she pushed her ass back against me and my cock straightened against my belly and against her back. The bar of heat between us filled and throbbed and we pressed hard against each other.

I shifted my way down her legs, which she opened just a little to surround my now red hard, purple headed cock, a small throb in the main vein on its top side, beat beat beat with my heart-beat. My hands and fingers were now a long caress up and down her spine, along the long muscles of her back, over the tight curves of her sides. And my lips and tongue traced a mouth hot, tongue licked trail over the knubs of her spine, savouring the soft buzz of the fine down along the middle of her back. Sighing now, her legs widened under mine, pressing the heart of her groin down against the heat of mine, heat filling the flesh between us and the hot wetness from her hot centre.

I was kneeling then over her calves and her long feet, and they held and stroked my cock and balls. I could feel the cold edge of her long nails edge against the length of my rod, iron hard now, heat pulsing, a tiny tip of moisture dropping from the slit. My tongue now reached the downy triangle of hair at the top crease of her taut, tight ass, and my hands gently eased each firm globe away from the centre of her. 

The line of hair thickened as it flowed to the tight bud of her asshole, a rich red brown star, corrugated like a nipple, only cratered, not peaked. I sighed my hot breath over her tight pulsing hole and felt her shiver. She pushed her ass up higher against my mouth, and there were her hands, taking the place of mine to spread her cheeks apart and open up her hot core to my hot mouth.

My tongue thrust into her dark tight hole, a sweet musk of taste. I sucked on the tight puckered rosebud, opening up her darkness to the depth of my tongue, and her ass pushed back onto me, urging my tongue deeper, my mouth hotter, her deep dusk musk rich in my mouth, her hole tightening on my tongue, drawing it deeper into her body. And I sucked on her sweet rich hot hole my tongue deep into the heat of her, my deep thrusting tongue hard into her and she moaned, "deeper, hotter, tongue fuck oh yes, my asshole, do it deeper."

And with a shudder she bucked up her ass, her strong haunches thrusting her tight hard ass cheeks hard up against my face and my head reared back. The sight of her was magnificent, her red hot pulsing asshole ripe and dark within the silver darkness of her rich, thick hair, her wet hole puckering and darkly opened, her long hard thighs firm below the tightness of her rounded globes, her long back swayed to the pillows under her shoulders. She was long and dark and musky scented openness, wet and heat pulsing under me.

I moved up behind her, placing the base of my belly under the wet hot heat of her so that her cunt slid along the top of my shaft and the hot head of my cock pushed against the base of her belly, her anus hotness cheeks spread, fiery heat on the base of me. She straightened her arms so that she was now like an animal on all fours, and her hard tight breasts swung under her body, her burning centre both heated places thrust back seated against me. 

And I reached under her to palm the weight of her breasts up against her body. Her breasts, tight hard erect long nipples, were hot in my hands and my hands were hot cupped grips around them. And I held them warm and tight and firm, pressured up against her chest, nipples long between my fingers, pinched one and then the other. Firm hard nubs of heat in the palms of my hands, corrugated hot centres between my fingers.

We slowed our movements to a soft slow sway of her breasts and her torso, rhythmic ripples down the curves of her sides and the long swerves of her thighs. Every so often she would press her hot wet centre against my hardness and the heat in my balls, and our bodies hot and pressing against each other, our bodies sighed and cried out to each other. And it was warm and nourishing and soft and gentle. My tongue could still feel the tight ring of her dark hole, and my lips still wet with the sweet suckle of her, and the strong dark musky scent of her lingered in the air between us.

And then a new urgency took her. She stirred her strong haunches and again thrust herself upwards and back, and I was pushed away from gently resting against her hot centre; and now her dark ring somehow became greedier, hungry for filling. Whereas before it was my tongue penetrating her sweet hole, and my mouth sucking her back opening into my hotness, now it seemed that her hole was the hungry one, her body wanting to suck me into her heat and flesh. She was now the hungry one wanting to be satiated. She was now the one wanting to be filled, deeply, darkly, my hot thickness to be sucked deep into her depths.

Somehow it seemed as if her ass was now bigger, the muscles on her haunches harder and tighter, yet at the same time more voluptuous, more demanding, more pornographic, more fuckable. Her breasts swung fuller and harder and tighter, her nipples more sensitive, more tightly connected to the bud at the top of her cunt, just throbbing with nerves connecting every hot sensitive place on her ever so delicious licentious body, and all now focused on the hot centre of that magnificent pulsing deep dark dirty fuck hole. Her cunt red lips and peaking clit may have beckoned if she had been lying on her back, but with that silver patch of thick hair pointing straight down the cleft of her tight round cheeks, thrusting back at me, there was only one place to go.

I threaded my fingers through the slippery hot wetness dripping from her red sex, and pulled it up to her dark hole, spreading it thick on the star of her ass. My prick was iron rigid now, balls tight and hard up against the base of me, my own tight hole pulsating with my heart beat, just as her hole beat to her beat, heart heat, faster beat.

I placed the full purple helmet of my cock against the tightness of her hole. But before I could flex the muscles of my own tight ass and thrust that first inch into the circle of hard muscle, she lurched back against my shaft, and pushed her body up onto mine. The hard round head of my cock locked itself behind her ring of sphincter and I was held there, pulsing. She was going to take me, inch by hard veined inch. Like a tom cat, there would be no going backwards for me. She lurched back again and another two inches slid into her passage. Fuck she was tight, and my prick so thick and engorged, her ass clamped down, gripping me harder than any hand ever had.

And I was bowed over her, my belly against her lower back, my chest and tight hard nipples against her strong upper back. One hand supported my weight and my other hand palmed tight against her nipple and dropping breast, her flesh heavy in my hand and hot, finger thick nipple nubs rolled between my fingers. And she pushed back again, thrusting that deep dark clenching place onto my hardness, gripping tight. And I looked down to see our bodies joined, her rich brown hole pulsing tight around my disappearing shaft. 

With a low guttural grunt, she enclosed my whole eight inch prick deep into the guts of her. My solid full balls fell wet against the lips of her cunt. And she held me in her tightest place with her tightest grip. Every heartbeat bounced through my cock, and her squeeze was long and hard and delicious. And she held me there, her own pulse doubling against mine.

We stayed still and locked together this way for maybe five minutes, our pulse beats synchronising deep in her body, my thick cock pulsing at the root of her. Our movements were just small thrusts into her from me, and small lunges back onto my throbbed grabbed prick from her. Each time she gripped I let out a low moan deep in my throat, which she echoed with a soft guttural grunt. There was no language between us, just some primal lust fuck driven thing, noises from the depths of our being, instinctive and primitive.

And then her body writhed and twisted, the long muscles in her strong haunches gripped my thighs, and she sat back on me, still sheathing my cock in her ass. Her long back was now against my chest, my tight nipples hard against her flesh. And she took one of my hands and placed it around one sweet delicious breast, my fingers twisting her thick nipple nubs. My other hand she placed against the rippled flatness of her belly, my palm over her hollowed umbilicus, my fingers spreading through the soft down of hair that threaded from the base of her belly up the seam of her muscled front to the small whirl of her navel.

My hands in place for her pleasure, she then dipped her fingers into the heat of her cunt and laced her slick juiced fingers around her engorged clitoris, long and stiff, standing proud from the thick silver coils of her lush pubic hair. Moaning, her other hand gripping her other breast, she then began to rock against me, ass heat against my heat, tight muscle gripping my flesh, and she rocked me. Slowly at first and then she rode me, ass tunnel riding high on my cock shaft and then fucking down hard onto my length, ass cheeks sliding against my swollen balls each time she thrust down to my groin.

So she pumped me, long hard thrusts sliding gliding gripping fucking down my shaft, her hot wet passage slick now with her juice and the sweat from us. Our hands pulled together hard on her firm tight long hot nips, fingers clenching and twisting, tugging on the sweet thick buds. Her fingers slick and wet through her cunt, her clit rounded and rubbed with one long finger fast and sliding. Her voice now a long keening, breath panting, long low grunts as she pushed her ass down my turgid tortured shaft, my own grunts and guttural moans panting in time with hers.

Fucked hard by her, I thrust faster into her, my hand on her belly almost feeling the surge of muscle rippling through her gut with each thrust. Steadily faster, we fucked into and onto each other's bodies, each taking our pleasure from the other, each pleasuring hard the other, both of us fucking and fucking, thrusting and sliding, her tight tight tunnel gripping my solid hard shaft, her thrusting breasts engorged nipples incredibly erect and long. She swirled her clit with two stiff fingers, urging herself into a swooning, keening, cuntdom of full intensifying swollen lipped dripping slickness, her hand sliding down through her thick tangling hair to twist on the base of my shaft as her ass rode up to the head of it, and to finger her cunt when her ass slid down the shaft of it.

And with a firm gripping heat, her ass tunnel tightened around my cock and pulled firmly up on it, pulling my swollen cock head even deeper into her guts as if she would birth me there, deep inside herself. Then she stilled on me, her body poised in one incredible hanging precipice of ecstasy; her cunted finger gave one final twist over the head of her tangled clitoral redness, her fingers one final pull on the swollen tip of her breast,and her throat a long slow keening cry... and with a throbbing pounding heartbeat of pleasure, she came. Her long lean body rippled with the power of it, and every muscle throughout her being pulsed with it. 

Exquisite, churning cunt pleasure, gripping tight ass clenching milking cock swollen balls, semen rising and pulsing from the guts of me, my own ass muscle puckering and opening with the thrust of her, my own spurting thrusting cock driven semen burst into the depth and heat of her ass, her long tunnel filling with my seed, and my own come exploded into her.

Incredibly, my hand on her belly then felt a tremble and a churn of her gut muscles, as if the milking continued deep in her belly. Some strange peristaltic twist surged through her. 

And then her head turned to the side and for a second time she showed me her cheek, but my lips did not touch that soft flesh, for her head continued to impossibly rotate. With a shudder of horror that matched the shudder in my groin just ten seconds before, I realised that I had not yet seen her eyes, but here they were now, impossibly huge and round, facing me now as her head finished its impossible rotation. Oh my holy god, I remembered the bird that had swooped my head, the big silver powerful bird, the owl, the fucking owl. Those huge eyes blinked once, slowly.

And the ecstatic horror continued, as she placed her full red lips on mine and forced her long tongue into my mouth, parting my own lips. And with another impossible churn of her gut, a twist of muscle and a gag in her throat, she heaved up a sweet thick pulse of liquid, and a throb of my own come slid to the back of my throat. With unbelief and expanding terror, I realised that she was feeding me, feeding me with my own seed, feeding me with my own milk white come, feeding me with my own juice, that had been in the guts of her. Feeding me as a mother bird feeds her young. Feeding me so that she might feed from me, later, later.

And my own body betrayed me, as my thickness was still held within her bowel, my thickness not yet subsided, my cock still held tight. With a rich red full lipped smile, she twitched on me one last time, and her ass caressed my prick as she slid her hotness off me, away from me. Slipped up my shaft and her thick musk heat left me, cock swollen but softening, my balls loosening, the head of my cock popped free from her glorious hole. Ah fuck, she had fucked me, fucked my head as she had fucked my prick, fucked my soul. I was fucked.

She still had not finished with me: she stood above me, her long, strong, magnificent body, her lewd heavy breasts, her dripping slit, her pulsing hole, she stood tall over me in triumph. With a full red lipped smile and an unnerving gaze from her incredible huge eyes, she flicked her long mane of hair, darker now, a streak of black. Twisting her hair about her face, she turned and strode to the window. Turned and twisted on the air, massive wings beat shadows against the moon, and she was gone. Gone. And I was coming back from heaven and hell, and in between, for I did not know where I had been.




In The Library Ch. 04



Slowly I caught my breath and gathered my thoughts. This strong bird woman had been both gentle and fierce. She had clearly enjoyed the gentler time of my tongue in her ass as she had softened and relaxed against me, skin soft and warm. But she had also thrived on matching me fuck for fuck, with my cock in her asshole and her tunnel around my shaft. And then, there at the end she took her pleasure as strongly as I had taken mine. So equals then, sometimes? But forever feeding on me but also feeding me, as if by some strange transmutation of my sex juice she found nourishment. And I realised, with some dread, that the birds were getting bigger, stronger....

However, she was gone now and I was probably safe from this fantastic madness, at least for a little while. After pulling my clothes on, I took the opportunity to look around the room. Nothing special, but clearly it had not been occupied for a very long time, decades even. In the middle of the far wall, opposite the door, there was another door, shut. 

Moving closer I could see that there was a bolt on the door, one of those big ones you lock with a padlock. There was no lock now, but I could see that the hinges at some time, long ago for the torn metal was near rusted through, the hinges had been forcefully leveraged away from the wall. As if the door had been locked tight and needed to be forced open.

Curious, I pushed against the door and it swung open. Shit, this was obviously Mack's dovecote. The circular room had high walls, maybe ten foot in height, every surface covered with little alcoves for the birds to roost. And at regular intervals around the walls there were small circular openings, each maybe ten inches diameter. Small enough for birds to come in and out, but way too small for even the smallest child to get through. So the only way into the room was through the doorway in which I stood. 

And the only way out was through the same door. Which could be locked from the outside. And had been broken open. Because someone had padlocked the door. And taken the key. Fuck. Was this the final resting place for Grace? Was this where she met her death? In a place made for birds? And who was it who locked her in? 



In The Library Ch. 05



Several weeks after I had been with the owl girl it was the end of semester, and I was going back to my home town in the north of the state. Previously I had done the fourteen hour trip in the second class coaches on the train (sitting up or sleeping on the luggage racks), but this time I had booked a sleeper. As it was the winter break, the nights were long, and for most of the trip it would be dark. The sleeper would be a civilised way to travel.

So I made my way to the station, a grand stone building surrounded by parks and tall buildings. I had a good meal in the station restaurant, surprisingly good food and a couple of glasses of wine, and then made my way to the supermarket in the station concourse to buy some supplies for the night. I paid for the bag of goods, and then, on the way out, I reached for a newspaper.

As I did so I felt a strange lurch, as if the concourse had turned inside out, and me with it. A strange twist in the air and then it was all different. It was the same concourse, but the shops had shifted, the sounds of the place were muted and strange, even the quality of the light had changed. And then, like an old movie film, the world started up once again and the sounds returned to their normal level, and the light rippled and flickered and then settled. The paper was still in my hand, but the paper felt rougher, the ink dirty on my fingers.

This was very very strange but at the same time, not so. Somehow I felt I had been here before, at some time. But I also felt a strange nervousness that had not been there before, as if someone was watching me. I had to get somewhere away from eyes as soon as I could. The sleeper compartment would be ideal, then. So I made my way to the country line platforms, and was astonished to find that the trains were all headed up by huge steam engines instead of the thudding diesels I was used to. These things were like massive creatures, hissing and sighing to themselves. What the fuck was going on here?

But I needed to get on board the train as soon as possible so I made my way down to the sleeper carriages at the front of the train, coupled behind the loco and its massive tender. As I came up to the carriage door, a guard stepped onto the platform, dressed in an old style uniform, like something from an old movie, red trousers with a black satin thread down the seam, a black waistcoat and a dorky red pillbox hat on his head, with a rakish tilt. 

"Welcome aboard sir, I trust you will be comfortable with us this evening. The train leaves..." and he flicked his cuff back from his wristwatch with a flourish, "in twenty minutes. The attendant will be along later to turn down your bed." 

This all felt like some strange film set, and I was part of the cast. For I realised that I too was wearing what to me seemed like a costume, but judging by my fellow passengers, the latest fashion. For half a century ago.... But my nervousness was still upon me, and I needed to get hidden away in my compartment. The guard led me down the corridor and opened up a door. Inside, there was a long plush seat, high backed and running the whole length of the compartment. Opposite was a small table and a door, through which I could see a washbasin and another door, which I assumed was a toilet. Opposite the corridor door was the carriage window with a pull down blind.

I placed my bag of supplies on the seat - where the fuck did that paper bag come from? I thought I had a plastic bag from the supermarket.... I tossed the newspaper next to the bag and went through to the wash cubicle to rinse the ink from my fingers. A sign above the toilet warned "Do not flush while train is stopped at station." Now that made sense! After drying my hands, I slid up one of the windows and sat watching the activity on the next platform. The platforms were busy with passengers hurrying to board trains, porters with little wheeled trolleys moving back and forth, loading parcels and suitcases into carriage doors.

Up above, perching along the steel beams arching over the roof of the station, were hundreds of pigeons, grey and black, tawny brown, top knots bobbing; one or two pale albino white birds noticeable amongst them.

"All aboard, this train leaves in five minutes. If you are not travelling, please leave the train now." Down at the rear of the train I could see the red flag held by the guard. With a last set of running feet a late arrival jumped on board, and the carriage doors were all slammed shut with a loud bang. At the end of the train I saw the red flag dip down and a green flag raised high. The guard's whistle shrilled, and was answered by the loud blast from the loco up front, and with a massive huff and sigh, the train slowly started moving.

Startled by the noise, a flock of pigeons clattered into the air and flew alongside the window as the train accelerated past the platform, breaking away up into the sky as the train left the end of the station and click clacked onto the long lines of track. I settled back into the seat, glad finally to be moving away from the city. Soon the regular noise of the train and the roll of the carriage on the tracks lulled me into a light doze, broken by the occasional whistle as the train neared a crossing.

Knock knock. "Night attendant sir, to make up the bed." A young, high pitched voice from the attendant in the corridor. Bleary eyed, I opened the door, and a young woman entered the apartment. Like her conductor work colleague, she sported a red pill box hat covering blonde curls, a red jacket with brocade work down the front, three black buttons. The jacket was nipped in tight at the waist and flared delightfully over her hips. Covering her ass was a knee length skirt, also red, clinging tight. Her calves were clad in black stockings, low heeled shoes. She stood about five four, big blue eyes smiling up at me.

"I've come to make up the bed sir, is that alright?" Fuck yes, that was alright - she was gorgeous. "If you could just stand over there, sir, I'll just set the bed up for you."

And she reached to the side of the seats, her breasts stretching the fabric of her jacket most delightfully, and released a small lever. The back of the seat swung down, away from the wall, and rotated over the seat. A soft mattress lay in the narrow bed base which now swung into place, with several blankets and pillows piled on top. The girl swiftly moved them aside and pulled the crisp white sheets tight, placed the pillows at the head of the bed nearest the window, and tucked the blankets in place. She pulled down the blind on the window - it was now dark outside, the occasional light rushing past.

"There sir, that looks most comfortable. Let me just fix you a hot drink, would you like tea or cocoa, sir?" Jeez, I hadn't realised that the sleeper service came with these extras.

She disappeared into the wash cubicle and I could hear the rattle of metal against metal, and the clink of a spoon. And then she re-appeared, with a small tray in one hand, and her other hand resting on her hip, tilted high. She had removed her hat, and her honey blonde hair was still piled up high in a bun.

"Here sir, let me help you get comfortable." She placed the tray onto the small table, and moved closer to me, her stockings swishing as she walked. Placing her feet apart to keep her balance as the train lurched and bumped, she placed one red-nailed hand on my arm and started to undo the buttons on my shirt with the other, slender fingers deft and quick. Pulling up the bottom of my shirt tails from my trousers she peeled it from my back, carefully folded it, and placed it on a small shelf on the wall. She then kneeled in front of me, her red-lipped mouth only inches from my now swelling cock, covered by the cloth of my trousers.

Bending lower she loosened the laces of my shoes, then tapped one shin for me to lift my foot, and then the other. She neatly placed my shoes and socks under the shelf. "We can polish those for you in the morning, sir, you just need to leave them in the corridor."

Polishing my shoes was now the last thing on my mind, as she then deftly undid the buckle of my belt and twisted the buttons on my flies. Swiftly, she slid my trousers to my feet, sliding my smalls down with them. Smalls - what the fuck, I never call them that, but sure enough, that's what I was wearing. Or not wearing, because I was now standing naked before her, as once again she neatly and methodically folded my clothes. She turned away from me and quickly and efficiently turned down the covers of the bed.

"Please get into bed, sir, you will be much warmer under the blankets." This was just incredible, she was so efficient, but was ignoring my rampant prick. "Would sir like...."

Standing cute as a kitten in the tiny compartment, she reached to the pins in her hair and let her blonde waves fall to her shoulders. Swaying with the movement of the train, she slowly undid each of the three buttons on her jacket, revealing a crisp white blouse, nicely filled with her breasts, not too big, not too small. She shimmied the jacket off her shoulders and, forever efficient, hung it on a hook on the door. Now she trailed her fingers down her neck and down inside her blouse, teasingly. My prick throbbed at the sight of her fingers hiding behind the crisp cloth.

She slowly undid each of the buttons, gently separating the cloth and revealing a simple laced bra, filled with her gently rounded breasts, a shadow of cleavage, delicious and enticing. Again she hangs the blouse with her jacket, and smiles at me, her blues eyes sparkling, her blonde hair swinging. Turning coyly sideways, she tugged the zip on her tight red skirt and pulled it down over her curved hips, revealing a pair of high waisted knickers and a garter belt, straps clipped to the tops of her stockings.

I am dying with the visual pleasure of this strip tease, my cock hard and pulsing, each bounce of the carriage a bounce on my balls, each lurch of the wheels a friction of the smooth sheets against my skin. She slowly peels the sheer black stockings down her legs until she stands before me with her pale skin and white lingerie, tiny waist and full curved hips, beautiful breasts spilling from her bra. She stands there before me, swaying with the movement of the carriage, breasts shifting, her soft belly curved. She really is quite delightful.

"Would sir like me to warm the bed?" I am stunned and amazed at the service on this train, I'm gonna have to write a letter of thanks here! But before she slithers into the bed, she reaches behind her back and unclips her bra. My God, her bare breasts are pert and round, pink nipples jutting, an ever so fine down nestling in her cleavage. She then turns away from me and slowly peels her knickers down her legs, revealing the pert globes of her ass. Fuck, she really is gorgeous, beautifully rounded curves, sweet taut ass. And then she turns towards me, slowly. At the base of her belly her hair is soft blonde curls, a triangle of hair. And as she turns I see a glimmer of slit between her legs, plump pussy between her thighs, dark lips in the cleft.

And now she is nestling into the bed beside me, her curves wrapping themselves around me, her legs wrapping around mine, her warm breasts against my chest. We lie there, rocking together with the movement of the train, and our lips meet, tongues taste and probe each others' mouths. We are both gentle, this was different to the time in the tower, different to the times in the library, as if we both knew that this night, this trip, was a space between two times, a going from and a going to, a neutral time, an equal time. Our sweet joined up connected time, a truce between times, a truce between us. A memory time.

And she lay on her back and gently guided me into her, soft sex opening to me, my prick sliding into her warm wet pussy, her legs wrapping around my back, sweet cunt opening to me. And we lay coupled, the movement of the train rocking us rocking us, the steady beat of the wheels clicking time away, plenty of time, our joined together time, our from here to there time, from the past to the future time, all of the times blurring, time time time.

Time and again our tongues tasted our tongues, my cock pushed into her, her breasts pushed against mine, her hands gripped my ass, my arms held her under her shoulders, her legs wrapped around mine, and we held each other close, closer, time lost and timeless. And I loved her then, through that long night, journeying into the depths of her, sweet blonde girl just that one night.

And then the movement of the train took up a new urgency. The surge and roll of the carriage began to intensify as the engine started to work the long ascent up the mountain range, as if the steam and panting smoke of the loco was communicating itself to every part of the train, and every part of those travelling within. The girl's open cunny gripped my prick with a new urgency, her nails dug into my back.

Her legs moved up until they wrapped around my back, and her little hands grabbed my ass cheeks and pulled me further into her, cunt grasping, her tongue edging mine, the low moans deep in her throat started to match the rhythm of the lurching track. We fucked long and fast, holding each other tight, then pushing each other away so that hands could grapple breasts, fingers tug nipples, so that hands could trace smooth skin over our ribs. 

Long, delicious deep sex now, smooth steady thrusts, her voice mewling with pleasure, her little cunt opening up like a precious flower, my long thick prick sliding on her juices. The scent of us filled the cabin like a drugged smoke, the taste of us on her fingers as she slid them over her clitoris, fierce, and then to my lips and her lips, sweet and honeyed on our tongues.

And then our pleasure came, together - her back arched and her head flung back onto the pillow, and her sex became her pivot, her centre. And my back arched and my head flung back into the air, the depths of my cock and the pressure in my balls became my centre; and with a massive repeating pulse our two centres became one as our orgasms ripped through us and into us and into each other.

And the train clattered on, long whistles echoing off the twisting hills as the train slowed on the curving track, the long steady hruff hruff of the smokebox became a constant beat in the night. And I collapsed onto her. My softening cock still inside her, we rolled on our sides, her legs twisted between mine, her arms and hands nestled between our bodies, one palm on my chest, her heat against my nipple. And my arms were around her in the long night, and the train rolled on in the long night, and the long night rolled on. Sleeping, we slept in each other's arms. And the train rolled on.

The night shortened into dawn and a low cold light edged under the window blind. And she was gone, her jacket and skirt and blouse no longer on the hook, her black stockings no longer draped over the table. But my clothes were neatly folded where she had left them. The cup still rested on the tray, never drunk, cold now. My shoes neatly together, her words, "you can leave them to be polished, sir..." echoing in my head. And there, by the edge of the window ledge, ruffling with the slight shift of air coming through a crack, there was single tawny blonde feather, incredibly soft and delicate, soft and lingering.

So not just a dream then? Not just a phantom on the air. And the thudding of the steam loco told me that time was still twisted, that this journey had a little time still to run. So I pulled on my neatly folded trousers and my shirt. As I did so, a clatter of metal on metal, and I looked down. A bright key had fallen from a pocket and fallen against the leg of the table. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, wondering where it was from, what it unlocked. The maker's name, "Abloy" was engraved on its head. Not heard of that lot before, I wonder what they make keys for? No matter, and I slid the key into a pocket.

I still had an hour to ride before reaching my town, with just one five minute stop before then, to drop a mail bag. So I flipped the bed back around to get the seat back in its place, and picked up the paper. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what the hell was this all about? For there, on the front page of the paper, was a photo of me. A crappy, grainy, out of focus picture, but my features could clearly be seen, and if someone knew me, I could clearly be recognised. Jesus, this was scary, because the damn picture was surrounded by a thick black frame with the words, "Wanted" printed across the top. 

Wanted, in connection with disappearance of the heiress, Grace __________ If you see this man (and words to describe me) please contact Detective blah blah fucking blah. 

Shit, no wonder old Mack reckoned he had seen my picture, the old fart had probably seen this one. Because the date on the paper was 7 July 1949. And I was a wanted man. Christ, no wonder I felt nervous when I got on this train, as if eyes were watching me. They probably were. I had to get off fast, just in case someone had seen me (the conductor, for example, those guys would see hundreds of people every day, but who knows how good their memory was for faces), and were waiting to pick me up when the train terminated. So I gathered my gear together, threw the paper on the floor, and hurried down to the carriage door. 

I'd jump down on the track away from the platform when the train stopped to drop the mail bags, hopefully it would be a one-man station, and the crew would be busy. My heart beating hard I opened the carriage door ready to do this. The train groaned to a halt and I jumped down feet hitting the ballast already running. I quickly ducked behind an old shed, jumped a fence, and kept on into the trees. Catching my breath, I turned back to see train leave the station. 

What the...? An air horn blasted the air, and the thump of the diesels that I was used to from previous trips rolled off the hills, black exhaust belching into the cold air. Fuck, a long walk then....

And on the train, fading back into time, the paper had fallen open on its last page. An advertisement shimmered to grey, but before it disappeared, the words could be seen: "Buy an Abloy padlock today. Your security guarantee. Never rusts, never fails, always safe, always secure."



In The Library Ch. 06



After I had hitched the last fifteen miles (ironically, in the mail contractor's truck) and dropped my gear at my parent's place, "Hi mum and dad, I'll catch up later..." I made my way downtown to see some of my mates I had gone to school with. I was the only who had moved to the university down south, so I had a lot of hanging out to do. Also, I wanted to find B and spend some time with her, if she would still give me time, that is, since I hadn't been the best to her when I left this town. But she was the love of my life, with the most entrancing smile I have ever, and I mean ever, seen. When she smiled, my heart would die for a second, she was so beautiful.

Slight lithe body, pert tight breasts, the type where the nipple is almost bigger than the flesh of her breast; dark eyes and dark skin, rich brown hair, usually cut just shoulder length. And a gap at the top of her legs, quite noticeable when she wore tight jeans - which she usually did.... My young B, not quite my first love, but fuck, I'd ache for her, often. My plan was to go find her at her place and at least try to talk to her. I doubted anything else would be happening, not after the way I had left her at the beginning of the year.

So I made my way across town and walked along by the creek to her place, not quite the house on the other side of the tracks, but almost. As I walked through the bush alongside the creek, I heard the amazing clear tones of a lyrebird chiming off up in the scrub, unseen. The lyrebird not only has one of the most beautiful natural calls, a real song, but they are also extraordinary mimics. I had heard recordings of them sounding like a chainsaw, a telephone, even the click of a camera shutter. This one was a bloody long way off its range though, these birds were usually found a lot further south of here, and nearer the coast.

But ahead of me on the footpath, there was a well loved and well recognised figure coming towards me. B, with the characteristic swing of her hips, tight jeans, thick woollen jacket against the cold, leather boots on her feet. Her face lit up as she saw me, and she ran to me and entered my arms for a whole of body hug. We clutched each other tight for maybe thirty seconds, not saying a word, her arms tight around my back, mine caressing her soft hair. So, forgiven, maybe? 

"God A, I've missed you these last months, you bastard, you sweet beautiful bastard. It's so good to see you, it really is." So, forgiven, then. And she turned and laced her arm through mine, as we walked the final few blocks to her house, me telling her about the university and the new people I had met there, and she telling me about goings on in my home town. About Grace I said not one word. 

Grace was my private place and my crazy place and, to be honest, my night on the train was only a morning ago and I was still trying to get my head around all of that. So B, who was from a less complicated time, was like a welcome breath of fresh air and, dare I say it after what had happened to me, innocence. It was as if I needed to keep my erotic lust driven present quite separate from a younger, cleaner past. B was pure, and I wanted to keep her that way, in my head at least. Even though she still turned me on something fierce. But it was memories of my fingers in her panties sitting in the back row of the movie theatre that ran through my head with B, not come drenched assholes with the girl disappearing on impossible wings, as it was with Grace.

"Come on in, say hi to mum, I'll make us a coffee. You still two sugars? Sweet boy!" And she grinned, her old line snapping a smile to my stupid face. I really did love this girl.

"Hi, Mrs B," my old greeting as always bringing a smile to her mother's face. I was always made to feel at home here, almost like a son, not the daughter's boyfriend. While the kettle was boiling and the coffee spoon clinking on the cups, Mrs B and I quickly shared the essential news. Hubby still good with his work? Tick, but the old bastard still bitches about my cooking. B still doing dancing classes? Tick, but she's probably gonna quit next year. That simple kid still doing the mowing business? Tick, but don't knock him, coz he is now employing two others, his business has taken off so well.

And we lingered the long afternoon through, just talking talking talking. This was the girl who, when we were both sixteen, taught me that you didn't have to sleep with a girl to love a girl, taught me that you could have a girl who was your best friend but wasn't your girlfriend (but who later, was). This was the girl who, well, she was just the girl. She was B then, and she was B now, and I loved her then and I loved her now. B.

And the day crept on to the time when the afternoon sun streamed through her high window and threw its warm arms of light onto her bed in her room. And she sat on the chair by the bed, in her tight tee shirt, braless, her young woman's breasts proud and high, nipples firm. And she shyly said, "look away, I'm shy, don't watch me undress." So I didn't. I turned away from a sight that I would have died for, just six months ago.

And I lay on her bed, my naked chest warm in the late day sun, and she came to me, her naked breast bare against mine, her nipples hard against mine, her belly soft against mine. Our denim jeans clad our legs, sheathed my risen cock, hid her sex, blue tight cloth on our legs. We lay together, our tongues slowly exploring each other's mouths, lips, the tips of our noses, our eyelids, our throats. And slowly the heat spread through our arms and breasts and bellies, and our fingers reached at the same time for our belts and the zips on our jeans.

Sitting up, I pulled my jeans from my legs, pulling jockey shorts down in the same movement, my cock springing free, hard against my belly, tip reaching just to the edge of my navel. B pushed me back on to the bed, her luscious lips opening over my head, and she sucked down onto my shaft, swelling her cheeks, first one side and then the other as she swirled her tongue over and around my head. One hand nested around my balls, tugging and squeezing the eggs there, palm gliding over the soft hair there. Her other hand squeezed my breast, first one nipple and then the other. Each twist and tug on my tight nubs tightened into a straight connection to my prick, which bounced in her mouth.

My fingers twitched with ecstasy and the pleasure of it, her gentle hand grasping my rigid shaft, red nails rippling up my flesh, tracing the thick vein along the top side of my cock. And a mewl sounded deep in her throat, vibrating there, deep and longing. And her fingers twitched. And then she reared her head from my cock, saliva stringing a long thread from the tip of my cock to her full red lips. And she too sat up, and she too peeled her tight jeans from her slender legs., leaving a delectable pair of black cotton panties, wetness spreading from below her mound.

I reached for the band of her panties and slid them down her legs. She lifted her ass from the bed so I could slide them away from the taut curve of her cheeks. And she lay there, naked, her dark triangle of hair rich and thick at the base of her belly, a tiny dark thread of fine hair up the seam of her belly to her navel, a few single hairs on each of her big dark nipples. Even though we had heavy petted in our last term together at school, and been topless together, this was the first time I had seen her completely naked. Fuck, she was beautiful, simply that, beautiful.

"We can't make love, I've got my period, but please please, can you stroke me there, if it doesn't freak you out." Wow, B was pretty open minded, and I guess I was too, because it didn't worry me at all that there might be some blood between her legs. Totally natural, and in fact we found at my residential college that most of the women there actually synched up their cycles within three or four months - pretty amazing really. And sure enough, there was a little trail of string, white against her thick black hair.

Better than stroke her there, I descended to her slick lips and tugged at them with mine, before finding her erect little clit, standing high. Because she was B I felt tentative and nervous with her - it was after all our first time, totally nude like this. And her cunt tasted slightly tangy with her blood, not sweet honey like I had tasted with Grace, but not unpleasant either. But I didn't care, since it was hot sex under my tongue and peaked nipples under my palms and between my fingers, and hot wet mouth as I reached fingers higher to her face.

She moaned as I worked on that little bud full of nerves, my tongue licking up the long glide of her lips, swelling now with rich purple heat, her little blaze of a clit red and high, surrounded by black curling hair. Her hands touched my hair, a gentle pressure telling me clearly, stay there, stay there, my sweet boy, stay there. My lips again tasted the metallic tang of her as I sucked on her dark sex, her hands firmer on my head now as she reached a long tremor of pleasure, shuddering. She sighed, and her hands stroked my face, a slight edge of fingernail tracing a thin ridge of heat down my flesh.

And then she was less interested in her own pleasure than she was in mine. For her hands grabbed my shaft, and she pulled me up to lie along side her, my cock over her belly and in her hands, her probing tongue once again in my mouth. And with long slow strokes she pulled heat up from my balls along the length of me and into the purple head of me. And again she mewled deep in her throat and I glanced up to her eyes.

Dark, black eyes, no whites, just black orbs. Oh fuck oh fuck oh no, no longer the eyes of my sweet innocent B, but the corrupted knowing malevolence of her, and my prick pulsed with the horrible knowledge of the feeding that was about to come, and the inevitability of it, and the corrupt obsession of it, and the hated pleasure of it, and the powerful perversion of it, and the theft of B' s innocent beauty for her own malificent purposes. 

"Oh my sweetness, I am sorry, I am so sorry, I ... Oh fuck fuck fuck I am coming, my sweet bitch, you evil fucking bitch, fucking leave me alone...." And l exploded thick jets of come, streaming over her belly in pulses of creamy whiteness. And her dark skin bleached at the touch of my seed.

"Oh it burns, it burns," she wailed, B' s voice gone now, her vocal cords tortured to make the words that were no longer natural for that throat, that long arching, pulsing throat. And her one hand raked to her cunt and pulled up a thread of her blood that was there, and mixed it to the creamy mess on her belly. And her other hand, a single long talon curved from her longest finger, and she sliced it along the pulsing vein of my still rigid cock, pulling a thin thread of my blood and mixed it to the creamy mess on her belly. And she scooped the pink warm fluid between her fingers and fed it to her mouth, swallowing long in her throat. And swallowed it down. And as she did, I heard a croak from her inhuman throat:

"We are blood brothers, now we are blooded together," and with a thump the window fell to its sash and the glass shattered, and the air swirled, and I was alone. Oh my God, there was cold and malevolence in the room, and I realised how cruel she was, and how powerful she was, as she had made me believe for the most part of the day that she was my beautiful B, but she was not. But I could not tell whether she had possessed B, or whether she had made herself into the image of B' s innocence. 

Shivering, I shuffled into my clothes. Reaching for my shoes I felt cloth, and found the black cotton panties were on the floor. I picked them up and turned them over in my hands. I could not tell if they were B' s panties or not, but put them in my pocket. Opening the door of the bedroom, I was expecting to see the homely kitchen and back room of the house - but all was dark. The house felt cold, not lived in. And as I struggled to the front door, I kicked papers on the floor. Reaching down, I picked up half a dozen envelopes - and in the fading light of dusk I was able to see that they were addressed to members of B' s family. The earliest post mark must have been about three months ago.

So I had been in a deserted house all afternoon, and Grace had been a monstrous simulacrum of my beloved B. And I remembered the chime of the lyrebird I had heard earlier that day. The bird with one of the most beautiful calls of all, but also the best mimic of all the birds.... God, she was growing strong.

And as I wandered through the coldness and darkness of the night, I heard her last words again. But I could not keep the words completely clear in my head:

"We are blood brothers, now we are blooded together." 

Or did she say, "we are blood, brother, now we are blood, together..."



In The Library Ch. 07



I was now totally spooked by what I was finding out about Grace, also myself, in particular the version of myself from the past, the me that was on the run. I was getting a bad bad feeling that my involvement with the living girl was not a good one, and there were the increasingly scary things that the reincarnated girl was doing to me. Clearly we were linked in some terrible way, that she at least knew about, even if I didn't. 

And the sex, the pure hot, pounding, erotic sex, the sensual jism inspiring cuntdom sex, the cock raising ball tightening ass clenching fucking astonishing sex, the dripping, hot, red, tight, wet sex, the ecstatic twisted sex; the sex was like a drug. A drug that I couldn't get enough of, that I couldn't escape from, that I couldn't hide from, that I wanted more than I was prepared to admit. Her shape shifting attacks, her feeding, her gentleness, her strength, her corruption, her mind numbing fucking magnificence, these were my sickness and my fascination. 

Even if I could run a thousand miles to get away from her, I would also run a thousand miles to get between her legs one more time, to get my tongue in her ass one more time, to get her tongue inside my prick one more time, to feast on her cunt one more time. Fuck, I would crawl over barbed wire to get to her, but I would also surround myself with barbed wire, a moat, and tall walls just to keep her away.

And my mind kept reeling with her last words, "we are blood, brother, we are blood together...." The most disturbing words of all.

But it was late now, the moon risen, tall trees casting long shadows, and a cold blue mist rising from the creek bed. I made my way back across town to my parent's house, a twenty minute walk. As I walked I pulled the black panties from my pocket. Something at least was real - although I realised that they had either been dropped by B when she left town three months ago, or were part of Grace's cruel mimicry. But they were real, soft cloth, and an ever so faint scent of pussy, lingering. I could make myself believe it was B, even though I knew any scent would be long gone after months on the floor of a cold house.

As I neared my house, I heard in the small copse of trees close by the "kerkroo, kerkroo" of a native cuckoo, stealing a nest; or the call of a young bird living in a nest already stolen. I made my way to the front door and let myself in. The front rooms of the house were dark, which was a bit odd, since my parents usually stayed up watching the late movie, or old BBC repeats. But in the family room looking over the back lawn I could see there was a light on. As I walked on down the hall I could hear movement, and a slow panting.

And just before I walked through the door, a sound that was without doubt sexual made me stop. Something was going on in the room - oh shit, had I just stopped myself walking in on my parents? Fuck, I hope so, I did not want to see that. But curiosity took hold, and I carefully peered around the corner of the door. What the fuck? For I could see the shapes of three figures, there on the couch, shadowed in the moonlight and a single soft lamp. 

As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I could make out the shape of a woman reclining on the couch, her head thrown back in pleasure, long dark hair falling about her face and over the edge of the couch, one hand grabbing her full tit, the other grabbing the red hair of the woman between her legs. The red head's pale long body was crouching, arms wrapped up and around the legs of the sprawled woman, her face buried in cunt, her ass raised high; and she in turn was being fucked hard by the man kneeling behind her. Three sets of urging moans and grunts, rhythmic and rutting, played off each other, the deep male grunt uhh uhh uhh, nnnhh; higher pitched nnh nnh nnh; and a low repeating moan. And then the woman sprawled on her back flicked her head from side to side so that her hair flung away from her face, and I saw her face. 

On no, oh no, oh no, fuck no. Not my mother, surely not my mother, cunting wet black dark haired primal mother, her tits big and swollen, full on her chest, soft belly silver scarred with the legacy of me, ripe belly, softing thighs pushed back so that her knees clenched her breasts, one big brown puckered nipple fingered erect with her own fingers, the other full tit squeezed hard by the girl's long hands. My mother's plump dark haired cunt, lips rich dark purple brown, glistening, tight black curls being swept forth and back by a long red tongue coiling around her clit, huge and high in the cleft of her mound. The pale cheeks of the cunt hungry girl were wet, her lips luscious and tugging, nose buried deep in my mother's stretched cunt, wet cunt, deep seething pleasure cunt.

And despite myself, despite my coherent backing away from the door I do not want see this self, I do not want to see my mother like this self, my cock tightened in my pants and I was spellbound. Her rich full sex, wet and ripe, swollen and darkly haired, brown chocolate ass hole hidden, was splayed in front of me, her son. Her son whose only memory of that place should be some primal dark tunnel into squalling light, her son wanted to see more, smell more, even forbidden taste more. God forbid, there was my mother's cunt, tongued and dark, spread wanton in front of me, my cock hard but still (some last sense of sanity?) trapped in my jeans.

And then, as I knew she would, the redhead reared her head up away from my mother's ripened sex, and turned her pale face towards me, and flicked out her long tongue in my direction. And her dark whiteless eyes, as I knew they would be, blinked twice at me, and her full red lips curved into a lazy sensual leer. A string of spittle and vaginal wetness was flicked apart by her flickering tongue. Grace slowly turned her head back to the spread-eagled snatch of my birthing mother, and continued her erotic, elemental, excruciating torture of my mother's pearlescent clitoris - for I knew Grace would not peak my mother until she too was peaked.

And her long red hair cascaded around her pale white body, her breasts pressed to the cloth of the couch, but her ripe belly was swollen full below her raised hips, full and round and white. Grace too was full and fecund and ripe, her body an echo of my mother's. It was as if they were both capable of birthing, stretching their canals, swelling their bellies. But Grace was eating out my dark luscious mother, and her pale whiteness was shifting as the man behind her pounded into her haunches high, tight clenching sex drenched vagina. Fucked hard, her body rippled with movement, regular and powerful.

And with a stunned sense of inevitability, for I knew it could be no other, I watched my father fucking into that long pale body. I knew that he was fucking his wife through Grace; that every thrust into that plump red haired cunt was a thrust into his wife's babing cunt; that every tight squeeze of her clenching sex was an echo of his son's mother's womb. And then he too slowly turned his head towards mine, and his long tongue flickered in my direction, and his dark whiteless eyes blinked twice. And despite myself, despite my coherent backing away from the door I do not want to see this self, I do not want see my father like this self, my cock was tighter tighter trapped in my jeans, and I had to free it, release it to snap hard against my gut.

I was drawn into the room by the fecund scent of sex in the air, the ripe, sweet cunt smell, the scent of hair and crotch and crease, the scent of hot breath panting. The vision of them also, the familiar faces of my mother and my father, the long new body of Grace, the unfamiliar groin of my dark-haired mother and her pale lush belly, the unfamiliar cheeks of my father's taut ass, their limbs, their hands, familiar yet strange, imprinted but now so wrong. And the sounds of grunting, sliding, lunging pleasure, the keen of my mother's throat arching back, the bird mewl from Grace's impossible throat, the thick moan from my father's gut, deep and primal. The slap of his thighs against that full, ripe, pale ass; the slip and slide of her long tongue along the slick lips of my mother's labia, her full thighs shimmering in the low light.

All three heads again turned towards me, my mother with a leer of recognition as she saw me for the first time, and her thick red tongue licked her lips, slowly. And my fingers were now stumbling in the buttons of my shirt as I tore it from my back. My feet fumbling from my shoes as I stripped socks and jeans and jocks from my legs until I too was naked like the three of them. I became aware of some horrified silent scream from deep in my throat, as the inevitable heat came upon me.

"Go to the kitchen, son, you will need to grease me up." Ah fuck, my father spoke, knowing exactly what long thickened prick thought had flashed through my mind. Here was Oedipus, cock risen, but not come home to claim the mother, but to fuck the father. To match my cock against his cock, my thick prick against his thick long prick, to prove the seed of the son was more potent than the seed of the father. Lurching back to the other room, I threw open cupboards and the fridge to find a lubricant, some thick lubricant, some slick lubricant. A slab of butter? No, too cold and hard, leave that for a tango in Paris. There, thick yellow tub of margarine, that will do it.

And I kneeled behind him, his taut cheeks clenching with each long thrust into the pale body crouching, her ass raised high before him. With a convulsive lurch I reached around my father's torso and pressed the palms of my hands to his chest, his erect nipples tight. But when I pinched them (and they felt just like mine), the connecting nerve didn't thread a jolt to the top of my prick, but to the tip of his. And Grace's deep cunt felt that lurch, and in turn the clit under the mound of my mother felt that lurch. And so we became connected in some powerful, horrible, sensual, cunt dreaming place, some strange, forbidden familial place, a circle broken but a circle beginning.

My father shifted apart his thighs so that the crease of his ass opened up and his long heavy balls swung below. I took the weight of his ball sac into my hands and caressed them, one full testicle hanging long and lower, the other tight and higher. The seam of the pouch was ridged and rippled, hair sparse on the soft bag of flesh, but thicker into the tight pucker of his ass. I took first one ball into my hot mouth and then the other, each part of him full and round, rising and falling with each clench of his ass muscles and each suck from my mouth and swirl of my tongue.

I suckled on those places for many seconds, as if I was trying to draw up the essential family seed from deep in his body, to pull up to the surface some rich vital fluid, from the same source that had risen as I was conceived, from that same place of nurture that Grace needed, to feed upon and to grow upon. And I remembered the cuckoo, that bird that convinces another family that it too is family, and that the food for the family's young is food for it. In some horrible way, she was becoming family.

And then my father reached back and pulled his ass cheeks apart, exposing his dark pulsing hole to my eyes, a thick swirl of dark hair spiralling to that dark centre of him. I lowered my face to the long crease, and my hands pulled his muscled cheeks further apart, opening him. My tongue pushed into his dark tight hole, a rich musky taste, his hole opening and pushing back onto my thrusting tongue. And each push of my tongue into that chocolate place would pulse through him into Grace, and through her to my mother's red slitting place and quivering bud. So I knew that each familial, oedipal, anal pushing pulse was echoed by a clitoral purple twitch, and we were all joined together by that long red haired pale body, suckling and feeding and cunting her way into my family. The bitch, the fucking succubitic bitch, what evil fucking family had she come from, that she could do this to us, to pervert us this way?

"We are blood, brother, together we are blood." The cursed mantra echoed in my head, and with no clear, rational thought, for coherence was no longer possible now, the rational part of me began to watch, and the primal, instinctive part of me started to act. Like a pride of lions, the young male had to take on the alpha male. I had to measure my eight inch son's cock up against the eight inch father's cock (for the son inherits the genes of his father), and I had to win the women in this impossible family.

So I dug my fingers deep into the tub of yellow margarine and gathered a great lump of the slick stuff in my hand, and swathed my long hard penis with it. With my greased slick fingers I pressed more of the lubricant into the pulsing ass hole in front of me, and he lurched back, hard. I pressed the big mushroom head of my shaft hard up against my father's opening hole and pressed my weight onto his body, opening up the tight sphincter, pulsing and gripping the glans of my cock. And the tableau of bodies in front of me, my dark slut mother, the demon witch Grace, red-haired and pale, my tall father, they all froze. 

And they each felt, each one of them through the other, they each felt the slow throbbing urge of my shaft as it slowly entered, one tight inch at a time, one dark thrust at a time, one slow inch at a time, the long ass tunnel of my father. And I the son slowly sank my shaft into his body, and he the father opened and took it all in, inch by inexorable inch, until my cock, my youthful forceful cock was fully sheathed inside him. Hot, full and held, his body gripped me and held me in the strangest paternal embrace I could ever imagine. And sunk to the base of my belly against his firm muscled globes, my balls pressed to the ridged perineum of him and brushed the top of his tightened testes. Our fast pulses beat against each other and our breath panted in swooning gulps. And the two women held cock fixed and tongue fixed beneath us, the two women took on a new urgency of their own.

Grace lurched higher onto my mother, her long tongue sliding up the centre of her ripe body, pressing into her navel like a small fuck hole as she mouthed her way to my mother's full big breasts. In fascinated terror, I realised that those big maternal globes were full of brimming milk, just as Grace herself had filled with sweet white cream and suckled me in the library. Each big nipple, brown and puffy, was now seeping a slick thread of whiteness, sweet nectar. How long had Grace been suckling on my mother's teats, that she had made milk come? The last time those full, lush breasts had swollen with milk would have been with me as a child, twenty years before this time. 

So I knew that Grace must have been suckling on my mother for weeks or months, and in those same weeks and months, must have sucked the come from my father, wrapped her pussy around his shaft, squeezed her tight ass tunnel along his prick, and milked him of his seed. No wonder she was growing so strong, so quickly - not only was she feeding from me, she was feeding from my family also. 

But the dripping milk and father's clutching ass and Grace' s long back and high haunches, quivering with each thrust of my father's rigidity, and mother's grasping hands reaching for her husband's face and for her son's face as they leaned over her lover's back, this mix of impossible sight and sound and taste and smell, these things all took hold of my fevered brain and body. And now my own tight ass cheeks firmed and began a rhythm of my own making, and my own finger snaked behind me to my own hole. And I finger fucked my own sweet hole, rich yellow cream from the tub for lubrication, my finger as deep inside me as I could get it. And my ass tightly gripped my thrusting finger.

And in time I built up a rhythm, my finger pulsing and twisting behind that small rim of muscle, the circular bud in the crease of my tight clenching cheeks holding my finger firm, sucking it into my rectal heat. My other hand now gripping and twisting the nipple of my father's chest, his nipples hard and pointed, standing tightly erect from the thick hair on his chest. And he reared his head back and around so that our lips could meet. And the returning son deeply kissed the father, eight inches buried deep in his hot centre. And my father tongued his wandering son's hot mouth, like lips upon blood lips. And I the son fucked my own father who had given me life those two decades ago, and my father took me deep in his ass, deep into his heat. And our tongues met in a soul deep kiss as only blood heat can.

My thrusts were deeper and longer now, the yellow fat absorbing the heat of his channel and the long thick heat of my swollen shaft, thickening under the grip of him, and the hot slickness allowed me to take exquisitely long strokes, almost to the rim of my cock's round head. And my straight long length pushed past his prostrate and the pressure on it starting a long milking of father's fluid, pulsing and flowing thorough his long shaft into the heat and depths of Grace's womb. As he began to pulse, the ripples of his muscles began to pull on my engorged rod, clenching me tight into him and milking me in turn. And I felt my own seed start to churn and rise in the depths of me, my shafting faster now, my tongue pushed into his mouth, and my father sucked on my tongue just as his ass sucked on my rod, deep into him. 

We moaned and grunted into each other's mouths, and our cocks swelled, mine into his dark thick musk thick tunnel and his into Grace's long deep cunt, pressure and pleasure now building building, our tongues rigid, our hands now holding her full pale hips for our own balance, my balls tightening my seed rising, last long thrusts fucking hard and deep into his being. My come pulsed and burst from the hard length of me and the deep depths of me, flowering into the hot core of his deepest place, and I shuddered with the ecstasy and pain of it, coming deep into my father's darkest channel. I fucked my father and his ass sucked up my come. And I fucked my father and the throb of my cock, driven deep, pushed him to his own orgasm, and his long milking now ended with an exquisite arch of his back, and his balls gave up their fluid to her. His long cock pierced to her core, and she, like some grasping swollen thing, milked the life fluid from him and into her. Our muscles trembling, our bodies milked the fluids from one to the other, Grace swelling with the potency of our seed.

We three remained locked to each other, my father's cock to her cunt, his asshole fleshed onto my shaft. And now she looked to her own pleasure. Her cunt filled with seed and shaft, she now flicked one hand to her long clitoris, two fingers rising the bud of it from between her labia. Her other hand remained tight around a swollen nipple on my mother's full dripping breasts, and her mouth descended to that feeding place, suckling on my mother's sweet white milk, first one full breast and then the other. I could hear below me Grace's fevered panting and slurping as she drank down my mother's hot sweet fluid, live giving and abundant, her mouth hot and suckling on mother's huge puffed nipples, hard tight breasts mauled and pinched by the hungry girl. 

And Grace throbbed and pulled on her demon clitoris, bringing herself up to a huge brimming climax. Her succulent cuntic passage gripped my father's penis, milking the last drop of seed from him; and his pulsating grip squeezed the last drop of seed from me. Grace's peak was now approaching as a storm sweeps up a valley, her legs quivering with the power of it, her long pinching fingers swirling and snapping her red bright clitoral bud, her ecstasy sending a long low keening into her throat. Red hair thrashing across my mother's face, Grace's pale white skin was threaded with a deep red blush as her orgasm raced in on her, convulsing her pale long body into a rictus of pleasure. Her lips suckled on those hard full breasts of my mother, milk spurting now in a hot sticky mess and dribbling from the corners of Grace' s engorged mouth, too full with greed.




In The Library Ch. 07



A demon call burst from that red mottled white long throat, impossible to decipher but loud and high, and Grace exploded into orgasm, her every muscle rigid with the intensity of it, her long red hair rippling as her head jerked and twisted. And her hot lips convulsed one last time on the impossibly huge teats of my mother, and bitten blood smeared pink from a bitten nipple. And that last sharp pain brought my mother to her own climax, arching back her long neck, both her hands grasping each of her big succulent breasts, conclusively squeezing her hot fluid spurting from her tits. And my father pushed the long swollen body of Grace to one side, to make a place on the heaving chest of his wife my mother, so that we both could suckle on her enriched, white weeping breasts. 

So I the son returned to the comfort and live giving warmth of the maternal breast, suckling that sweet warm milk down, savouring the hot engorged nipple of my mother's hot breast. And one of my hands went down to the slick hot dark haired place between her thighs, and I slid two fingers into her forbidden cunting place. My other hand caressed my mother's soft cheek, my fingers probing her soft lips and sneaking into her mouth. Her hand caressed my hair as I sucked on her fullness. And beside me the mouth of my father suckled on her other breast, sharing the milk with his son. 

And the fingers of his one hand found the deep dark cleft of his wife's ass, and thrust in there so that our fingers touched with her hot flesh between. And the fingers of his other hand caressed my mother's other cheek, and her hand caressed his hair as he sucked on her fullness. So my father and his son sucked the hot sweet milk from those tight hard breasts until they were firm no longer, the mother and wife feeding the son and husband. The imposter child and daughter lay huddled and curled beside us, her chest panting in short quick bursts, her openings seeping trails of milk and semen and juice, her long red hair coiled around her filled replete flesh, filled and swollen.

Exhausted, my shattered mind remembered, from some long forgotten book, that there are two types of cuckoo. There is the type that lays its egg in another bird's nest, and the mother rears the chick as one of her own, until the faster growing cuckoo chick takes all of the food and even lurches the smaller weaker chicks from the nest. And there is the parasitic cuckoo, where the invading bird goes to much more trouble to mimic the size and colour of the egg, so that the feeding bird does not even know that there is an imposter in the nest. Until it is too late, and the foreigner is reared as the mother's own. I could only hope that my suckling on her luscious tit would be enough to remind my mother who her real child was, and that the pestilent Grace would not throw me out of the home.



In The Library Ch. 08



Following the nightmare encounters with Grace in my home town (corrupting my memories of B and invading my parent's home like a monstrous orphan cuckoo) I was keen to hurry back to the southern city. I could not face my parents after fucking my father in the ass and drinking my mother's impossible twenty years too late milk, and the vision of Grace, bloated and leaking, was more than I could handle. So I made my way south by bus and road - I didn't want to find myself on the fifty year old train either, even though the night attendant had been beautiful and gentle and that time with her at least was good. But the man on the run, and it had to be me - I just didn't want to know.

So I was now back in the residential hall, wondering what the hell I was going to do about this nightmare. For I knew beyond a doubt that she would come for me again, in some new manifestation. I also had a bad bad feeling deep in my guts that time was going to twist in on me again, without warning, and I was going to discover more than I wanted about me on the run. So I figured that I needed to arm myself with information. If I could get ahead of Grace in terms of knowledge, I might be able to escape this nightmare. But shit, I would miss the perverse, dark sex....

Old Mack would be no good - the old fart was too addled in his brains to be reliable, and I had gone through the papers in the university library, but there were no further clues there. I had to find another, richer source of information. The city central library on the south side of the lake should hold the answers. On this late winter day, the sun was bright and the air still, so it should be a pleasant enough walk. 

I made my way down to the concrete arching road bridge which crossed the lake, its opposite end delivering traffic and pedestrians to the big library, like some great temple. As I crossed the bridge, I heard a weird pulsating song from the waters below. At first, I could not work out what it was, and then I realised that it was the song of starlings nesting on the ledge under the bridge, their song bouncing off the water, the wind blown ripples setting up the strange acoustic. Damn, did the little fuckers, never mind how sweet their song was, did the little feathered fuckers know it was me? Or were these birds untainted by Grace? I could only hope - but Mack's words came back to me, "more fuckin' birds in this town than I've ever seen before." Damn birds, worse than the bloody Hitchcock film. 

Still, it was broad daylight, so maybe the sun would keep me safe. Grace seemed to prefer the gloaming and the dark. But I had to get to the archives, I had to find out about Grace, her family and her life. Maybe if I knew something about her life, there would be some clues about her death. Birth records, that should do it.

After a couple of hours, including chatting up the old librarian there, I discovered that Grace and her sister (for the two girls in those old papers were indeed sisters) were born late to the family. Grace's mother had been about 38 when Grace was born, 40 when her sister Emily was born. Bit old, for a first born, I would have thought. Maybe that is what shit loads of money bought you, back in those days. I sat looking out the high windows making a few notes. On the lake a group of elegant black swans swam past, S necks gracefully bent. Oh fuck, that is probably not good, not good at all. But my betraying prick pulsed, knowing that whatever manifestation was about to happen (of course it was about to happen) would be hugely powerful. Fucking big birds, swans.

But as always, I had no idea how she would manifest herself, just that she would. It was still daylight, and the swans were distant on the lake, so it was difficult to see where she would come from, or even if it would be immediate. Maybe if I stayed here for a while, grabbed myself a bite to eat, and a coffee, and wait until I could not see the birds? I did not think, not now, that I would be able to avoid her, but maybe I could delay her. Somehow. At that moment, I heard the squeak of a trolley wheel and the lurch in my guts that had happened before, and I knew that something was upon me. The Library was deathly quiet, time and place shifting, slowing, and re-starting.

The cold steel key in my pocket, oh fuck that was not there before, the cold steel key - so I was once more thrown back in time and was the watched man, once more. And I was now in a different place - because the central library wouldn't be built for several decades - but I had no idea of the geography of this town in its early days, so the place was strange.

"Come with me, dear boy." A husky voice, deep and sensual, beckoned me from the shadows. And from a dark corridor, a tall dark woman with spectacular tits, raven black hair (or should I say, swan black hair, because of course this was Grace), long to her waist. Her waist, impossibly small, as if clinched in by a corset. Her magnificent hips swung as she strode towards me, and her thighs were long and firm, in a flowing skirt. She was statuesque, Amazonian, her rich chocolate dark skin almost lost in the shadows. She was tall, splendid, radiating power. Jesus, had her feeding brought her to this? Did her magnificent, terrifying strength have the ability to cross time and to chase me down through time?

I did not have much of a choice here - the power in her voice was commanding, and I knew that if I looked into her eyes I would be commanded. So I tried to keep as much of my self as I could - I looked past her, focusing on the wall behind her head. "Where are we, where are we going?"

"In the time when I died, but not in the place." Her voice was now harsh and guttural, so I knew once more she was some horrific mix of swan and woman, and not all Grace. Some part of the animal possessed the woman, just as some part of the woman possessed the bird. "I need to know, boy, who you are."

So she didn't know all there was to know about me.... My brain feverishly thinking how I could use this to my advantage, I turned and walked beside her down the corridor. Hell's teeth, she was as tall as me, her head at the same level as mine, ducking under the same lintels. But her legs were impossibly long, her waist inches higher than mine, her splendid hips brushing mine. And despite myself or because of myself, my prick started to throb and fill.

Finally the corridors ended and we came into a room, surrounded on three sides with tall windows, the fourth wall centred with the door through which we entered. In the middle of the room stood a high four poster bed, shackles (oh fuck, shackles...) hitched to chains, luxurious velvet covers and pillows, and above, a skylight. I could see the sickle of the moon high in the black sky, a single brilliant star below its arc. Excited and terrified in single measure, I turned to her and grasped her face in both my hands and pulled her lips to mine. If I could avoid her eyes, and try to match her strength for strength, I might be able to make some monstrous bargain.

And her lips were full and her tongue was long and hot as we thrust into each other's mouths. My tongue pushed hard between her tight, flush lips; and I sucked her top lip into my mouth and then her luscious bottom lip. Each soft lip was full like some exotic fruit, and I bit down into the flesh, grazing the plump flesh with my teeth. My hands went behind her head and my fingers filled with the long dark weight of her hair, flowing like slow black water through my fingers, wrapping around my arms like silk. Her hands, cold long fingers, caressed the back of my head and traced down the back of my neck, hands holding heads, tongues exploring mouths, noses bumping noses as we kissed each other, hard. 

And my hardening prick pressed its heat against the top of her thigh. Her firm breasts squashed warm against my chest, the fleshy globes firm and full, my chest tight and flat against them. And our bellies pressed hard against the other and I felt a throb of heat and firmness against my gut, but wait, my cock was against her thigh, what ridge was that?

But her hands swooped to the buttons of my shirt, black nailed fingers pulling on the small circles and flicking them through the holes. She peeled the shirt from my back and down my arms, casting it to the floor. She raked her long nails down my chest, scratching against my peaking nipples and sending a line of thrilled goose bumps down my arms. With a quick movement, her hands grasped the muscles of my back, and she pulled me to her. The bare sensitive skin of my chest was pressed up against the soft silk of her blouse, and I could feel the ribs of her corset press up against my own ribs. Skin against silk against bone against flesh, the materials pressed to each other and into each other, her full firm breasts pressed to my chest.

And then she pushed me away from her with one arm, the other hand quickly flicking her own pearled buttons open so that the dark silk of her top spilled open, revealing the rising moons of her breasts, thrust up high in the cups of a whalebone corset, her breasts high and proud, cleavage deep and long. The flesh from the top of her breasts to her long throat was gloss black and glistening, impossible darkness on any human girl, but then she was not fully human, not fully a woman, not wholly a girl. My hands loosened her black silken hair and found the ties of the corset at her back, and loosened those ties until the tight strictures of velvet and bone and cord fell away and from her body.

Her magnificent proud breasts barely fell under their own weight, they were so high and proud. The big nipples, areola wrinkled around, stood erect maybe half an inch, and my mouth fell greedily on one and then the other, my tongue swirling around the hardness, and the tight black buds seemed to swell in my mouth. I suckled on those big fleshy nipples, urging them to fill my mouth, pulling them long and full. Grace crooned with the suck of me, her hands now caressing my hair once more, pulling me deep onto the firm cushion of her flesh. As I was now arched over her high breasts, my tight cock was no longer against her belly, so I shifted until that hot ache was against the side of her leg, pressing there. 

My hands lowered to the top of her long skirt, and I pulled away at the buttons at the back of it until it too fell to the floor. Her strong torso, huge breasts full and hard, big big nipples thick and thrusting, narrowed to her slender waist. I gazed down her long legs, long and black and clad in lace stockings, straps and clips to her garter belt, black lace against black flesh, the magnificent round globes of her ass taut and tight, covered by the thin cloth of her black lace knickers. And we swivelled front to front, and my hard prick pressed the cloth of my trousers against the hardness of her belly, and she arched her body to mine, and again I felt that throb of hardness against mine.

Again she twisted away from me, and one hand, incredibly strong, grabbed my wrist and she said, "get onto the bed, sweet boy," her voice now high and light, the voice of my B and the fond words of that girl. And with a last coherent thought - the bitch has stolen my first young girl - a rage came upon me and I struggled hard against her black muscled strength. But she was too fast, too quick, too strong, and she pushed me to the bed and snapped one wrist into the shackles there. With a pounce she pulled my legs and feet flat to the mattress, stretching my body and arms long, upreached to the chains. And her strength subdued me, and she pulled the trousers away from my legs, throwing my pants to the floor. I heard a soft thud as the pocket covered key hit the timber boards, but then I was naked, held tight in her grasp, limbs stretching along the bed. She shackled my other wrist to the head of the bed, and my body lay helpless, at her will.

With my face to the pillows, my body long and stretched before her, my wrists shackled in chains above my head, I realised that she had me before her as I had had her long body before me, that night in the clock tower. That night when she had come to me with her head swivelling owl eyes, my prick deep in her ass and her convulsive gut churning passage of my own seed into my own mouth. And I remembered then how she had relaxed and softened under my caresses and my long prick, my tongue deep into the dark musk heat of her. And I thought, maybe if I soften and relax under her as she had under me, maybe she would remember my gentleness and the hot probe of my tongue. And maybe she would be kind, not monstrous.

As I felt her hair caress my back, I made my body relax and spread, my legs widening against her strong legs. Her long fingers raked through my hair and sharp nails traced down my back, her hot lips on my neck. "Sweet, sweet boy, let me love you like you loved me, be my boy." Her voice, B' s voice, thrilled my ears, tricked my brain, whispered her soft endearment into my stupid skull. "I want to know you, sweet boy, know you."

Ah, good God, how could I resist such seduction? Trapped in her shackles, I melted below her, my mind entranced and lost inside her endearments. The bitch, just the tone of her voice destroyed my will to resist. And she lay her long black body along mine, her hard breasts pressed to my back, her firm thighs gripping my legs, her groin pressing down hard against the cheeks of my ass. And again I feel a hot heat from her, ridged into the crack of my ass. 

And again, before I could make sense of that heat, it was gone, and my ass cheeks were spread wide, and her hot tongue licked right over the pucker of my back bud, my hot hole, my ass hole. My legs spread wide, my ass globes hauled apart by her strong hands, her hot mouth opened and sucked my balls, one sac first, then the second, swelling into her mouth. Her teeth nibbled against the shifting and tightening delicacy of my testes, and her long tongue pierced my puckering star, thrust past the tight sphincter, deep into the heat of me. 

Quivering with the delight of her tongue in my darkest place, I arched up my hips to open myself more to her, and to release my prick from the sheets wrapped below me. My fingers rippled helplessly on the sheet above my head and I gave myself up to her sweet caress, the heat of her, her delicate fingers tracking over my helpless body like water over a stone in a river. Moans of pleasure filled the room, my moans muffled by the pillows, her sighs crooning and keening as she crawled over me, her tongue and lips and mouth hot around my skin.

And then she was away from me, her strong hands grasping my ankles and flipping me onto my back. My rigid cock snapped up against my belly, throbbing to my heart beat, fluttering with the sensations lingering on my skin from her hands and tongue. And she stood above me at the end of the bed, tall and spectacular, black as midnight, proud as hell. Her full high breasts heaving, thrusting hard nipples big and long, darkness even darker surrounding each long nub. And her long, long throat and her long face and her blackest black eyes reared high above me and with a langorous slow smile she gazed deep into my eyes. And I was lost. My mind, feebly trying to look away so it would not be entranced, became enslaved because I could not look away. Her power and dark black beauty held me tight to her will. And she stood tall above me and my eyes travelled down her exquisite body.

Her full, splendid breasts, those tight and hard nipples, now threaded with a tiny trail of milk - because every succubitic summoning was about feeding - me on her horrendous mothering teats and she on my seed in a never ending sucking and cunting exchange of life giving fluids. And my entranced eyes drifted lower to her tiny waist, and then full hips girdled around with a garter belt, long straps down to intricate laced stockings. And at the long base of her belly, sheathed in the black lace on black skin of her knickers, throbbed a rising rod of her own. 

She slowly, ever so slowly, caressed her hands over her high tits, tweaking her nipples twisted with her fingers, caressing down the curves of her ribs and belly and mound, and she slid the final swathe of cloth down her long legs, until she stood proud and triumphant and nude above me. And her impossible girl cock stood tight and thick and long against her belly.

And I knew then that she was going to plunder my deep channel, dark into the depths of me just as I had sunk my prick to the core of her, and as I had sunk my long oedipal prick to the core of my father; and as she did so she would suckle me to her breasts just as I had suckled at my mother's full milk sodden and seeping tits. And I wanted her to. I wanted her to do that long slow thrust deep into the guts of me, as I had done into her, and as I had done into my father in that dark moment in my home town. It was only right that she should have the same pleasure in my ass as I had had in hers.

So I thrust my body and hot hole up to her, and her wet mouth clamped to my ass hole and her long tongue exquisitely pierced me and probed me and flickered long and hot and wet, tongue fucking into me. I couldn't help but push back onto her face, and I was growling with pleasure and my cock was rigid and full and pulsing. And again I felt the suction of her deep mouth on my rising balls as she suckled on them, tremors of pleasure running through me.

"Fuck me, beautiful bitch, fuck my ass hard, take me deep, fuck your long prick deep, deep into me, ah, yes, now." I cried out to her, begging, and felt her strong hands pull my cheeks wide, exposing my pulsing puckering hole to her hot breath. And then her long finger pressed hard into me, opening my tightness, and I gripped that thrusting digit, pulling her finger deep into me. And she set up a short swift fuck with that finger, preparing me for that bigger shaft, her other hand upon my prick, stroking it long and slow. And deep inside me I could feel my exquisite heat and red churning centre begin to milk the semen from deep in my aching balls.

And then her finger pulled out and popped out of my tight channel, and I was a void inside, empty, just begging to be filled again with a bigger thing. She slurped a great gob of spit from her mouth onto my hole, and her fingers reached up to my mouth for my spit too, and I could feel a body hot cream which must have been milk seeped from her breasts, and she mixed the whole wet mess to my crack and the centre of me, and then my cheeks were held wide with both her strong hands and her hot prick head was upon my ass hole, and then her hard hot weight was pressing her long hot cock past the tight muscle. 

Oh my sweet fuck, she was pushing into me, spreading me. Ah fuck, my fucked ass was pushed hard and hot and pulsed against that thickness and my body lurched back against hers and my tunnel pulsed up against that throbbing, relentless heat as I was slowly oh so sweetly fucking slowly opened up and was entered into and filled and fucked and the fullness, oh God, the fullness fucked into me, my ass opening up like my own sweet cunt as she possessed me, and her long low deep voice crooned, swooned, "ah, now you're my ass cunt fuck hole, deep hole, take me deep, sweet boy, take my seed my blood my heat," each word a thrust of her cunting long prick, wet and deep and full.

Oh fuck, I was filled, and still the weight and spread into my ass continued, until with a lurch she was fully settled in the deep guts of me. I could smell the sweet sex scent of our rutted bodies, joined tight. I clenched my ass muscles, gripping her long prick and stopping her movement, and then, when I relaxed, I could feel my hole suck her in some more. And we slowly pulsed and gripped each other, my ass tunnel filled and full, her thick heat gripped in me. And we fucked slowly against each other, each throbbed hard pulse opening me up some more.




In The Library Ch. 08



Then, with her hard strong arms, she gripped around my haunches and took the weight of my body onto her prick, and slowly slowly lifted my body, arms above my head twisting on the shackles, my legs bent up to my chest, and with her huge strength she plunged into me and l lay below her, splayed below her, her hardness impossible in my ass. And now I was her Leda and she was the god fucking into me, her sweet boy, her opened up and weeping boy, her splayed and open and taken boy, her time shifted and time taken cunt of a boy. 

And she made me hers. Deep and slow and long she took me, and my legs opened wide to her and I opened myself wide beneath her, wanting and yearning for that dark deep strength of her as she held herself over me. And she swung her fullness into me and took me and I became a woman for her, my cunting ass tunnel the tight wet place that would take her impossible seed as she thrust down in to my opening, slick heat.

And she fucked me and took me. Hard, long, slow, deliberately. I was taken by her and I gave myself to her, cruel angel. And it was exquisite, and I became her girl, opening up and spreading my legs, gripping my legs tight against her long back and tight firm ass, her hips thrusting down deep onto me, her hot hard creaming breasts against my chest, and then her leaking nipples in my mouth as I drank down her honey sweet milk, my tongue slurping and suckling upon the long dark teats, pulling them full into my mouth, and her warm liquid heat filled my belly, sweet and full, her huge breasts softening as they gave up their milk.

My prick was huge and full between our bellies, hot flesh stroking my long length as she continued to fuck deep into the guts of me. My ass now a slick, wet tunnel, her girl cock thick and slow and sliding into me. I could feel her urge herself into me with a new intensity, her deep throatal groans panting with a demon sound, grunting with her big, black, massive strength, forcing my legs wide and my assing cunting sex hole open and wide and wet for her, me a woman to her masculine animal power. 

And her awesome deep cock lengthened and thickened within me, and there was a new tremor from her muscle packed rump as her breeding fluids spurted and gushed and threaded their hot liquid spill into the heat of my bowel and the pulsing sliding liquid friction against my tight muscle and my magical anal spot triggered my own explosion from deep below my spine. 

And as my rod thrust straight and hard and high, Grace with a neck breaking curve of her long throat and her long body, Grace reared high and serpentine and impossible, opened her mouth and long throat to my pulsating prick, and sunk her mouth and tongue onto my shaft. And as she thrust her last surges of her own hot fluid into my darkest passage, my throbbing rearing cock pumped my own deep honey smooth seed and fluid deep into her throat and she drank my pulsing come down into her belly. And my belly was full and hot with the milk of her and her belly was hot with the milk of me, and my sundered ass was wet with the cream of her. So again we were feeding and fed from each other. 

And her blooded words from an earlier time echoed in my head, "we are blood, brother, we are blood together."

And old Mack's words bounced around my brain, "I know you, boy, I seen who you are...."

And her words echoed his,"I want to know you, boy, I want to know who you are...."

And her becoming a daughter to my father and mother that they never had, her invasion of my family as a cuckoo orphaned horror, thus making her a sister I never had; all of these words and thoughts and familial threads and wet fluids and milk and cream and breasts and birthing cunts and seeding cocks surged around my mind. And in my mind a mounting horror was somewhere deep within me, and some terrible revelation was just below the surface but just beyond my reach.

"Unchain me, Grace, please untie me now." Some semblance of sanity threaded through my words, as she still had me trapped and chained and bound to the bed, and I had to find some tiny forgotten place of love within her, that she would release me. And she did. She pulled her long cock, loose and soft now from my aching, come sodden rear; and she unloosed her long throat from my shrinking penis, creaming come and spittal threading from her mouth; and her fluid wet nipples and now sagging breasts stretched away from my sweat slicked body; and as she slid away backwards from me I could see white blazes on the rippled muscles of her belly. And once again she carried the branding whiteness of my marks on her belly.

She reached her long arm to the table beside the bed and found her key there, and unlocked my chains and wrists. And we were motionless together, her dark dark eyes holding mine deep and steady, her fingers holding up that key. Still, steady, she held my eyes, that key between us, and she said not a word, her breath slow and controlled, her breasts, soft now and drooped, slowly heaving. 

And just as slowly, as some slow realisation crept into my head, I reached my arm down to the floor and pulled towards me the discarded trousers, the cloth covered metallic thump dragged on the floorboards. And just as steady, my eyes held hers as I pulled the bigger key from that pocket, and held it up high in my fingers. And between us the moon light glinted on those two keys held high, and our eyes were steady and our gazes were held, and some dark truth was there. Cold moments passed.

Then she hissed, "bastard blood, I unchained you, but you did not unchain me. Bastard brother, we are blood together."

"Go brother, go seek our mother and know your sister. Know your sister well, brother; and I will see you here, in hell." And with a smash and glisten of glass, and a powerful beat of feathers and wing, the dark sibling swan, Grace my sister, that black white traced bird, was gone into the dark.

The moon set, the one star gone, and I lay there. The room did not change, and I lay there. The dawn crept forward, and I lay there. Time did not shift, and I lay there. I knew what I had done, and I lay there. I knew what she had become, and I lay there.

But who the fuck am I?

And I lie here.



In The Library Ch. 09



How the hell could Grace be my sister? I had found no record of any children born other than Grace and her younger sister, Emily. I didn't know what on earth was going on, but the interchange of our minds over the keys had revealed some kind of bizarre truth, and now Grace was accusing me of keeping her chained. I didn't know what that was all about. Maybe she did know more about me than I knew myself. In fact, the more I found out, the less I really knew about what was happening, and even less about what had happened.

And I was still back in time. After she vanished, I stayed in that room by the lake until the sun rose the next day. Even after sleeping, I was still in the same time and place - back in my past. And in Grace's dead time. But she had told me to seek out her (our) mother, and something was telling me that the solution to this mystery was in an even earlier time. Her mother's time. Ok, I was getting used to this time shifting shit, but so far Grace had always been at the centre of it. And for all I knew, she was the power behind it. So how in hell was I going to go back any further?

Fucked if I know, but what I did know, was that I was bloody hungry, and knowing how things could happen to me at any moment, I had to get a feed before too long. So I set off down the road away from the strange place by the water. Searching in my pockets I found some old notes. OK, I had some of this era's money, so I wasn't going to starve. That's good.

But this is bad: on the power and telephone lines running down both sides of the road were birds, hundreds of them, just sitting on the wires. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, almost as far as I could see. Up and down the wires, just perched there, silent. As I walked below them, silence. Just a slow ripple of wings every now and then, as if a wave of wind was rippling down the wire, but silence. Eerie, weird silence. And then the silence was broken by the sound of a big engine rumbling, and the crunch of gravel as big tyres slowed and stopped, just behind me. The birds perched, still on the wires.

I turned, and the car was huge, big sweeping fenders, huge round headlights, multiple exhaust pipes bursting from the sides of the bonnet. The coach work was luxurious, black painted, the windows a narrow edge of glass around the car's body. This thing was luxury on wheels, old wheels, so old luxury. The rear door swung open. "Get in sir, get in." The driver's voice through the window, smoothly rolling down, "I've been told to get you there in time."

A strange turn of phrase, but given my musings, quite the logical one to hear. Time was the key to all of this, so when a fucking big machine turns up (not quite as big as the train, but hey!), even a stupid like me is going to go along for the ride. Coz this thing is either going to go forwards or backwards, but the one thing that is certain is that it won't stay in the same spot. And with more birds on the wires alongside the long straight road than I'd ever seen, well, there had to be a tad more power right here and now than any sane man would know what to do with. And following my times with Grace, I knew that I was mad, not sane, and she for sure was from no sane place that I knew of. So, madness, then.

Inside the car the rear seat was empty. A glass partition separated me from the driver, and thin veils of cloth separated the windows from the world. The rear seat was big, comfortable, a carafe of red wine on a table folding down from the back of the driver's bench seat, one long stemmed wine glass. What the fuck, might as well have a drink, since someone else was clearly in control here, and I was just going along for the ride. With a growl the powerful engine accelerated, wheels spinning gravel and then gripping firm, and the big car moved smoothly down the road. On the wires above, the birds stood silent, watching as the vehicle sped between their sentry lines. 

And the big car drove on down the road, which went on straight, straight, moving towards the horizon through the front screen; and when I turned to look through the rear window, away from the horizon behind me. And the birds on the endless wires, endless numbers on both sides of the car, wires strung in great curving sweeps alongside the road. And into a long dark night, the car drove on. Lulled by the steady rocking of the car on its big wheels, and the dull rumble of the wheels on the road, I drowsed. When I awoke, the car was still thundering on. 

"Nearly there, sir, we're just about there. We've made good time." The chauffeur called through the dividing screen. And I noticed we were travelling alongside a black lake, the road sweeping around the shore. The car lurched to a stop, wheels skidding on gravel. The driver's door clunked open, and the driver then opened the rear door, swinging back smoothly on oiled hinges. Across the driveway, the grand doors of a big room stood open. Above the door, an illuminated sign announced 'The Peacock Club'. 

Around me other cars were arriving, old vintage jobs, all big spoked wheels, flared mudguards and running boards, upright wind shields and big exposed radiators. And the drivers and passengers, all dressed in jazz era flapper clothes; short bobbed hair on the women, slick backed hair on the gents. Gatsby era.... back when Grace was still a twenty year old girl. Back when Grace was still alive, back before the birds?

I joined the crowd throbbing into the club, which seemed to be a big speakeasy, where I assumed the cops looked the other way and the moonshine booze flowed, just as smooth as you like, and the jazz was black and funky, and the women broads, just as smooth as you like, legs just as long as you like. Hot damn, I could get used to this! And in front of me, an elegant woman, older than all the others in the room, but silver haired, proud and poised, beautifully dressed in a peacock green dress, feathers belted around her waist, a feather boa around her neck. "Greetings, I've been expecting you, it's that time again." Well, I don't know who the fuck she is, but she clearly knows me.

"I'm Alexandra, it's been a long time since last we met, so let's go upstairs for old time's sake." And she swayed her magnificent hips, tightly sheathed in the iridescent shining silk or velvet dress (the light playing on the cloth was like liquid so I couldn't tell), swayed those luscious hips ahead of me as she slowly walked up a long flight of stairs, curving around to galleries above. And below, a big jazz combo was playing, saxes and trumpets blasting, a simple old drum kit punching the complicated beat. Jesus, she was old enough to be my grandmother, but this woman was pure class. Not my family then, the image of my own mother's lewd black snatch and Grace's flowing red hair flashed before my eyes.

"Join me for a drink, dear boy, I've time before I go on stage. It will be nice to take a refreshment before I perform. Tonight's a special night, I'm singing with my daughter for the first time." And she draped her body onto a long couch, the cloth of her dress riding up her long legs. Here was proof that some women get so much better with age. I needed to be on my game here, this Alexandra sure as hell knew what she wanted. And hot damn, I was hoping she was wanting me. There sure seemed like a seduction going on here, but I had a feeling it wasn't me taking charge.

"Sit here by me, dear boy, let me see how you've grown." I had no idea what she meant - she kept talking as if she knew me. And as if I had been gone for many years. What the fuck? But her long fingers ran down my arm and forthrightly straight across my crotch. Whoa, she really did know what she wanted! I was running to keep up - I really do need to lift my game, else I'm going to be eaten alive. So I lingered my own fingers on her long elegant leg, tentatively teasing the cloth up her thigh.

"Ah, so you've still got that wicked touch, that I loved so much."

"I like to think so," I replied, as smoothly as I could muster, but my dumb brain was getting more and more confused by what she was saying, but not wanting to show that I did not know what she was talking about. Maybe actions then, better than words. Encouraged by her memories of me (even if I had no memories of her), and encouraged that her legs were sliding a little further apart under my trailing fingers, I decided to carry on until she either told me to stop, or told me what to do - if I was losing my way....

She was draped elegantly on the couch, both long legs now across my lap, her body leaning against mine. Her hair was long and silver, a skein of fine silk falling across her neck and shoulders, a silken fall like water. The skin on her face and neck was incredibly soft and smooth, only a few tell tale wrinkles of her age to be seen. At the corners of her eyes were crow's feet of wisdom, a natural, experienced smile. Her eyelids, heavy, deep green eyes flecked with gold. She sighed as I brushed my breath against her neck, and I lifted the soft fall of her hair away. 

Her ear lobes, each adorned with single diamond studs, were delectable to nibble, and again a soft sigh of delight eased from her lips. Red carmine lips, her small white teeth, a lazy, langorous smile. She was not in a hurry so I took my time. My fingers again stroked her neck, again I nibbled her lobes, and she gave me her warm throat, a pulse steady and gentle beating in a blued trail under her skin.

Our faces turned to each other and our lips met, gentle tongues and slow, her hands now caressing the back of my head, slow, running her fingers through my hair, slow. My pulse was quickening with the slowness of her touch. Clearly, Alexandra had been around long enough to know when langour and waiting were best, to be in no hurry to end this time. An older woman's patience, more knowing than my younger man's haste, an older woman's comfortable beauty slowly presenting itself for a younger man's delectation. "My dear boy," she sighed, "my dear forgetful boy." There it was again, her knowing and me not knowing. "Shall we take ourselves up to my room?"

And she stirred from the couch and slowly walked ahead of me across the room to a narrow set of stairs climbing to another level. Below us, the band became background accompaniment, sweet music for our sweet song. Above us, the flight of stairs. She walked slowly up them, hips swaying, one step at a time. I followed a few steps behind, so that the glorious swell of her backside was right in front of my eyes. I couldn't resist placing my hands on her waist and it was as if she was pulling me up those stairs. And I trailed my hand down her long thigh, lingering on her stocking clad leg as it tightened on each step. Her movements were slow and sensuous: Alexandra had plenty of time and was savouring it.

As she reached the top of the stairs she threw off her feathered belt and the boa around her neck, and swung her silver hair in my face, laughing. Alexandra pulled me by the hand into her room, luxurious bed heaped with pillows, wide doors looking on to a balcony. The drapes were pulled wide, the moon light spilling into the room. I was reminded of the long silver body of Grace, sheened under similar moonlight in the clock tower. But Alexandra seemed to have more sophistication, more elegance, her age and experience shining. And then she kissed me hard on the lips, "my dear young man, let's see what we've got, let's see what we've become."

Her beautiful fingers flickered at the buttons on my shirt, easily sliding the buttons through their slits. She peeled the shirt down my arms and dropped it to the floor, and with a slow curve of her body, it was as if she bowed down in front of me, hand caressing my chest, fingers tugging at my nipples. And then she was crouching on the floor in front of me, her long green dress falling between her legs, her elegant hands undoing buckles, belts and buttons, then sliding my pants from my legs. 

She gently cupped my thickening cock in the palm of one hand, the other taking the weight of my balls. And she gazed upon the centre of me for some long seconds, motionless, the only movement in the room the slow hardening of my shaft and the slow tightening of my testes. And then with a small nod of her head, as if some inspection had been done, and some decision made, or some memory confirmed, she touched her lips to my rising shaft, just gently, there on the hot skin in the middle of my prick. Her fingers on my ball sac gave a gentle squeeze there, and she gracefully rose to her feet, hand still holding my shaft. And she led me, this Alexandra, she lead me by the cock to the bed. "Mine, always mine, my flesh and my blood, my boy."

And I was seduced. Alexandra was older and sophisticated, and I was, quite simply, hers. She lay gracefully on the bed, her long green dress falling loose about her body, a simple belt about her waist. I lay naked beside her, her hand softly holding, not stroking, just holding, my now hard penis. I undid the three buttons over her breasts, and gently peeled the cloth from her back. Her skin was pale, still smooth, softer than I would have expected given her age. Her breasts were sheathed in a simple cloth band, clipped at the back, which I unclicked. Her breasts were pale, slight, but with puffed and tightening nipples.

"God, you've still got the breasts of an eighteen year old, they're so firm and tight." I was spellbound by the youthfulness of her delicious body.

"Yes, there is strange blood in my family, it keeps us young," she replied, her breath starting to quicken as I lowered my hot mouth to those plump nipples and sucked them into my mouth, my tongue swirling on their tightness. Alexandra arched her back with the pleasure of it, and my hands went to her waist and lifted her body up and against my chest, her arms falling away as if in a swoon.

"Hold me, my dearest boy, hold me hard and tight, hold me tonight - for it will be our last time, this time." I could not make sense of what she was saying - we had only just met, hadn't we? But again there were her strange references to time, and again, as if she had known me before.

I was confused, "do you know me, how do you know me?"

"Oh yes, I certainly know you, my dearest boy, I really do know you." But she pulled my head to hers and kissed me hard, her tongue piercing my lips, her hand gripping my prick hard, and then a long caress. She was too mysterious, too knowing of what I didn't know. But what I did know was that she had known me and obviously liked me at some time in her past - and I was getting a strange feeling that her past was my future - and that the liking might have been down to my ability to pleasure her. Because she certainly wasn't saying no to my attention. Talking was too much and thinking was too hard, so it was up to my tongue and lips, hands and cock.

And again her back arched and her nipples stood proud, my tongue circling those tight buds and flicking them, my teeth nipping. Her torso was slender, thin even, the ribs to be counted, her belly hollowed. She wore a garter belt on her hips, slender straps black to her stockings, the black lines a contrast to her pale skin. My fingers ran to the top of her silk knickers, which were ivory coloured with tiny buttons down the sides. Her belly shivered with the ripple of my hands and her hands were in my hair, urging my head down to her centre. Gently, I eased her green silk dress away from her body and it became a split of cloth like the wings of some brilliant butterfly, her pale body long and beautiful. My fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons of the silken cloth hiding the centre of her, and then her mound was there for my eyes, her hair fine and silvery blonde, delicate curls at the base of her belly.

She shifted to her side, one leg folding up as my pillow. And I lay my head on her thigh and gazed upon her sex, her outer lips plump and slightly wrinkled, her inner lips like a small fan of wings, her fine soft hair with a few drops of dew, glistening. And just at the top of her thigh was a small blaze of deep purple and brown, a birthmark maybe the diameter of a ten cent piece. I traced my fingers over it, and it was just as smooth as the rest of her skin, ever so slightly raised, a tiny ridge under my finger. I ran my fingers along the smooth glide of her cunt lips, her sweet cunny, and her moisture was slick and sweet. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, I opened her lips to reveal the red trace of her inner flesh, and with a hot breath my mouth was upon those wet lips, my tongue to her centre. My fingers traced to her rising clit, purple-red and standing high in the folds of her sex.

I felt Alexandra shudder with my touch on her, and then felt her hands pull to my cock, and then her lips and hot mouth circled the hot head of me, sucking my prick into her mouth. Our mouths worked our sexes, our tongues swirling over cock slits and cunt lips, my mouth suckling and pulling on her clit and wetness, her mouth pulling and sucking on my prick and hardness. We urged each other up to a peak and then backed away, delaying our ecstasy for her pleasure of me and my pleasure of her. The scent of her was on my lips and tongue, the taste of her in my mouth, the long look of her a delight to my eyes, those long legs opening wide to let me go right to the centre of her. 

And my arms were around her now, my hands kneading the tight cheeks of her ass and pulling her hot cunt onto my face, my tongue deep into her and then sliding slick and wet from her clit, over those hot blood filled lips to the bud of her asshole. And she pushed onto my face, her juices slick and smooth in my mouth, and I urged Alexandra to the peak of her climb, her hot coming a glory of pleasure as I opened my mouth wide to her wet cunt and breathed my hot breath into her, and she bucked, her open sex a silent scream of pleasure, and with a long moan she came onto my mouth, shuddering, her body bucking. Her mouth came away from my prick and cried out with her pleasure, her hands grappling the sheets with soft grabs at nothingness, just grasping at the fullness of her pleasure.

And when she had descended from her high ecstatic place, she pressed me onto my back. "My turn, my lovely boy, my turn," her eyes gleaming as she sat astride my hardness, her hot wet cunt a clasp on my long prick. She sat upon me, gently rocking back and forth, my cock flat to my belly, her thighs gripping mine. I reached up to her shallow breasts, my palms cupping the hardness of her nipples, squeezing them up against her body. Alexandra gazed down on me, a strange softness in her eyes as if she were drinking me in, as if she couldn't sate herself with the look of me. And then she flicked her long fall of silken silver hair, once and then twice, as if again a decision was reached and a memory made or a memory found.

And she stroked her hands down her slender ribbed frame, caressing her own breasts as her hands flowed past, and with a look of intense concentration she ran her fingers to her cunt lips and spread them. She lifted her sex away from my cock and balls, and took my prick Into one slender fingered hand, and eased her hot wetness onto my shaft. I lay motionless beneath her, focused only on the vision of my long redness easing into her silver edged heat as she sat upon me, inch by glorious inch. 

"Ah, boy, you fill me long and good, long and hard, fill my cunt, take my cunt," and she sunk her full weight down onto me, her body trembling with the slowness of it. Alexandra eased herself onto me, one hand taking her weight on my chest, her other hand cupping a breast. Slowly she began to ride me, her cunt like a hand gripping my pulsing shaft, her breath faster and more ragged, a red blaze building up on her chest and throat with her hot pleasure. My hands could not settle, stroking and squeezing from breasts to ass, sneaking around the slight crack at the base of her spine, my finger pulsing into the rose bud of her ass hole. She gripped me there, too, her body greedily pulling my smaller finger shaft into the depths of her self. So we fucked long and slow, this divine Alexandra, this perfect woman with experience beyond my years. 




In The Library Ch. 09



Her control of me was complete - whenever she felt my crisis quicken she would stop, her gripping cunt tight upon my shaft and she would be poised, motionless. And I would gasp in my breath, holding back my coming, but building it up from deeper inside me, but stopping it bursting. There were no words between us, just a simple,primal, slow, meandering pleasure. And when I felt that I could hold back no longer, she lay her torso to my chest, her nipples tight hardness to my own stiff points, and she straightened her long legs along my own, and she lay her weight upon me, her body covering mine, her tight cunt gripping my cock deep within her. And we lay motionless, our erratic breathing falling into time with each other's. And our mouths met, tongues now the centre of our heat, our lips delicate butterflies on each other's face, flickering eyelashes on cheeks, slow hot breath on our necks.

Time slowed, and we lay together, easing ourselves into each other with fullness and a slow fucking, our limbs entwining. And I cradled her in my arms, my strong arms around her delicate back. And she moved onto her side, my shaft still sheathed in her heat, her hands caressing my chest and face. Alexandra's green eyes gazed on my face, steadily, knowing something about me that I did not know about her, that I did not know about myself. And then she brought both her legs up so that she lay cradled in my arms, her legs pulled up to her chest, so that she lay pinioned by my cock. Our final exquisite, slow urgency was upon us both now, my balls full and throbbing, her cunt hungry and grasping. And our coming together was a slow silence, all words and sounds gone, just our rising together to a white light filled place, sensual liberation, a long sigh from her as she orgasmed hard on me, her body rippling with the waves of it; and a long spill from my centre as I came deep within her, my cock pulsing with the long spurting spilling release of me.

We lay, her body small in my arms, my body wrapped around hers. We lay gently together, and I knew that something important had happened, even if I didn't know precisely what it was. "Thank you, dear boy, you were so good for me as you were always so good for me. But no more for me, we are done now, we are done."

Fuck, there it was again, her knowledge of something I didn't know. "Can you explain, can you say what you mean?" I pleaded, but she put her finger to my lips, sshhh, don't ask. Alexandra gave me one last look, of longing, of loss, of forgiveness, I didn't know what the look was made of, but something deeper than I could wrap my head around, that was for sure. And she unpealed herself from me, my cock softening from her wetness, her silver pelt sliding from my eyes, her long limbs lean and long, her delectable body sliding into my memory. And she gave me one long, last, heartfelt kiss before she turned away.

"Sweet boy, you were always mine, always mine, but I didn't know, not then, not like I know now. My own sweet boy." Ah no, not that endearment, surely not, surely not B' s words? God no. My head spun with the meshing of my different times - was it coincidence that Alexandra used the same words as my dear B - but B was so far into Alexandra's future, surely there couldn't be a link. Could there? And what didn't Alexandra know then, whenever the fuck 'then' was?

This was too complicated for me. Shit, by comparison the conundrum of Grace was simple - I knew that she was powerful, I knew that she was dead and haunting me back and forth in time, I knew that somehow she thought she was my sister. But that made no sense. And Alexandra made even less sense. I knew that the birds had powered me back in time, their presence on the power lines alongside that impossibly straight road, so Grace was still involved in this, somehow. But who was Alexandra?

"Dear boy, let's go down, it's nearly time for me to perform, so let's just go downstairs now, our time here is over." And she swathed her glorious body in her green silk dress and made her way down the narrow steps. I stumbled into my clothes, dazed and confused, and followed her down. When I got to the lower room, she ushered me out the door. "I need to change, dear boy, my stage costume, you see."

So I went on down to the room below, and found myself a table. "Drinks on the house, sir, Madame's orders. Please make yourself comfortable. The show starts in ten minutes, it's special tonight, sir, we've all been looking forward to it." So the chauffeur is moonlighting as the drinks waiter? I gave up - I didn't have a fucking clue what was going on now.

But the stage was being cleared, and the band was prepping for a pair of vocalists, two microphones out the front, only the piano player, drummer and upright bass player remaining on stage. "Ladies and gentleman, please welcome the Diva of the new jazz age, Alexandra...." And with a round of applause, she sashayed onto the stage, those hips that thirty minutes before had ridden me, swinging, as she launched into an old torch song. I smiled as I realised that for me it was an old jazz classic, but for this crowd it was the latest thing. Her voice was smokey, her delivery world weary, just perfect for the material.

Alexandra sang another four or five songs, before stopping to announce, "tonight is a special occasion for me. I've just spent some time with a dear boy, an old friend, and one long missed. And now I would like to introduce my daughter, for her first time on stage...please welcome my dearest girl...."

And I sat there, motionless, my brain fevered and spinning, as I desperately tried to process what I had just heard and who I was seeing. Because there on the stage, her curves covered in black and white, her hourglass figure with breasts spilling from her bodice, was the girl I had first seen in the library the day the haunting started. But this girl was alive, her hair bobbed and black, her lips red, her cheeks flushed with excitement. 

Grace, before she died.



In The Library Ch. 10



"Alexandra, we have to do this, to save our family's name from shame. You will go to England and my sister will look after you. And when it's all done, you can come back home."

Alexandra's father, a tall, well dressed man, looked sternly down on his wayward daughter. While he loved his daughter as only a father can love his daughter, he was a man of principles and standing in his community. It was important for a family to be respectable, but his nineteen year old daughter had not been responsible, and now the consequences had to be managed. There had been a discreet exchange of letters with his sister on the other side of the Atlantic, language veiled and nothing actually written in words, but the meaning quite apparent. And it was agreed. Alexandra and her maid Odette would sail for England on the next available steamer. Aunt Catherine would look after the girl, the necessary time would pass, the necessary arrangements would be made, and Alexandra could then return to the respectable home. The family name would be secure, and a worthy hand in marriage would be inevitable. The girl was, after all, the heiress to a very substantial fortune. There was a lot of money to be made in railroads, in the late nineteenth century.

So Alexandra and Odette were bundled aboard the RMS Umbria, the fastest Cunard steamer of the day, their travelling trunks stacked high on the trolleys, cabin boys eager to see more of these lovely girls. For Alexandra was exquisite. Her long raven black hair curled to her waist, her long crinoline dress nipped in tight at her waist, and every now and then the delectable sight of her little boots flashed illicitly below the sumptuous velvet skirts. The girl wore the height of fashion, just as she had seen in the engraved advertisements she found in the best newspapers and journals. Her brilliant green eyes flashed from her pale heart-shaped face, her nose was lovely with a little up-turned tip, her little ear lobes delicate. Her full lips were ripe, like strawberries just perfect for eating, her small white teeth hiding a delicate tongue. She was a high spirited girl, and no wonder her father had to go to extreme measures to manage the consequences of her liveliness. Alexandra already had a long list of potential suitors, young men from established and respectable families. But they would now have to wait.

And her maid Odette was equally hearty and wickedly alive. One or two years older than Alexandra, she had been engaged by the family from an early age, and over time had earned the trust of Alexandra's mother and was well regarded by the butler, who had the ultimate say when it came to the household staff. Odette was a tall girl, with thick blonde hair she kept bundled up in a cap. Her full breasts always filled the blouses and black dresses she wore as a respectable servant, and the cabin boys admired her profile, with a bustle well supported by her tall frame. Sometimes, the boys could even see the forbidden shape of a long thigh outlined in the thick black cloth of her dress! But Odette was a dependable girl who loved her young mistress dearly. She kept a locket with a photograph of the beautiful Alexandra on a gold chain that was always about her neck, the warm metal always safe between the cleft of her hidden but voluptuous breasts.

The passage would be about eight days, and the two girls could enjoy the promenade deck and the first class tea rooms. The rooms were a special treat for Odette, since she would not normally be allowed to take tea there because she was a servant girl, even if her service was with such an influential family. But she flirted with the waiters and threw her head back with laughter, and was vibrant and alive. Alexandra was quieter, conscious that she must behave, and well aware that the ship's captain would report any unladylike activity back to her father. She had already behaved badly, and now the consequences were upon her. Still, she would make the most of the voyage, and keep herself out of mischief. 

"Odette, I'm tired of taking tea every afternoon, and if I have to be polite at the Captain's table one more time, I declare I shall go mad, quite mad. We must go to the boiler room, I suppose those stokers must have very fine muscles, lifting all that coal every day." The girl was bored, quoits had completely lost their interest for her, and the reverend's wife was just too proper. Who could do that much lace work, really!

"Mistress, you mustn't think of adventures like that, what would your father think?"

"Oh, bother my father, we mustn't tell him, must we? Oh I wish this ship would just finish with this horrible ocean, I'm so tired of waves every day. I so want to see an iceberg." When Alexandra got like this, all bored, sulky and silly, Odette knew the best thing was to jolly her out of the mood. It usually didn't take long, the maid just had to find a distraction.

"Mistress, look there, up past the mast, it's a huge white bird flying beside the ship." Sure enough, the two girls stared spellbound as the giant albatross passed overhead, its shadow flitting over their faces.

"What did that poet write about the albatross?" mused Alexandra, her mind casting back to old books in her father's library. "Wasn't the mariner cursed, and had to wear the dead bird slung about his neck?"

Odette shivered with the horrible image. "Mistress, don't, you're frightening me."

"Oh, you silly thing, it was only a poem, it wasn't real!" Alexandra delighted in stories like this, and would shiver in divine terror as she read the rich words and imagined the dark nights and terrible storms. Just then the ship rocked, and the wind rattled the rigging on the masts above their heads, and some large spots of rain splattered to the deck. On the horizon, the clouds were dark. A storm was coming.

"Come Odette, we must get back to our cabin, I really must rest before dinner tonight."

"Dear Mistress, are you well? You are so pale, sometimes." The maid was always sensitive to Alexandra's shifting moods, especially these last few months since the girl's courses had stopped.

"I'm cold, I must get warm." Alexandra shivered, but must avoid a chill at all costs. Odette hurried ahead to unlock the cabin door and to call for the steward.

Half an hour later, the girl was bundled up in her nightdress in the spacious bed in the first class cabin, and the steward had brought some tea and warm cake. Outside, the squalls of rain battered the windows, but the ship had a strange smoothness to its movement. The wide ocean was smooth, and the ship slowly rocked with a gentle sway, its wake streaming luminescent glitters astern.

"Odette, my darling, I'm still cold, come warm me up." This was an occasional and special time for the maid, those times her mistress wanted the comfort of a warm body in her bed. The girls had often slept curled tight around each other, since they were very young. As they both reached young womanhood, it had become much rarer, as if they both were becoming aware of the changes in their bodies. And since Alexandra's disgrace, there had been a new distance between them. But now, Odette knew the slender slight girl needed the warmth of her bigger longer limbs about her, Odette's warm belly against Alexandra's thinner back.

So the tall maid unbuttoned the long line of black buttons down the length of her dress, and shucked the heavy black garment to the floor. Her bloomers reached from her waist to her knees, curlicues of lace embroidering the edges of the white cotton garment, and the fine blonde down on her lower limbs catching the gas light from the cabin illuminations. She kept on her calico shift over the top half of her body, her full breasts swaying beneath the cloth. The dark blonde hair of her armpits showed long and curled each time she raised her arms to pull hairclips from her glorious mane of tumbling, golden hair, which fell long and waved to her waist. Her beautiful hair, which was her pride and joy, swirled about her torso as she turned to the bed.

And Alexandra gazed upon her maid with a new glint in her green eyes, as if she was seeing this pre-Raphaelite vision for the first time, her hair curled and golden. But Alexandra turned her back to the other girl, who climbed into the bed and spooned her young mistress as she had always done before; her longer body and limbs wrapping warm around the smaller woman, her arms making a pillow for Alexandra's sweet face, the heat of her belly and breasts quickly warming the slender back. And they lay warming together.

Odette's gentle hands slowly, tentatively, started to move and flow over the nightdress covering Alexandra's body, waiting for a sign to stop, or a sign to go on. Alexandra moaned slightly, and the maid was encouraged, a new bravery upon her. She did not know what strange mood was in her, but did know that the beautiful body wrapped in her arms was perhaps ripe for some new sensations. Odette knew what had befallen her young mistress, and her hands slowly caressed Alexandra's slightly swelling tummy, a new roundness she had not seen before. "Mistress, what is it like, can you feel anything inside?"

"No, my darling, it is too soon, but I am thickening in my belly, and my breasts ache sometimes."

"Oh mistress, may I feel your fullness, I would love that so," and the maid, heartened by Alexandra's response, crept her hands inside the folds of the nightdress, and gently cupped a swelling breast in her warm hand. And the slender girl pressed her back and bottom against the tall girl behind her, and hands and fingers came to the buttons of the gown and one by one, they were undone.

Alexandra's throat and chest became flushed and pink as a new heat came upon her, and her nipples stiffened into firm peaks, her sweet bare breasts arching and aching into the maid's hands. "Hold them tight, press them firm, that eases the ache," she begged.

Odette needed no second word. Her hands flowed over the breasts and belly and slender thighs of her delicate mistress, her long fingers playing with the other girl's nipples, and pressing into the small navel on the gently rounded belly. Her face was in the dark hair of the aroused young woman, and her lips were upon Alexandra's neck and throat, hot breath and endearments sighing into her ear. 

Odette felt a hot heat in her sex and her own breasts peaked and tightened, a rough rub from the seam of the calico shift. But the smaller woman's flesh was bare and hot, silken smooth under her hands and trembling fingers, and the room filled with their sighs. They shared wet kisses and delicate tongues pressed from red lips to taste the other's sweet mouth. Alexandra stretched her arms above her head, and the dark hair curled in the pits was like a small pubis, a small dark furry patch with a musky smell. Odette cupped her lips over the dark nest of hair and inhaled the deep scent into her open mouth, sweet odour and darkness, hot taste on her tongue.

Alexandra took the hand of her serving wench and placed it onto the mound at the base of her swelling belly, and pressed it hard to her flesh. She pulled her left leg up to her torso, thus giving the curve of her taught ass cheek to the golden haired girl, who lost no time in running her other hand down the back of the thin thigh and back up to the hot cleft hidden there. 

"Ah, girl, touch me, touch me, touch me," she almost sang with her pleasure as Odette's wicked fingers began to caress her sweetening lips, her dark hair thick in the cleft at the top of her legs, a thick dark trail up to the bud of her ass. And she arched her back up to the strong fingers, now persistent with their probes and pinches, the nub of her maid's thumb pressing to the hot hole of her ass, a slow delicious pressure on that musky place. 

And then Alexandra lay on her belly, slender legs an open Y straight on the bed; and the fuller girl sat up to remove her shift and her big breasts swung low, and the wench then lay upon her mistress's back, the hot comforting weight of her near hiding the smaller body. And an observer at the cabin window (the sunlight breaking through the now clearing storm the only watcher) would have seen the long ripe body of Odette, her golden hair like a halo about their flesh, cover over and protect the slighter black haired girl, and their limbs entwined.

And they lay still for some minutes, their hastened breath slowing to steady deep sighs, Odette's hot breasts and plump nipples pressed to the young woman's back, her strong firm thighs covering the younger woman's legs. And they lay for some minutes, before the mistress reared up her head and pulled her long black tresses free from the entangling sheets, and twisted herself under the full breasted girl, until she lay on her back, Odette long and full on top of her. Their tongues met and thrust into mouths, plump succulent lips pulled between teeth, and a slower hot rhythm set up between them, sharing the same breath, in and out, in and out. 

Alexandra's fine small hands wrapped into the golden tresses falling about her face and clutched her servant girl hard to her, equals now, and heating in their lust and always hot in their love for each other. Their hands struggled in the tight place between their writhing bodies, until Alexandra cried out in frustration, "sit up, sit up, you baddest thing, let us touch our secret places together, our sweet cunnies together."

And the two women sat upon the bed, their long black silken hair and tumbling gold hair a cape around themselves, and each spread their legs and pressed their aching sweet centres to the other. As Odette opened the other woman's legs to place their sexes together, her fingers traced a curious small birth mark at the top of Alexandra's thigh, a small blaze of brown and red marking her flesh. "Mistress, what a strange mark that is, I wonder what it is?"

"I don't know my darling, perhaps it is so the devil will know me. It has always been there and I don't think of it much. Only special people will ever see it."

"Oh, mistress, don't speak of the devil, that frightens me."

"You silly thing, come here to me, your dark cunny is the devil's work I think, you wicked thing." Alexandra laughed her maid's fears away - her body was that of a golden angel, not that of a devil, and Alexandra was enthralled with it.

And their two oh so different bodies, what a delight for each other's eyes! Odette's full, sumptuous breasts swaying on her long torso, plumping full nipples big and brown, centres long and hard like the end of a finger. Alexandra's smaller breasts with pointed smaller nipples peaking and upright, her breasts high on her chest, her belly swelling and rounded, a long black trail of fine hair threading down from her rounded navel to the thick pubic triangle, curls of dark hair hiding her darkening lips. Odette's hair was finer, a deep blonde, but lush and long. Her plump lips were spreading open, long folds of rich purple red flesh, a glistening of dew clinging to the curling hair. Her red budding clit showed like an opening pearl, rising from the folds at the base of her belly.

The women pressed their aching sexes full and wet together, their filling lips kissing just as their tongues and lips were joined in breath, their mouths bruising and teeth biting. Their hands flowed upon each other, now palming and pushing on breasts, fingers pulling on nipples; now sweeping down long thighs and pulling their hot cunts to each other's wettest, slickest places; fingers now twirling about the rising red purple buds, urging each other higher and wetter, their sighs and moans lost in their throats. The heat was upon both of them now, a climbing race to peak first, but to delay that peak to be last. Neither wanted to win the race, but each wanted to take the other in a long, swooning, fainting ecstasy such as neither had known before, that both wanted to last forever. 

And the cabin filled with the hot scent of sex in the air, and the sound of moans and sighs filled the room, and the wet slick sliding sound of their swelling cunnies surrendered them to a timelessness, a hopelessness, a small big black blonde womanliness, dark haired, blonde haired, small breasted full breasted peaked and tightened nipples, thrusted tongues and green closing eyes and blue closing eyes and heat and hotness, tiny white teeth nipping, long fingers twisting. Momentarily, each beautiful girl was alone in her peaking edge, each alone and grasping and gasping and waiting to tumble and slide over the lip of the fall, each reaching one hand high into the air. 

And their open fingers found each other's hand, and each ecstatic woman gripped and clenched and held tight the other. And their joined hands, holding furiously tight together, their two joined hands became suspended in space and time and became the fulcrum of their passion; and it was if their hands were nailed to the air and unmoveable, and their bodies flowed and rippled and hung suspended in that moment, and they collapsed into the coming of the other, waves of orgasm sweeping over them. But their clutching hands, fingers holding tight as their legs had held their sexes tight together, their clutching hands remained motionless, their bodies collapsing to the bed together, their limbs entwined.

And then slowly, as if their hands had been nailed to the air but the weight of their flesh was taking over from the airiness of their ethereal crucifixion and was pulling the pinions loose, slowly their hands dropped to the pillows above their heads. And their black and gold silken and tumbling tresses were twisted together like the wings of some faery angel about them, spreading about their newly awakened bodies. 

"Ah, my Angel, my dearest mistress, I have loved thee forever and always will."

"Oh, my sweet girl, my sweet, sweet girl, I think you will, but my darling, be careful what you promise. Forever is such a long time, could you bear it that long?" Alexandra's deep, dark, green eyes gazed fondly on the darling face of her dear maid, some distant and deep awareness glimmering just beyond reach. "My sweet girl, I think I have a long way to travel, a long way still to go, and a lot of time will pass before I am done." And her beautiful deep eyes brimmed with a glisten of tears, unshed now. 

But she would weep.



In The Library Ch. 11



The coach wheels crunched on the gravel path, and the four horses, sweat sheening their glossy flanks, came to a skittering halt. The coachman descended from his high seat and flipped the foot step down, and twisted the latch open. Inside, the two young women were eager to see their new home in England. 

Their voyage across the Atlantic had gone smoothly and, after the afternoon of the storm when they had shared a sensual awakening together, they had delighted in each others' arms each night. The ship had docked at Liverpool, where they had been met by Aunt Catherine's coach and four. The coachman was a jovial fellow who had quickly collected their trunks and, with the assistance of some eager cabin boys, stowed them on top of the coach. Aunt Catherine's country residence was some two hours from the docks, so it was not necessary to make arrangements for the train.

Alexandra climbed down first, her delicate boots light on the step, her long dark hair flowing. Head down at first, so she would not trip, she raised her head to gaze upon her aunt standing on the steps, and she froze in astonishment. For she gazed on the older woman as if she was looking into a mirror of her future self. The family resemblance, for this was her father's sister, was abundantly clear. There could be no doubt that the two women were of the same blood. Perhaps the only difference was Catherine's rigid demeanour and firm gaze, a serious, perhaps strict woman, somewhere in her late thirties. Catherine was the younger sister to Alexandra's father and the blood line was strong.

With a wry smile, she greeted her niece, "dearest girl, welcome to my home, it will be yours for this next year." About her feet a magnificent, exotic cat circled, weaving about her skirts, its tail held high and rigid. The animal was bigger than any domestic cat, and was marked something like a leopard. "This is Octavius, for he used one of his lives coming to this country. He is my loyal cerval, and is most precious to me." The beast warily circled Alexandra and reached out one delicate paw and flicked at the swirl of her skirt. Apparently satisfied, the cat then lost interest in the girl, and sat by his mistress' feet, grooming his long front legs with a bright red tongue.

Behind Alexandra, her golden haired maid descended from the coach and curtsied to the older woman. "Aunt Catherine, this is my maid, Odette, as faithful a girl as I could ever wish," Alexandra was keen that her sweet maid would be favourably received.

"Come forward, girl, let me see you." But before the maid could move, the cerval flashed forward and spiralled around her legs, his tail quivering, a loud purr rumbling in his throat. "My goodness, I would not have expected that. Octavius is usually most uninterested in strangers, and strange girls least of all. How interesting!" And there was an inquisitive look on Catherine's face, as if she was demanding of her cat, what do you do, animal?

Flustered, Odette took a step forward, and curtsied once more, "Madame, I am at your service."

"No doubt girl, no doubt you will be." And Catherine looked upon the tall maid with a pensive eye. "But come, both of you, you must be totally exhausted. I will have my maids attend you. Odette, while you are here, you will be as my niece. My girls will attend you, as they do attend your mistress."

"Oh, your ladyship, that is too great an honour, I am your servant." 

"Hush girl, I am mistress of this house, you will do as I wish. Think no more of it." Odette did not know what to think - this intense woman was as beautiful as her dear Alexandra, but was far more knowing and worldly wise. And her cat! What was she to make of Octavius, who now led the party into the house? Her blue eyes huge, Odette followed the two women into the hall, this aunt and her niece, and the purring cat overseeing them all.

Alexandra and her maid quickly settled into a ritual in the big country house. Catherine was clearly a woman of wealth and taste, and made the two young women welcome. It was summer, and the days were long and warm; lush green grounds surrounded them. The ceremonial lake, Catherine proudly explained, had been designed and built by Capability Brown, the famous groundsman. The house was grand, two storeys high, big rooms with huge open fire places and sumptuous fittings. 

As the days passed and her belly swelled, Alexandra found that her days involved more sleep. When she rested, Odette could often be found in the gardens with Octavius the cerval cat, who had taken it upon himself to show her his favourite haunts. Many times the gardeners reported back to Catherine that the girl had been found asleep with the cat curled in her lap, or draped about her shoulders, a living, breathing, exotic and exquisitely soft fur.

Strangely, the cat was never seen after sundown, and the girls also noticed that Aunt Catherine often retired early; or spent time in the distant library wing. This was the one place in the house that Catherine had not shown them, and the two girls assumed that her collection of books must be very old and very precious, not to be the plaything of silly girls.

One evening, when the moon was high and full, Alexandra could not find Odette. The maid had become dreamier these last few weeks, and Alexandra was perplexed. "Aunt, have you seen Odette? I cannot find the girl anywhere!"

"Ah, perhaps it is time, now," her aunt cryptically replied, "perhaps you are ready. Come with me, girl." And the aunt took the niece's hand in her own; and the two women, who could have been younger and older sister, or daughter and mother, they were so alike; the two women went down a long corridor and up a spiral of steps. Alexandra realised that they must be in a place above the library. 

Catherine put a finger to her lips, hush, we must be quiet. And she led the younger woman to a small room with a pair of comfortable, high backed chairs placed side by side, overlooking a six sided bay of the library, windows on three sides, floor to ceiling bookshelves on opposite walls, and an opening to the main body of the room. The small gallery was screened from the room below by an intricately carved lattice of wood, with small windows that could be slid aside. It was a viewing gallery, where the occupants could be discreetly hidden from the room below.

And in the room below, Alexandra found her maid. With a gasp, and an astonished wide opening of her flashing green eyes, Alexandra took in the sight; sinking into one of the chairs, her aunt beside her with an intense gaze. Below them, her tall blonde maid lay strapped akimbo on an extraordinary device, face down, two ankles and one wrist tied, her untied hand reaching forward, fingers reaching, reaching. The device was like a big rocking horse, a padded saddle upon which Odette lay, her legs spread wide on similarly padded supports, her legs wide apart, and her luscious full ass pushed obscenely high and open, her arms stretched in front of her. Her glorious mane of blonde waved hair lay down her back like a rippled wave of liquid gold, highlights picking up the flicker of a log fire. Alexandra could see the device was fitted with a complex set of levers, so that any part of it could be raised or lowered to any height and deployed to any angle. It was an amazing contraption, the art of a master craftsman.

And the girl was blind-folded. The two watchers could hear her small whispers of pleasure and frustration, as her unrestrained hand reached out in front of her, fingers reaching, reaching as far as they could. She was moving her face about, as if she was scenting out some ephemeral vapour, some elemental scent, some pheromonal offering, some fantastic scentic trail wafting in front of her. Her tongue was flickering in and out between her full swollen lips, red like delicious strawberries, just ripe for sucking and biting upon.

And standing in front of her, just out of reach of her reaching, grasping fingers, there stood a beautiful young man, nude and slender. His skin was the colour of honey, his limbs finely muscled but slim, his chest and belly hairless except for a rich swirl of dark dark hair at the base of his belly, his nipples chocolate brown, tips tight and long. His face was that of an angel, high chiselled cheek bones, dark smouldering eyes gazing on the curves of the tautened, tightened, bound and bounteous girl before him. His hair was long and silken straight, falling to his waist, a tawny brown colour with ripples of light and dark glinting in the fire light. 

And his long cock lay thick and long and heavy along one thigh. His flesh was full but not yet erect, his balls heavy. And he stood so that his thick male flesh was no more than an inch from Odette's reaching fingers, tantalising her with his nearness and at the same teasing her with the distance. It was as if he knew the tortured maid could feel the air moving between his flesh and her fingers, his scent trailing to her tongue and her sensitive nose.

"But who is he, aunt?" whispered Alexandra, spellbound and entranced, "who is he, that tantalises my maid and must be driving her to madness?"

"But why, Alexandra, he is Octavius, as he comes to me at night, he is my beautiful cerval." And Catherine's eyes were held strong upon the beautiful, slender youth, her hand drifting like smoke to her throat, her fingers flickering to the buttons on her velvet blouse, edging her little hands to the top of her chest, now flushing red on her blue pale skin. Her lips were parted, her delicate tongue a tip of red between her white teeth.

"How can that be, aunt, how can an animal be a man?"

"I will explain, one day, my dear niece, but enough now to know that our family has strange blood, and strange blood attracts strangeness. But look, he has moved!"

And sure enough, the beautiful youth had crept forward that tiny inch, so that now Odette's reaching finger, that finger she desperately wished were longer, that finger could now touch the thickening flesh of his penis. His control was superb. He remained motionless, and the only movement in the library was the little stroke of the maid's extended finger as she moved its tip up and down the beautiful shaft, lingering her finger nail along the long vein that pulsed down the length of his cock, reaching down to lightly touch the swelling head which was pushing free of the foreskin. Odette's head turned to one side, as if she could hear the thickening flesh of the youth in front of her, as if there was some tiny push of sound, as if the air was compressing in on itself as his flesh thickened.

And in the gallery above, the tiny sound of a button sliding through a cloth hole was felt more than heard, so hypersensitive where the two women there. Alexandra could hear her own thighs slide together, as she clenched her legs tight to contain the heat of her wettening sex, an infinitely small sound under the silk of her dress. Her pretty tongue wettened her red lips, filling with arousal from the visual excitement of her maid's tantalising slowness. For she knew how the slow movements built up in her maid, from tiny delicate butterfly-like touches to a stronger lustful directness, and she knew that even bound, in the end her maid would be thrashing fiercely in her passion. And the youth was beautiful, haughty in his exotic physical splendour. It was no wonder that her aunt's fingers were now firm on her nipples, imagining no doubt what the youth did to her, and knowing the exquisite pleasure the maid would receive. 

Odette's single extended finger traced lightly down the thickening flesh of the honey coloured prick, which began to fill and straighten. As the splendid cock started to rise towards her, the girl slowly applied two and then three fingers to the hardening cock, her fingers circling in slow patterns on the hot flesh. And as the shaft began to stiffen and rise, Octavius slowly, ever so slowly, moved backwards so that the girl's fingers were once again teased by the disappearing presence of the exquisite shaft, until the only part she could reach was the very head of his cock, now fully clear from the foreskin and darkening and heating. And now the full cock was pointing straight from his tightly muscled groin, his thighs taut and tight, the hard muscles of his stomach firm and flat, the curl of hair dark around the base of his erection.

And ever so slowly the youth moved his body forward, a tiny fraction of movement at a time, so that as slow seconds lengthened into tantalising minutes, more of his prick was available to her stretching fingers. And his cock reached its full rigid hardness and began to rise from its horizontal pointing, the helmet rearing upwards, his body now closer to her hand, such that she could grip and cup his full hanging balls, her palm caressing the lightly haired globes, squeezing and gripping. 

And she began a slow movement of her hand from down around his tightening sac up to a sliding grip on his shaft and over the head, now red purple, filling with heat and blood. Odette's other hand, tightened and held by rope, could just reach the firm thigh of the youth, her fingers able to touch and feel the heat of his warm flesh, all finger tips now a centre of sensation, channeling his hot hard sexual energy to her body. And the girl was whimpering, sighing, her breath catching, every sense focusing and channeling to her fingers and the palm of her free hand.

In the gallery above the young woman and her aunt were both entranced by the slow vignette below them. They were too far away to really savour the slow exchange of tease and touch, and were more aware of the sounds of the golden haired maid as she sighed and whispered nonsense words, incoherent words, inhaling the breath of the living prick before her, musky and promising. And the maid was now thrusting her luscious ass as high as she could, to open up her cunt and her rear bud to the air, to get any sensation of breath and heat and cold on her hot centres. 

Juice was glinting on her luscious red lips, tangling in her thick blonde pubic curls. Her ass, firm and ripe and round, clenched as she found every way she could to give her ripe, beloved body sensation, every way she could when her wrists were tied and she could barely move. And her sensations were strong upon her, and she wanted more, lusted for more, agonised for more. But could only touch, she was so much under the control of the tantalus before her, his stealth and instinct that of a hunter, like the cat that was inside him.

By moving his lean body slowly nearer and further from her grappling hand and her restrained touching hand, Octavius had the girl completely under his control. He was controlling the pace of her whispers and moans, and by moving closer her hand was able to grip him tighter and more completely; and if she built him up to his peak too much or too fast, by moving away from her she could only touch his shaft with the very tips of her fingers, and he could slow his arousal. This slow torture drove the captured maid near mad with lust, and she cried out for him to take her mouth, to fuck her there. And like a cat with a bird, the youth decided he had tortured her enough this day.

And he took her free hand in his, and laced their fingers together, and moved towards Odette's red lips and flickering tongue. It was as if she could feel the heat of his hot shaft before her face, and her tongue showed red between her lips. He moved so that finally her tongue curled over the purple head of his cock, and she took the plum coloured head of him into her mouth, sucking deep on his proud flesh. 

But again he tormented the girl, first by denying her his cock and then letting her take him deeper into her mouth and throat. But over time her hot mouth and her clever swirling tongue got the better of him, and they were more equals now. For not only did Odette desire his thick prick, but so too did Octavius desire her lips around it and her tongue hot upon it.

And in the gallery above, Catherine's hands were now curling around her own small breasts, pressing her palms hard to their swell, and pinching her nipples between her fingers. Her other hand was deep in the folds of cloth at her lap, her fingers deep in her quim and flickering on the rising bud of her clit. Her wetness was slick and hot, for she knew the feline cleverness of her youth, she knew the tortured delight the maid was suffering, and she knew that her own coming would not be far off.

And beside her, her niece Alexandra was also in the throes of her own arousal. One hand was stroking the swell of her belly, and the fingers of her other hand were deep in her own cunt, slick juice lubricating her clit. And her eyes were hooded and closed with her own pleasure from her clever fingers; yet every desire was to see the ravished body of her dear maid, as she too knew her girl's torment would be excruciating but sweet.

The room filled with the sounds of their rising sexual heat, and Odette heard and recognised the sighs and sound of her mistress, and knew that she was discovered. "Oh mistress, forgive me," she panted, "he is too beautiful and I must taste him and touch him."

"Odette, my darling, I am here watching you, and my fingers are deep where yours have been, and you are so hot and bad, I wish I were you, oh my God, to be taken by him."

And beside her, Catherine called out, "fuck her now, Octavius, give the wench your seed, it is permitted. Take the girl!"

And the slim youth did as his mistress commanded. Taking Odette's head in both his hands and wrapping her golden tresses through her fingers, he held her head steady and began a deeper and steadier fuck into her mouth. Not so deep that she gagged, but deep enough that her teeth and tongue could nip and lick and bite the head of his shaft, and so her long fingers could wrap his shaft and cup his balls, now rising as she worked him up to his spend. And the girl applied every art she knew with her sweet tongue and sucking mouth, every instinct from deep within her, to grip and stroke and to rise the deep cream from far within him. And in response to her deep sucks, Octavius bent over her long curved back and caressed her beautiful curved flanks and down over the globes of her ripe ass. As his firm haunches began a rhythmic quiver, his long arms swept along the girl's voluptuous body, and his finger nubbed across the deep crack of her cheeks and pressed firm on her anus bud. The firm pressure there thrust Odette a tiny measure forward on to his prick, and she in turned nudged her finger to his asshole and she thrust there.

The quick thrust of her finger finally brought the youth to his peak, and as she twisted her finger in his hot hole, and cupped his tight balls in the palm of her hand, the long pulsing quickened from deep within him, and his cream erupted into her mouth, spilling from her lips. And she drank him down in long gulps, and as the youth pulsed, a deep throaty sound rose from his throat, the first sound that he had made, and it was as a cat yowls at the moon on a star dark night. And his sharp fingernails ran up her spine leaving a thin red welt on her flesh. Yet he was gentle with her, removing her blindfold and caressing and stroking her lovely hair. He pulled back from her mouth and she reached her hand up to hold the hot wet shaft, cream glinting upon the flesh, against her cheek. And she held him there and he softened in her hand.

He carefully undid the shackles from her wrist and ankles, and helped her down from the apparatus. Near the fire there was a deep chair, and Octavius helped the girl to it, and they both curled around each other in it, such that it was difficult to see who curled around who, and who held who.

And Alexandra understood that her maid had a precious bond with the cat in the day who became the youth at night; and she further recognised the huge generosity of her Aunt Catherine who had a similar bond with her beast, but was willing to share him with the maid. And she looked to her side to see the intense gaze from her aunt who looked upon the couple below, with a fondness that belied her usually stern demeanour. And despite her intensity, Alexandra also saw that her aunt was also a creature of passion, for she stood there dishevelled, her bodice undone and her chest flushed, her breasts visible and her breath uneven.




In The Library Ch. 11



"Ah girl, is he not magnificent, my cerval? And your girl, she too is splendid, and her hot mouth worthy of him. Come, we shall leave them." And Catherine turned from the gallery. "I will make sure the girl is back with you before dawn, dear child. It must be so."

So Alexandra learned that night that a man is not always a man, and that her aunt had deeper rivers flowing than she had first realised, and that her maid had more than one loyalty. And she knew that the strong, deep blood of her aunt was also in her own veins; for her aunt's brother was her own father; and that she, Alexandra, had her own deep blood line to keep alive.

She held her hand to her belly, and for the first time, felt a kick there. "Aunt, I can feel the life within me, I want to keep this child."

"My dearest child, you cannot. This blood must be separated, we have decided it. The child will be cared for, I will make sure of that, but you will have separate lives." And the older woman took the young girl into her arms, the young girl who looked so much the same as Catherine had at the same age, and held her close. "Sweet girl, you are not the first, I will teach you how to bear it."

And the green green eyes of the younger woman and the older woman held each the others' gaze firm and strong, and Alexandra finally understood why Catherine was so far from home. And Alexandra then accepted that she would be given the opportunity to return home, and that she would take it. But still, her cheeks were wet with her tears, yet she knew that her heart would not break. She was too strong for that.



In The Library Ch. 12



Three months passed, and summer was now ending, autumn starting to turn. Alexandra's child heavy belly was now fuller in front of her, although looking at her from behind, one would never know. Her breasts were rounder, heavier, and she carried the healthy, sensual glow of a woman at her absolute peak of well-being. She was beautiful in her fullness, with a sensuous, sexual presence.

Aunt Catherine was most concerned for Alexandra's spiritual health, and the older woman and the younger woman spent many hours together. In this time Alexandra learned more of her aunt's past, learned her strengths, and prepared herself for the huge sacrifice she would have to make. She also discovered much of her family's history, and began to understand how important the bloodline was.

Odette and Octavius the cerval continued their special girl and beast bond, as if sanctioned by Catherine, and the cat was constantly by the young maid's side. But the creature was remote towards Alexandra, and kept his distance from her. Sometimes he would circle around her as she walked about the grounds, as if observing the woman, two hands hidden, two hands showing, and two hearts. But he would keep his cat's paw quietness and distance from her.

Alexandra knew that her maid often disappeared to the library come the evenings, and imagined her on the device. She also pondered her Aunt Catherine, who was clearly the owner of the clever wooden engine, and wondered about her and the cat. Other than the one night when she discovered her tantalised maid, she had not seen the slender youth. Indeed, she occasionally wondered whether it had been a dream. But she only had to see her maid to know that if it was a dream, then her golden haired maid had shared it with her.

But still, she had a longing for something different, something exotic, something to remember. "Aunt, when did you get the apparatus in the library made?" 

Perhaps if she got her aunt to talk of the inventor of the device, she might be able to turn the conversation to herself, because in a small way she envied her maid the pleasure she had received. And Alexandra knew that soon she would be near her birthing time, and then there would be the short feeding time, and then there would be the wrenching time, and then there would be a great, dark, horrible void. Sometimes the bloodline had to be broken....

"Why do you ask, niece?" Her aunt looked upon the young woman with a steady gaze, her eyebrow half raised. Was this a test?

"Because, Aunt, it is an engine of wickedness, and you are permitted to use its wickedness, and Odette is permitted to use its wickedness. But I, who have committed my own wickedness," and she gestured to her belly girdled in her long dress, "I am not allowed its wickedness. And that is not fair!"

Catherine did not expect this burst of temper from the girl; but then she remembered Alexandra's age, and remembered herself at the same age, and thought about the responsibility being thrust upon the girl, and she took pity. Catherine knew of the dark days that were ahead of her niece, and yes, she took pity. 

"Alexandra, I shall summon my girls, and they will come for you, once it is dark. I think we can make some entertainment tonight." So Alexandra was taken to her room to be made ready. She was dressed in a rich velvet gown, deep red; and with her long black hair and her pale skin, the effect was like a black and white photograph with hand coloured red detail. Hand coloured photographs were the latest rage, and Catherine had arranged for a photographer to make some images, so that Alexandra might have a keepsake. But there were to be no photographs this night.

Catherine's senior maid carefully dressed the girl and braided her long hair, and placed some soft leather straps on her ankles and wrists. Alexandra knew then that she would be strapped to the device, blindfolded and bound, and she assumed Octavius would take his pleasure on her and in her. Her heart pulsed and the centre of her sex answered with its own beat. She was led to the library and instructed to stand completely still and to await instructions. The library was deserted. The wooden device was centred in the bay, and the only light came from the fire. She heard the rattle of a sliding frame, and wondered who was in the gallery this night. And then the door opened, and Catherine made her way into the room.

But her aunt was as Alexandra had never seen her. Her hair was coiled tight in a bun on her head and she was wearing a magnificent brocade corset, richly embellished with red and gold braid. Her waist was clinched in small, and her slender hips were sheathed in a black skirt made of the finest, softest leather. The skirt was long, but slit right up the front so that it separated as she walked, each long flared panel sliding away from her legs which were clad in long boots, strapped with laces all the way up the front and all the way down the back. Catherine circled her niece, as if inspecting her, and caressed her hand to the girl's belly, filling now. And then the aunt led the young woman to the device and bade her lie on it as if it were a bed. Alexandra was placed on her back, with her body slightly raised and her legs strapped by the ankles to separate wooden supports. Her legs were together, but she could see that the supports for her legs could be moved apart. And then she could no longer see, a soft band of cloth placed over her eyes. Then she was left, sightless, and not a sound in the room.

And a viewer in the gallery (let us imagine it is you, or let us imagine it is I - perhaps it is us both, since there are two comfortable chairs...) a viewer would have seen this: Alexandra in her red gown, tied to the wooden device, blindfolded; arms stretched above her head so that her filling breasts were upright and proud; her legs now spread apart so that the folds of her gown fell between her thighs; her head with its coil of plaited blackness, tilted to one side, to enhance her hearing. Her senses were alert, the blackness of her hidden gone sight a background for her other senses, touch, taste, feeling (but her wrists are captured and she can only stretch and grasp at the air), smell, hearing. But all she can hear now is the crackle of the fire.

And the viewer would have seen this: Octavius moving into the room silently, circling the tied girl, silently; gazing upon her pale skin and her black hair and her red cloak. And her head is suddenly alert but motionless - she has sensed rather than heard the youth on his silent feet. And Octavius does not touch the girl, but stands silently by the fireplace, an alert energy on his face. He is clothed in black trousers and a loose flowing shirt, his long tawny hair falling down his back, proud firm limbs long and lean. He leans back against the mantel of the fireplace and, motionless now, he waits.

And the viewer would have seen this: Catherine has returned to the room carrying a wooden box about the size of a large cigar case, beautifully carved in multiple coloured woods, brass fittings and hinges. And she sets it down by her bound niece. Catherine now beckons to the youth, and raises her arms. He comes up behind her and graces her neck with a kiss and a swathe of his silken hair, and then slowly undoes the laces of her corset and removes it from her slender torso. Her slight breasts are naked, nipples already peaking, and a pale flush is upon her neck. She tilts her head and twists around for a long kiss from the young man, and his palms are upon her breasts, gently pushing the small weight of them to her ribs. She is pale and slender and elegant, but holds herself proud. As she is caressed by Octavius, so too does her hand begin to caress the girl. She strokes up the captive legs, her forefinger idly tracing the shin and the slender thigh of her niece, pushing up under the red gown.

Alexandra is the captive plaything of her aunt, and the older woman is slow and patient, her small hands spiralling now over the thighs of the girl, strapped. And the girl, strapped, now lets out a series of small moans, whispers even. " Aunt, is that you, who touches my legs?"

"Hush girl, it matters not who it is; it just matters that it is." And Catherine reaches to the buttons of the red gown and undoes them slowly, one by one, and the heavy cloth of the dress falls away from Alexandra's body, which is revealed naked now, exposed to the eyes in the room. And if the viewer in the gallery pleases, he or she will see this: Alexandra's pale thighs are separated, and her dark bush of hair is thick around her sex. A dark line runs up the seam of her swelling belly which is now near its seventh month, and full and firm. 

Her breasts, which once were small like Catherine's, are now tight and round, her nipples dark and full, a rich darkness of deep brown, and erect and hard. Catherine moves between the legs of her niece now, and leans forward so that her flat belly pushes against the fuller mound of the younger woman. Catherine sways her tightened nipples against the warm firmness of the luscious belly. The smooth, slick leather of Catherine's dress rubs against the open sex of the younger woman, and is left with a slick wetness when she pulls away. 

Alexandra thrashes against the restraints on her limbs, panting moans of pleasure lingering in the room as her aunt's slow teasing fingers trace the swollen lips of her dark sex, pearls of moisture glistening on the curled hair. Her aunt kneels between the girl's legs spread wide, and lowers her hot tongue with a long lick over the swollen lips, a tantalising slide over the wetness and sucking on the budding clitoris. " Ah, my God, lick on me there, my sweet cunny aches for it, flick on my bud."

Catherine is concentrating on the young woman's succulent sex, her wet centre, her high scarlet pearl peaking from the dark curls of hair; Catherine's long tongue licks a long swathe up that richly scented crevice, honey smooth slick of wetness and over the long clitoris. Alexandra cries out in ecstasy, her bound wrists pulling against the ropes, her fingers grappling at the air of nothingness, her body lurching upwards against the ropes holding her there.

And her aunt touches her forefinger delicately to the dime sized blaze of red and brown upon Alexandra's thigh, blood heating into the birth stain, and the older woman speaks. "Alexandra, know by this mark on you that some man will recognise and discover you by this mark; and he shall know the sweet place nearby, and there shall be a reckoning. I am certain of it." And with a final spiral of her fingers around the mark, Catherine stands, and beckons Octavius to her.

The slender youth moves away from his stillness at the fireplace and silently approaches his mistress, dropping his shirt as he comes to her. His torso is lean and finely muscled, his long hair a twist down his back, almost to his waist. He sheds now his trousers, baring his long swelling cock against his thigh, swinging heavy and thickening. But not yet hard, not yet rigid. He leans to the waist of his svelte mistress, and unbuttons the myriad of small loops that hold her long swaying skirt, until it too drops to the floor. So the woman is clad now in just her long boots, laces up the front of her legs to above the knee, and laces down the back of her legs to her ankles, with small stiletto heels. The leather laced boots make her legs long and slender, lightly muscled thighs firming up to a delectable taut derriere. And the skin about her haunches and upon her hips is laced with a pattern of long thin scars, each some two Inches long, each thin scarred ridge a line of white upon her flesh. They are old scars, not recent, but shimmer a strange, fine corrugation on her flesh.

Catherine turns towards her youth, and the bottom of her belly is a triangle of dark hair. She presses herself tightly to his body, and his long prick tightens and thickens against her belly, and rises. She takes his rising length into one hand and lightly circles her fingers and palm around it; and with her other hand she takes the full weight of his heavy sacs, and gently squeezes them. And she holds his centre and his fullness in both her small hands and is slow and gentle with him. She is rewarded by a full taut rising of his cock now, and she enjoys a slow stroke of him, her hands alternately pulling and stroking, and squeezing and gently twisting on his heaviness. She too is rewarded by his hot probing tongue between her lips and teeth, and for a long moment young Alexandra is completely ignored, as the older woman and her man enjoy the taste and touch of each other.

Their hands are a slow, stroking caress of each other's body; and his fingers linger on the thin white threaded scars on her flesh; and her slender fingers twine themselves into his long flowing hair, pulling on it as she pulls on his shaft. In their throats there is a low, slow sigh from her, and a deep throaty growl from him. 

"Is that you and your cerval cat, Aunt," whispers Alexandra, her cloth blindness peaking her other senses, her hearing acute and heightened, piecing together the movements and scents in the room. "Will he take his pleasure in me?" She pleads.

"I think not, sweet thing, I think he takes his pleasure in your golden maid, I think she is the favoured one." But Octavius reaches out a single hand and lightly touches the girl on her rounded belly, as if to feel for the second life there, as if to assure the girl that he is aware of her and is not blinded to her. But in his own silent way, he will not be her mate, he will not become of her blood. One of the bloodline of this family is enough for him; and the variety of the maid is his permitted luxury.

Yet Alexandra is not forgotten, her lush sexuality is not to be ignored. Her aunt reaches for the beautifully carved box and opens its patterned lid. Inside lies a curved phallus, a dildo carved and curved from ivory, cleverly fixed to a strap of leather and cloth, a beautifully shaped objet d'art, a piece of fine art, perfectly crafted. But it is cold from resting in its box, lying on its plush velvet bed, padded and shaped for its wicked purpose. It is a beautiful thing, and Catherine lifts it with reverence. She straps it to her slender hips, and it thrusts wickedly in front of her, its base pushing on her pearl, so that every thrust and twist of the carven prick will push and twist on her centre of pleasure.

Catherine moves to the head of the table, where Alexandra's stretching fingers are free but clutching only at air. There is no flesh for her to trace her fingers upon, and still there is no flesh but she is able to curl her fingers around the cold ivory and discover its shape and length, and its roundness and smoothness, and to guess its purpose. "Aunt, is it your toy that I can touch in my little fingers? Is it your toy strapped, and will you put it in my tightening cunny, that is even now clenching at the thought of it?"

"Yes, my sweetness, it is for you, and I will deliver it!" Catherine delights at the idea of piercing this girl's wet cunt, and the wickedness of her being an ivory pricked man for the doing of it. For Catherine is a connoisseur of the erotic arts, as evidenced by her wooden device and her exquisitely carved tool, and the cleverly constructed gallery with its comfortable chairs and the sliding windows. 

And you, the viewer in the gallery, you lean forward and slide the window screen across with a click, to get a better view. And can you scent the rising heat of the perfume of these heatened women? Breath in deeply, because their scent rises.

Catherine is now working the ratchets and levers of her machine, so that the sweet wettening cunt of the big bellied girl is just at the exact right height for her red lipped sex to be spread wide, to receive the ivory length; and Catherine delicately opens the lips of her opening niece, like a butterfly opens its wings to the sun and sips on the nectar of a flower. Catherine's fingers lightly splay the moist pink flesh just as the butterfly's legs are lightly splayed on the petal of a deep flower. And Alexandra's hot sex is the flower, and Catherine's fingers the delicate weight upon the petals of her flesh. And then the fine rounded end of the dildo is placed at the nexus of those petals.

"God yes, press it to me, press it into me, press its wicked heat and coldness into the middle of me!" The girl pushes her black curled centre as far down the table as she can, eager to thrust herself onto the prick, and through the prick, to push her weight onto the older woman. But Catherine knows the power of a touch and then the removal of the touch; and she cleverly dances and sways her hips so that the end of her false length darts and twists and touches the pulsing lips of her prey, lightly and then a little deeper; deeper and then a taking away tease. 

"My God, there is wickedness in you, dear Aunt, that you tease me so. Stick it in, stick it in me. I want your prick in me, please press it all the way." And Catherine has twisted and danced too much, and her own clit is begging for more certainty, the fleeting pressure has arisen in her own bud, and she too must have a deeper thrust into this split red heaven between the girl's trembling thighs. And now she thrusts deep to the core of the girl, and Alexandra gasps at the force of that thrust which now aches her deep core. 

But look, Octavius had been roused by the scent of the fucking women, and his slender loins are now behind his mistress, his prick long and hard and throbbing, a touch of moistness at its tip; and he pushes on the back of his woman with his hands, so that her lean body lies upon the rising belly of the girl; and he now fucks his length deep into the wet cunt of his mistress. So the three are joined with Catherine receiving and giving, her thrusts into her niece driven by the youth behind her, who now starts a rising beat, the cheeks of his taut ass clenching with each delicious thrust. As they press their weight each into the other, the room fills with the hot pant of the animal in the youth and the deepening sighs of the woman who has tamed him, and the crying sobs of the girl who begs to be taken.

And in the gallery, your fingers are busy on yourself.

As the peak builds within each of them, Octavius bites on the neck of his mate; and Catherine leans forward to take the hot nipples of the breeding girl into her mouth and sucks them deep, her tongue swirling those tight ends, her hands squeezing the hot full breasts. And Alexandra pants in her trapped ecstasy, and with a quickening heat at the base of her belly she starts to rise up to the peak of her pleasure. As her body twitches and jerks with an unavoidable, instinctive need, her aunt is watching the red flush upon her chest and throat, and as it darkens and heats, her aunt reaches for the blindfold and tears it away. 

And Alexandra's eyes are huge and wide with her coming, and as she pulses to her orgasm she looks straight into her aunt's eyes; and as she comes, oh fuck yes, she comes, hard; she looks deep as if into the mirror of her own soul. And she shudders and she knows that Catherine too has suffered for the bloodline and their female souls are joined in an intimate sharing of some deep ancestral knowledge. 

As she shimmers down from the white light of her own pleasure, Alexandra tears her eyes from the her blood woman's eyes, and she glances up and looks into the soul of the cat's eyes above her aunt's head, just as the animal in the man howls his own coming, and her open sex feels the throbbing pulse transmitted through the cunt of her father's sister. And Octavius' hands are upon the haunches of his mistress, and his nails align perfectly with the thin white scars upon her flesh, two rows of four long, raised scars upon her skin.

And finally, Catherine's own pleasure now rises between the two, and she arches her throat and back with her own exquisite edge. And she too comes hard, her cry a hot pant of breath into the stillness of the room. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck... Ah God!"




In The Library Ch. 12



And in the gallery, you slide the window shut, your fingers trembling, your lips dry. You have witnessed these linked creatures of lust and their pleasures in the night, and perhaps you have had some small delight of your own.

But the passion of the three in the library below is consumed between them, and the purpose of the wooden device is done. Catherine gently releases the bonds of the wrists and ankles of her pale skinned niece, and helps her down from the chair. She pulls the red velvet gown around Alexandra, and the two women move to a chaise lounge that is by the fire, and they curl themselves together upon the pillows there. 

Octavius, his skin flickering in the fire light, stands behind the lounge, and one hand caresses the head and hair of his mistress, and every now and then he reaches out to touch, just a gentle touch, the dark black hair of the young girl. They are silent (Octavius is always silent in his human form), no words spoken, but no words unspoken either. There has been a bond made between them, and Alexandra is learning the importance of her bloodline.

But she also knows that sometimes that line must be broken. 



In The Library Ch. 13



"Odette, bring hot water, it has begun!"

Aunt Catherine's voice reached through the house, and the sound of her servants' feet could be heard running to and fro in the long halls. Alexandra had been patient during the final stages of her confinement, but now just wanted it all to be over. It was winter, the house was bleak in the cold and snow, and the final weeks had been long and slow. There was little she could do to entertain herself.

Catherine had made arrangements for an experienced midwife to attend, and was hoping that the birth would go smoothly - although she was worried that the slim hips of her niece meant a tight birth passage and the attendant dangers. But now Alexandra's birth pains had started, and the long beginning had begun. It was the shortest day, and she had woken to the first of her labour pains, and to the subsequent inspection from the midwife. But she was only a little dilated, and was told that she had many hours to go. So she and Odette began to pace the halls, for she found that movement was best. Every fifteen minutes she would stop, her body seized by a contraction which took her breath away and doubled her over with the pain.

So the morning passed. For an hour Octavius the cerval cat walked with them, brushing around Odette's ankles and circling but never touching Alexandra. Her heaviness was upon her, and she was already weary. But she learned a new stoicism, and as minutes slowly fell off the time between each contraction, she gritted her teeth and bore it. After five hours she was again inspected and was found to be opening. But the babe was also found to be lying on its back, its spine pressing against its mother's spine, so that was why the pain was more extreme. For the child was coiled the wrong way in the womb, and there would need to be an attempt to turn the babe.

The afternoon wore on, and the contractions were now closer together and the pain more constant. Alexandra was now too tired to walk, and lay on a bed, warm blankets about her, and a heated bedpan to her back for warmth. For she shivered now, in those times between the depths of the pain, and it was vital she be kept warm. Odette sat at the head of the bed and held her mistress' hands throughout each long throb of pain, through each long breath, through each pant and moan. They lost count of the times between each contraction, and the afternoon turned to early evening, time measured only by the goal of making it through this contraction, and then the next one, and then the one after that, and the next one, and the one after that.

And slowly the babe was moving down its tightest channel, slowly making its way from the heart beat darkness and the kicking time, down the blinkered tunnel towards the light and the awakening time. The pain was near constant now, and laudanum was prescribed and taken, injected by a syringe straight into the spine, the latest technique. This dulled the pain, and Alexandra could finally bear it. And now she was commanded to push down with each massive clench of her muscles, and to grunt deep into the guts of her, and, "push now girl, push now."

The midwife brought forceps, and the head of the babe was found high in the birth canal, and a long steady pull on the tiny head helped the movement with each push, and finally, "bear down now girl, push now, long and slow, for I can see the hair on the babe's head, and there is the shoulder," and with one long, final, gut wrenching grunt, Alexandra delivered her babe, and the baby was born. And it lay silent, the cord still beating with the mother's pulse, and the tiny creature was red and tiny and perfect, its hands miniature perfection. And then there was a tiny mewl, and a quick intake of breath, and the babe was naked and new and alone in this world. As the midwife cut the cord and lifted the tiny thing to its mother's breast, its sharp little finger nails glanced across the top of the mark on Alexandra's thigh and a trace of blood was drawn there. So Alexandra was blooded.

"Show me my baby, is it a boy or is it a girl?" and she wept with the beauty and grief of the moment, for she knew the babe would not be long in her arms before it was given to a wet nurse. 

"It is a boy, my child," spoke Aunt Catherine, "a boy of the blood. You have birthed a boy." And she looked down upon her dark haired niece, this girl who could have been a daughter or a sister, the blood line was so strong. "You have birthed a son."

"I shall call him Alexander, that through his name he might know me, even though he will never know me." And Alexandra took her child into her arms and laid him to her breast and held him close. And they were alone together in their most intimate moment, the child's tiny hands grappling with the air, his perfect lips finding her nipple, her deep longing letting down her milk, and he fed. This tiny child clutched at his mother and grappled with her flesh, and she fed him, her warm wholesome milk sweet in his mouth, and he fed.

And the other people in the room were silent; the wet nurse pressed down on Alexandra's belly and the after-birth was delivered. Catherine took the after-birth, for there were special things to be made from it; and Odette held the girl's hand and then helped swaddle the babe. And it was deep in the night, and the slender youth came into the room and gazed down at the young mother and her child, and reached out one slow hand and touched the girl's forehead, gently. But he would not touch the babe.

And so the child was born.

---000---

Alexandra is leaving.

It is three months since the child was born, and Alexandra and Odette are to return to their home across the ocean. The child Alexander will stay in England with Catherine as his guardian, and her house shall be his house. The babe has thrived and grown strong on the girl's milk, and Catherine has determined that he shall continue on the breast of the wet nurse, a sturdy girl from the village, for as long as he chooses. A mother's milk is best, and the village wench, who lost her own babe shortly after its birth, is glad to serve the lady from the big house.

But Alexandra is pining her loss already, and is now gaunt and pale, only her breasts remaining full. Her slender frame is now thin, she has lost all the weight gained from her carrying, and both Catherine and Odette know that they must complete the wrench in the girl's life as quickly as they can, so that she can move on as best she can. And Odette too will suffer her own wrench, for she must leave the cerval cat in the day and the delectable youth in the night. The carriage is summoned for the morning, so this is their last night.

"Aunt, how will I bear it, my little sweet boy no longer mine, and I am forbidden?" Alexandra knows what must be done, but she still aches at the idea of it. But she knows too that Catherine has carried a similar loss, and look at the strength of her! 

"Child, you will, for you must; and you must continue strong, for our bloodline twists and turns and is forever changing and unpredictable. I can foretell certain things, and I am certain from the divinations from the part of your womb shared with your child, that he is your first but not your last." Catherine has something of the priestess about her, and she carries dark wisdom from deep time past, and some lingering threads unravelling down from future time. "But there are blurs and shimmers in my eyes, so some things are hidden, and I fear some things will bring horror, but I cannot see what. So as you get older, you too must teach yourself from the blackness, and you must learn the strength from your sex, for the black learnings thrive on seed, and you must seek the visions of rapture to guide our blood."

There was so much confusion in the young girl's heart, but she knew there was solace in her aunt's words and her knowledge. So, there was some darkness in her future, but she must apply herself to the sexual arts. Would she too construct a fantastic engine like the one in Catherine's library?

But this night there is a strange quietness on the house, and silent longings linger in the long halls. Alexandra sleeps, her babe wrapped swaddled (for he has restless hands, and his little fingernails scratch his face unless they are bound tight to prevent him squirming and grasping in his sleep), wrapped tight and held tight to her breast; and she breathes in his sweet breath. And the sun breaks.

"Mistress, oh my God, mistress, please help me, I am hurt." Her maid Odette comes running down the hall to her lady's room, her feet bare and her golden mane of hair wild, and her simple flowing gown, white cloth, filling the air behind her as she ran; her white cloth threaded with long traces of brilliant blood. She is cut, her flesh streaked with long ribbons of crimson threads, her belly and haunches laced with threads of five long slices.

"Odette, what is it, what has happened here, and my God, what is that long whiteness in your hair?" For the maid's beautiful golden hair was laced through, from the crown of her head to the very longest length of her waved hair, threaded through by a long band of pure white, perhaps an inch wide, where all colour had gone. And the frantic girl tore the white red striped shift from her body, and there on her strong hips and haunches were threads of five long slices in her luscious flesh, blood swelling in long lines, some two inches long, sliced cuts.

"Oh child, I did not think to warn you," Catherine was there and her voice was shocked, "I did not think to warn you, to leave Octavius before the dawn. For his instinct returns as the sun returns and his changing is furious and fast, and he cannot help himself." And there was the explanation for the aged scars and slices on Catherine's own skin - for when she was younger, she too had discovered the agony and the ecstasy of delaying her leaving the beautiful youth for one more hour. How many times had she delayed the dawn before she knew the cat could not help its instincts?

So they bound the cuts on the shocked maid, and soothed her skin with creams, and Catherine gave her some of the same laudanum that had eased Alexandra's pain during her long night of birth. 

And the morning dew lifted, and the party was gathered on the steps of the house, their trunks were lifted high onto the top of the coach, and the girls prepared to leave this place of the boy's birth, the place of Odette's delight and now terror of the change she had not expected. The shock would show in her golden hair forever. But look, there is the cat, its tail low, its head down. The creature comes to the feet of Odette and looks up to her face, and there is a strange longing look in the cat's slitted eyes. The maid gazes down at this wild creature, and a flurry of emotions flicker across her face. But she is a forgiving creature herself, a thing of female instinct, and she lowers her head and her hand to caress the cat's head. As she does so, the cat rears up on its rear legs and reaches up its front paws to her neck and her face, and hugs her throat with its paws. She holds its paws in her hands, and caresses her cheek to the cat's head, and the animal is forgiven. With a chirrup deep in its throat, the cat turns from the girl, and, its tail held high, it runs from the scene.

Odette climbs aboard the coach. Alexandra, weeping, passes her swaddled child, a last kiss on his forehead, to the village girl. She too is weeping, and says nothing (for nothing can be said), but gently presses Alexandra's hand. She will care for the babe as best she can, and will do as the lady of the house demands. As Alexandra relinquished the babe, she feels one last ecstatic let down of her milk; and her breasts ache in their fullness for the perfect gone suckling mouth of her babe.

Just as Alexandra turns to step aboard the coach there is a flurry at her feet. Octavius the cerval cat has returned, but there is a black struggle in his mouth. He has bought her a gift, as only a cat can - he has caught a bird with his instinctive speed, and the bird lies stunned in his mouth. He drops the bird at the girl's feet and places a single paw upon its body to stop the feathered creature struggling. The girl bends down to him, for she recognises the power of a gift from an animus and she cannot refuse it. She does not pick up the battered body though, but instead plucks two feathers from the breast and wing of the bird, and places them to her chest, in the shallow space between her milk full breasts, hot to the place where her child had rested its head.

"Octavius, Alexandra, what have you done?" Catherine's voice rang high, "what does this gift mean to our blood? For you made an offering that has been accepted, and a bird has been given unto us, to our blood!" And there is fear in Catherine's voice, for something unprecedented has just happened, that was not foretold, and she is afraid. 

And another light feather flutters loose from the breast of the bird, still under the cat's paw, and the feather lifts on a small, spiralling current of a breeze, lifting upwards and swaying in the air. There is a silence, as all eyes are upon this feather, including the wondrous blue eyes of the small babe; and the babe reaches out his small hand, his perfectly formed tiny hand, and it is the first controlled movement of his hand (all previous movements merely Instinctive grapplings and scratchings), and with this first conscious clutch of his hand, the babe grabs the drifting feather from the air. And pulls it to his small breast, and both his hands clasp around the feather and holds it to his tiny babe's chest, and he clutches it close. 

And from his tiny baby throat, the standing staring adults can hear, as if it were far away, a little baby's laugh, a chuckle. And the cerval cat leaves the bird, now still, and spirals itself around the ankles of the child's mother, a single circuit. And from the cat's throat the standing staring adults can hear, as if from far away, a cat's chirrup, as if in response to that laugh. 

Something has passed between the cat and the child, something has been given. Catherine knows, and Alexandra senses, that somehow, somewhere, somewhen, birds are now a part of the bloodline. Catherine is afraid. She had not foreseen this.



In The Library Ch. 14



It is the shortest day and the longest night, and I have come of age this day. Yet I grieve also, and the woman for whom I grieve I had thought to be my mother all my life. But now I find that she was not my mother, and now I am motherless. My name is Alex Cain, and I am motherless, and I swear to find my mother.

The funeral cortege wound its way to the mausoleum, and the woman who was my mother but was never my mother is buried there. Catherine is dead. She lived a good life and I was her son. But on her death bed her last words to me, to anybody, were, "sweet boy, I have loved you all your days, but I am not your mother. You must seek her and find her, for we have made a mistake, your father and I, and we should not have broken the blood."

I did not know of what she spoke. I did not know my father, for the woman whose name was Catherine lived in the house with just her maids, the groundsmen, and the damned cat. The fucking cat is big and ancient and an evil fucker. With its glinting yellow malificence, the brute circles around me always, stalking and watching, and I hate it. There is some visceral loathing between us, but I could never do anything about it, because Catherine loved the accursed creature like it was her lover. I could never understand it, she was a proud and magnificent woman who could have had any man she pleased, but no man ever came down from her room in the morning.

And there were certainly men at the house. She would regularly have men and women to the house, in ones and twos, threes and fours. They would arrive from London in their finery and top hats, and the coach and four went regularly back and forth. And when the latest motor cars arrived, she was the first in the area to purchase a charabanc, and it too was seen carrying her house guests to and from the railway station. 

The house had many locked rooms and corridors, and as a small boy I was forbidden to explore. As I got older and my night seed started to flow, I found more to interest me in the shape of the girls in the village, and I lost interest in the house and my mother's guests. But she was not my mother. 

Returning to the house, I kept puzzling over the last words from this woman I had loved as dearly any boy could love his mother, but now I must make sense of them. She has left me a key, but she has left me also a mystery. If Catherine was not my mother, who on this earth is, and why did she leave me? Who am I?

There are parts of this house that I have never seen, corridors I have never been down, and doors I have never been through. So there are mysteries here that I need to uncover, and stories that need to be discovered. Catherine, I must remember her now as Catherine, not my mother, she has clearly lived a hidden life, or perhaps I have been sheltered. Or perhaps I am just stupid, unobservant, an idle boy and then a lazy youth. I don't know. Maybe the girls in the village just took my eye away from the house, and all I cared about were their long limbs and their big breasts and ripe bellies, their lustrous hair, their hot cunts. Lucy, Jenny, Molly, bounteous wenches all of them, and all of them keen for a hard prick and a good rutting. But I think I should have paid more attention to what went on at the house, not what went on down in the village.

The key then. A lock to be found, a door to be opened, a room to be inspected, some clues to be found. For I suspect the woman named Catherine has not left me silence, I suspect she might have left me something more, even quite a bit more. What she has done is left me money. It would appear that the estate is to be sold, and she has made provision for her faithful servants as might be expected, and she has then split the estate between me and her brother. But only once her damned cat has died. She has given directions that her brute of a feline is to be kept in the estate until he dies, so I'm hoping that he is fast using up his remaining lives. The cat has always been there, as long as I can ever remember, so he must be ancient indeed. Octavius - always thought it was a ridiculous name for a cat. What, can't the fucking thing count to nine!

But the key. I had to find a door that had been kept from me, and I had to go through it. Her bedroom was on the top floor of the west wing, but I had never been in the rooms beneath her chambers. I simply didn't know what was there. I really must have developed my taste for quim at an early age, because I had always spent more time exploring the alleys and bedrooms of the village than I had ever spent exploring this house.

Once I started to really look closely, I started to notice things. The floor down this hall was much cleaner than other areas of the house - lots of feet passing by, maybe, and long dresses preventing the dust from settling? So this door, then. Yes, the key fitted, and the lock was well oiled, the hinges also. The big door swung open, and on the other side of the room I could see floor length curtains against three angled walls - so big windows, then. Of course, the end of the west wing looked over the long lawns down to the lake, a huge three window bay, curving around. And the two adjacent walls, opposite each other, floor to ceiling bookshelves. Above my head, a gallery hidden by elaborately carved screens. To my right and left, on each side of the entrance door, two ante rooms, the stairs to the gallery running off from one, and doors to other rooms on the other side.

And what in God's name is this device, this wooden horse thing, in pride of place in the middle of this ornate room? It looks like some kind of elaborate restraint, straps and loops where someone's hands and feet might go. And levers and hinges. I realised that a person could be strapped to this thing, trapped, and the device could be raised and lowered. Damn, this thing would present every orifice of the body at just the right height for anybody, no matter how tall or short they were. Did this explain Catherine's endless parade of visitors? Had she put on some kind of strange spectacle, some unusual plays, some titillation perhaps, or something more refined? 

As I was contemplating this construction in front of me, I became aware of a movement in the room. I turned, but had not heard a thing, and saw the figure of an old man moving towards me and then around me. There was something familiar in his movement, but I could not place what it was. He was old, silver and grey hair long down his back, fine boned and I suspect, in his youth, he would have been a handsome man. Even now, in his age there was a pride and a grace to his look. But I had never seen this man, and what was he doing in my mother's, but no, not my mother, in Catherine's house?

"Who are you, what are you doing here?"

He looked at me, and his look was one of puzzlement. "Thavius." His voice was raw and malformed, as if he could not shape the words. I could not make sense of him.

"What do you do here," I repeated. 

"Atherine. 'Stress is dead. Thavius is broken." So he knew Catherine? And I saw tears on his cheeks, and indeed he had the look of a truly broken man. But still I could not fathom who he was. But he reached out a slender wrinkled hand and pulled at my sleeve, tugging me towards one of the ante rooms. Again something in his movement was familiar, something niggling at the edges of my mind. I followed him to a room with a strange couch along one wall, a high silled window in the other wall, the wooden casement curiously scratched, old worn scratches and newer ones also. He reached to a shelf and brought down a box, brass cornered and carven. Inside, there were a number of wrapped objects, and what appeared to be a photograph. He carefully took the image from the box, and placed it on the table between us.

He pointed to me, and again his voice was harsh and unnatural, "Aalex," a long accent on the first syllable. 

"Yes, I am Alex," I replied. 

He pointed to the photograph, and two girls stood there, and the background of the tableau was the bay window in the library. His finger gently caressed the image of one of the girls, a tall buxom thing with a tumble of long hair to her waist. "Dette. 'Dette oved me." And he pointed to the image of the other girl, and his finger was more tentative. "Lexanda. Lexanda oved you," And he pointed to me, and nodded, once, firmly, and I could see that an affirmation was made. I studied the image, and was astonished, for she could have been a daughter or a sister of the woman who was no longer my mother but was Catherine. The girl had the same elfin grace and darkness of that woman, who even as she aged was a dark, graceful beauty. Her long dark hair surrounded her pale, beautiful face.

"Who are they, these girls? Who is she, this girl who looks as a young Catherine would have looked?"

"Lexanda, oved you," he repeated, and again pointed to me, and then mimed something being rocked in two arms; and then something small, no higher than his thigh; and then he mimed a hand rising from the height of a small thing by his side, up, growing up to a man's full height.

"Are you trying to say I was a baby, and then a boy, and then a man? Are you saying this girl is my mother?" And he furiously nodded, and his voice more excited, "Lexanda, you, mothher," and another definitive nod of his head. I looked at him, spellbound, trying to digest what he was saying, in his unformed and broken words. He then reached into the box once more, and pulled out a small golden locket, two sides hinged, on a long chain. And he handed it to me. I flipped the locket open, and one side was a tiny photograph of a baby. And on the other side, under another hinged circle of glass, were two tiny feathers, feathers from the tiny breast of a bird. 

This strange man, passionate with some emotion that I could not make sense of, but powerful; he pressed the locket into my hands, and then placed his own, as if he were clutching some precious thing, to his own breast and held his clutched fingers there, as if holding something truly rich, and truly precious. And another glistening tear rolled from his cheek, and I knew that this strange man who clearly was not some normal man, this broken voiced thing whose own language was from some different throat, this man was forever touched by this child and these two women. And he was desperate in his own strange way to communicate something to me. The locket was a gift from him, and the images were of some lost truth that he knew but could not communicate.

So I placed the locket into my pocket, and placed the photograph back in the box, the images of both young women graven into my mind and forever seen in my eye; and I took his two hands in mine and clasped them in my own two hands, in thanks. His hands had a curious warmth to them, and his skin a curious soft feel, and I sensed somehow, from some deep edge of my mind, that this man was aged and strange and had a curious knowledge, and was something not quite human. I could not make any true sense of him, and he was a strangeness. His powerful amber eyed gaze, for he had eyes with a colour of no human I had ever known, held my own eyes for some long, powerful seconds. And then he turned from me and lay on his couch, like some lean creature, and he curled and turned and almost immediately, was asleep.

I left him there, asleep. He was strange, and I could not fathom him. But it was clear that in this house, in this house's past, two girls had arrived from somewhere and had departed somewhere, and one of them had left me behind as a child. And the one identified as my mother could have been my mother who wasn't my mother, Catherine, for the image of the girl could have been the older woman when she was much younger. My head was spinning with the visions of this family, because it was becoming clear that I did indeed have some blood link with the woman Catherine, even if now I did not know what it precisely was. Somewhere in this house I would surely find more clues, if I searched methodically, carefully, slowly. 

I had plenty of time. I had all the time in the world to find my mother. And I flipped open the little locket one more time, and with the tip of my finger, I stroked the tiny, soft feathers that were there.

My name is Alex Cain, and I need to discover who I am.



In The Library Ch. 15



I have searched the house high and low, and I have found letters. I have found letters from Catherine's brother arranging for his shamed daughter to travel to England with her maid, to have a child, and to return back across the ocean to continue the reputation of the Cain family. For Catherine was the sister of Alexandra's father, and she had the same name. So the exiled Catherine has raised a Cain. And I am that son and the true heir.

And there has been a betrayal, and there shall be a reckoning.

I have a ticket for the ocean crossing, and I will leave this house tomorrow. I will miss the house and its grounds. The remaining staff have been good to me, and even the damned cat has been less hostile these few months since Catherine's death. I have not seen the ravaged voiced old man since that strange night in the library, but there is something flickering on the edge of my mind that makes no sense to me. Or if there is sense, it is only insanity. I look at the circling cat and its eyes, its gaze, the way it holds my eyes and I think... but I don't know what I think. Madness lies on that long path, and I dare not go there. 

I leave this house tomorrow, so this night I will away to the village to say my farewells to the maids there, those hearty strumpets in whose arms I learned what little I know of women. They were an awakening for me, from when I first discovered my rising cock and then they discovered it, and we played and tugged upon each other, and then sank into each other, wetness and kisses, hotness and laughter. And we are older now, and we have grown up together. So I must make my farewells to these three girls who have made me, who turned me from a boy into a man.

Lucy of the long fair hair, straight to her waist. She is tall, slender, but with a boyish arse and narrow hips and long legs. But she is undeniably a woman, her breasts high, full and round. She favours blouses with little buttons down the front that stretch and strain with the bounty of her breasts, and she walks tall and proud, her bosoms a front of her. She is a playful wench, blue eyed and forever laughing, thrusting her tits at the world. "Put the girls away, Lucy my love," the other girls will say, but Lucy is willful, and she won't! The boys never mind, and the wench likes to play.

Molly of the long body, long waisted, her breasts not as bounteous as young Lucy's, but nicely shaped, and a lovely cleft of cleavage. She is green eyed, high cheeked, her strawberry blonde hair cut short, wafts of hair forever escaping her bonnet. She is not so tall as Luce, and her legs not so long. But she likes a high pair of heels on her pretty feet, so they tighten her calves and tauten her rounded bum. She has taken to wearing a green leather dress these recent days, with a new fangled zipper all the way up the front, from the very hem all the way over the centre of her sweetly rounded belly, up over a pert tit, and the zipper stops right at the top, at her shoulder. I have imagined taking that zipper in my teeth and standing up straight, and the leather would fall aside from her curves. But she pushes me away, and then takes my hand and we go for a long walk up the hill to a luncheon cafe and then back down. She teases, does Molly, she is a tease.

And then Jenny. Little curvaceous Jenny, only just five feet tall, but oh what breasts are on this young wench, both my hands can only just hold each one. She will lie on her bed, her foot raised and resting on a shelf on the wall, her little legs splayed wide and her dress falling between her lovely thighs, but all hiding herself from my eyes. And she was the first one I fucked, her red little cunt stretching along my length, and I don't know where she put me, for when we lay naked belly to belly, the top of my prick when against her rounded belly, the top of my prick was higher than the button in the middle of her. She had some magic place inside her, I think, that could swallow up all of my long cock. 

And her little hands, both hands would grab my shaft one on top of the other, and her hands and fingers were small, and still the head of my prick would be beyond her fingers, and her red lips would kiss the top of me, and her wicked little tongue would swirl around the head of me. She would pierce the end of my cock with the pointed tip of her tongue. And then look up at me, her brown eyes wide and not so innocent. "My God, you are a pest, a sweet little pest, how can I go to my books when you hold me so?" I would cry. And laughing, she would bob once more on the tip of my cock, a touch of my spend on her lips.

These three were happy to share me with themselves, and they are just as fond of each other as they are fond of me. Many a time I would lie with one girl, one arm around her shoulder and idly teasing a tit or a nipple, tweaked and erect, my other hand toying with silken hair and glistening lips at the base of a curved belly; and we would delight in watching the other pair going at each other. Sometimes they would be slow and gentle with each other, slowly moving upon the bed and lying one upon the other head to head, their kisses on each other's mouths, their hands on each other's fair breasts, plump and full, lean and hard. 

And other times the fury would be upon them, and their lips and tongues would plunge into the sexes between their legs, and their fingers in their bum holes and cunnies, high squeals of pleasure ringing through the room. And usually their heat would rouse me and my girl again, and she would bob her mouth on my prick, or sit upon me, or I would slide on top of her and into her sweet cunt. And our cries would join the voices of the other two, and the room would heat with our scent and excitement. We were young, that we were, and discovering ourselves and each other, those three girls and I. But I thought that some ageing and loss of innocence was now in my life, and this night was to be a farewell of sorts.

So I entered into the tavern and found long haired Lucy there, serving behind the counter. I placed my coin on the counter, "mead for me, Luce, hot mead, and bring up a jug of it for later."

"Aye, Alex, that I will. Do I sense a party before a parting?" Her blue eyes lit bright.

"You do that, lovely girl, you sense right. I am aboard the ship on the morrow, but want to taste your sweet lips before I go. I know not when I shall be back, if ever."

"Oh Alex, is it that sad?" Her blue eyes shone bright, a gentle smile on her heart shaped lips.

"It is, girl, indeed it is. I go to seek my mother, that I do."

And there in the doorway now, is the tiny thing Jenny, my first girl but not my last. She comes up to me and takes my hand in her little fingers. "I'll leave some of him for you, Luce, so come on up when the tavern closes." And she led me to the stairs and the room at the back of the inn, her curvaceous plump arse swinging in her pleated skirt as she walked ahead of me, her plentiful breasts swinging loose in her cotton blouse, and the sweet dimple on her cheek as she smiled up at me. This little buxom girl had been my first, and I had learned the joys of a plump, dark nipple in my mouth from her, and my first plunge into a willing open cunt had been with her. So she was a special thing.

And already her hand was reaching behind her as she walked ahead of me, and her fingers found the rising throb of me in my trousers, and she gave a welcoming grip to me there. In the room at the end of the corridor the moonlight spread its blue light upon the bed, shining through the high, wide windows, the bed all piled with pillows and covers. A small coal fire lay burning, hot in the grate, so the room was warm, perfect for our undressing and nakedness. She turned to me and wrapped her arms around my back and stretched her head up for a kiss. Her lips were small and delicate, her pointed little tongue darted between my lips and tangled with my tongue. Her plump breasts were full against me, and her arms reached behind my back and up to the hair on my head, and she stroked her fingers through my locks. "Alex, let's not be sad tonight, let's laugh and be joyous together, we don't need to think about the morning, not yet."

"You're right, my Jen, let's just be content in each other this night." And with that I undid the thread of small buttons on her blouse and took each of her splendid weighty breasts into my hands, and felt the lovely weight of them, and teased between my fingers and thumbs her filling nipples, wide and brown and tightening now to long peaks.

"Ah, God, my nips are tight, your tongue on them now." My Jenny, when her tightness was in her big breasts, became the ordering ma'am, and I could only obey; even if I could pick her weight up off the floor and place her on the bed and she could not prevent me. But on the bed there she was, and her big breasts high on her chest and her tiny waist below, ah goodness, she was all curves and dimples, and my mouth was upon one rising nipple, and her small fingers tugging at her other breast and her own nip. Her other hand caressed my hair and then steered my head so that I would feed upon her other nipple, sucking the full end of her breast as deep into my mouth as I could, because I must treat both her orbs equally, or she would pout as one nipple lost its peak if I favoured the other one too much.

Now my one hand was upon her mouth wetted breast, and her little hand upon the other, and I lowered my tongue and kisses to her plump little belly, pale and round, her little navel surrounded by a tiny roll of soft flesh. She giggled as I tickled her there with my tongue, gentle blowing breaths upon her there, cooling her rising heat. And from the lower edge of her navel, there threaded a tiny trail of darkness, a line of dark, downy hair leading down to her dark tangled triangle, still hidden below her skirt. I traced my tongue along that trace of hair, a little trail of wetness shivering goosebumps onto her skin. Jenny shivered in ticklish delight.

My fingers toyed and teased with the waist of her skirt, playing down inside it, and her stomach tightened with the tease. Slowly I undid each of the buttons and loops hidden in the pleats of cloth, and then I pealed the skirt down her plump curved thighs and she raised up her bum to let me pull it down further. And under her skirt she wore a salmon pink pair of French knickers, flared like little wings on her thighs, with a damp pink panel between her legs. But I didn't want to feast my eyes on this froth of cloth, no, I wanted to feast my eyes on the tangle of hair and on her plump red lips, and I wanted to feast my mouth there too.

So I pulled away those continental knickers, and there she lay, all her sweet curves and crevices and roundness of her flesh; there she lay, wanton before me. And I plunged my hungry mouth to her wettening sex and with one long lick wetted her brown haired quim from bum hole to her rising pearl. "Ah, God, Alex, lick me up hard there, suck my heat into your mouth, fuck me up with your tongue, you wonderful man, fuck me up my snatch with your tongue." And she jerked up her loins onto my mouth, and her hands grabbed my head and held me there, as I slit her wet lips with my tongue and swirled it about the sweet, tight folds of her sex. Ah God, she then wrapped her legs around my head and clamped me there, but I was not concerned about this trap, for I could sup on a fair hot cunt for hours, or so it seemed, and my duty here was to little Jen's rising pleasure. 

For her hands were clenching upon my hair now, as with both her hands she was holding me to the centre of her, holding me there. Her hips and groin were bucking against my mouth and my determined tongue, as now I lapped her full and wide and hot with my tongue, sucking her slick folds into my mouth. Her hot sex taste filled my mouth and her scent my nose, and she was so moist now with her rising ecstasy. My hands and fingers grappled up to her tight, ripe breasts, and with both of my palms I pressed those full weights to her chest and felt the hot peak of nipples in my hands. And one of her small hands clasped mine now, pressing it even harder to the heat of her splendid tit and hard, twisting my palm against her hard nipple. 

In her throat I could hear a soft panting as I licked her hotness, her hot sex, "ah, ah, ah God, fuck me with your mouth, your hot mouth, ah yes, fuck, God, ah, tits, tight on my tits, your heat hands hot, damn you Alex, fuck my cunt with your tongue, squeeze my titties, you lord of the manor, make me come, ah God here I am...." And with one long long keen and a deep grunt, my little Jen exploded into her peak, her body rippling and throbbing with her pleasure, her hands still clenching my hand hard on her soft breast, her other hand on my head still, and her cunt thrust high and still into my mouth, every tingling nerve ending pulsating at the fulcrum that was her high pearl, her tight bud of pleasure. 

And then everything about her collapsed, and she lay spent upon the bed, and she released her holds on me. And I looked up at her heaving small body, my mouth glistening with her juices, and her chest and breasts were a blaze of flushed red, and up to her throat as well. And her head was thrown back on the pillows, and one small hand lay twitching at the base of her throat, as if she felt a feverish pulse there. And my sweet Jenny lay there all pleasured and spent, all swooned in her pleasure.

And my cock was hard in my trousers, and all throbbing there. Jenny lay swooned on the bed, her luscious body curled in its lovely curves yet her hands reached out to me and pulled my body to hers, quickly undoing my trousers so that I could shake them away from my legs. Her slender fingers reached for my shaft which rode hard against my belly and she swirled the palm of her hand over the purple head and I jerked with the pleasure of that quick rub.

"Jenny, you minx, leave him be, let me have his hardness now!" And it is the splendid Molly who has come into the room and is standing at the end of the bed, her legs spread in a wide stance, her hands upon her hips like some stern school ma'am. But her flashing green eyes are alive with a wide smile, and she is laughing along with little Jen, for these two girls are always teasing each other, and teasing me. There she is, wearing that favourite green leather dress, its zipper a silver diagonal from hem to shoulder, curving over the roundness of her belly and the tightness of her tits.

I lie with my head in Jenny's lap, her splendid breasts just above my face and I can look up into her deep brown eyes. She slowly caresses my hair, her hands gentle and slow. Molly, meanwhile, stands all delightful at the end of the bed, and takes the tag of her long silver zip between her finger and thumb, and slowly, ever so slowly, starts to slide it down her long body. The sweet enticing bitch, she slides it down so slowly, knowing that it teases and entrances me. Her eyes are all focused on the length of my prick as the zipper reveals an inch of her shoulder and then another inch, and then there are three inches of her skin all showing. Her green eyes flash, and her red tongue licks her strawberry lips, and now the zipper is being undone along the curved crevice of her cleavage, and the beautiful curves of her thrusting breasts are slowly revealed. Ah God, the revelation is so slow, and my eyes feast on what I can see. And there is one splendid breast, its erect nipple sitting proud at its tip, a long nub of flesh. And she flicks upon her nipple with her fingers, and it peaks. "Oh, look at that, my little nipple for all of us to see. How wicked of me!"

Still the zipper slides down. Molly is such a tease, and my cock bounces at the sight of her. She is still standing motionless, her legs still spread in her proudness. And now the metal is moving across the curve of her belly and down, further down it goes. Now I can see the dark top of her dark hair at the base of her belly. Molly's one hand is now caressing her lush breast, this one and then that one, but again the bitch teases, because when she clenches one breast I cannot see the other. And her other hand is still moving with fingers delicate upon the zipper, which now is finally at the bottom of the dress and, there, it is undone! "Alex, do you want to see my beautiful body, breasts all bare and my belly all soft and round, and my soft hair hiding my cunny?"

"Yes, you teasing tramp, delight my eyes and make my prick rise." I was happy to play her game, because she is always teasing and slow moving and wicked in her ways but oh goodness, that long leanness! She is wonderful. Molly's two hands pull the leather halves of her dress together and her naked body is hidden from my eyes, and Jenny cannot see her flesh either. "Come closer, Molly," says our Jenny, "come closer so we can see your sweet hot cunt lips and your rising pearl, come closer, you bad girl." Jenny joins in the game, because she too wants to see the wonderful Mol's curves and tits and belly. She too wants to taste that long tight nipple and to suck upon it.

So the long bodied Molly slithers onto the bed, her green leather dress still held all tight and hiding to her body. She holds herself above my groin, her thighs gripping my hips, and lowers herself so that her dripping cunt lips are along the shaft of my prick, and she sways back and forth along it. Jenny slides herself out from under my head, and now kneels above me, her plump thighs on each side of my head. So there the two girls are, Molly upon me and sliding along my cock, Jenny facing her and now rising her little body up and shuffling forward over my face. "Show us Mol, show us your tits," cries Jenny, "show us those dainty boobs!"

And Molly, slow for the last time now, slowly moves her hands apart, each set of curling fingers clutching one side of her split dress, and she spreads her arms wide. The green leather dress becomes like wings, her long lean body down the centre like a butterfly's body. Her two splendid breasts are pert and proud, standing high on her body, nipples thrusting and pointing. Her ribbed body is pale and long and there is her dark cunt hair a thick triangle at the bottom of her belly. Ah dear God she is all a beauty sitting high above me, and there she is, Molly rises on her haunches and takes my prick into her hand. 

With a look of intense concentration in her jade eyes, she rubs the head of me over her red spreading lips and on her little pearl, and she then slips her fingers into her wetness and then upon my prick with her wetness, all slick and smooth. And she holds my cock high to her centre and descends upon it, inch by slow inch until my eight inch hardness is all gone inside her hot belly, and she has fucked down upon me, soft and tight and hot and wet. Molly is slow moving upon me, and she arches her neck back and sighs, ah she sighs, fuck she sighs, dear sweet sighs, and she starts a slow movement on me. Fuck, she is hot and clenched around me and she slowly fucks me.

As she takes her leisure and her pleasure on me, I see Jenny move above my head and she positions her taut sweet thighs about my head and raises her curved little body up, her big breasts swaying low, her belly tightly rounded. The crease of her arse is now above my face and all I can see now is the brown tangled hair between her legs and swirling up to her pink hole, just a thread of curled hair. Her rose bud is round and pink, little creases surrounding it like a tight star. It is clenched with the tension of her thighs as she holds her weight above me, and then she lowers herself to my face. "Molly, I have given Alex my little rose bud for him to suckle on, and you must give me your sweet lips to kiss."

And I felt the weight of the two girls, one on my face and one on my prick, lean together as their lips and tongues met; and as Jen's thighs sank about my ears and hid my hearing, I heard a muffled sigh from the girls. They were both upon me and slow moving, my cock deep and long in Molly's wet cunt and my tongue long and deep in Jenny's tight tunnel. Her hole was tight and clenched upon my tongue as I probed into her, her taste musky and with a slight tang. I alternated my tongue first probing her anus and then my mouth sucking upon it. Her little cunt slicked its moistness upon my chin and she was sliding her little hole and her long wet lips on my face, my tongue busy in her hot places. She could hold her body at just the right place to my mouth to pleasure her dripping places.




In The Library Ch. 15



My cock was sheathed and held tight in the delectable Molly, and her cunny was gripping me like a hand; tight as a clenching fist, and then she would relax her grip and slide up high on my shaft. She would hold herself there, her lips gripping just the head of my cock, and then she would drop down wet and slick upon me. Her pace was teasingly slow, but she knew to be slow, for with her tight cunt and little Jen's sweet bum, my sensations were beginning to quicken and I knew that I would spend my seed deep in Molly's hotness soon enough, and the girls wanted their pleasure first. Christ, they knew how to control me and make me do their wicked bidding, they were my precious girls and how I did love them.

For minutes we made a slowly moving triangle of pleasure; Molly's fresh hot sex clenching around my pulsing, rigid prick; Jenny's tight bum hole making a barrier to my thrusting tongue; and above I imagined their hands upon each other's breasts and their tongues between lips. Mol' s pert and upright breasts with her long hard nipples; Jen's full and round breasts a weight in the other girl's hands, their hot, thrusting tongues, their full luscious lips, their sweet kisses, and their teeth pulling on their lower lips, turn and turn about, suckling like a ripe fruit, gently bitten.

Then they both became motionless, and I knew then that they were both focused totally upon one another and the sweetness of their kisses. My body was, for this next small beat of time, merely a resting place, a sitting still place, for a hot wet cunt, not clenched; and a glistening cunny and slick lips, not moving now. The two girls were each entranced in the other, and I expect they were gently pulling on each other's tight nipple, flicking it with finger nails or rubbing it softly with a thumb. Perhaps one hand caressed the hair of the other one, insistently pulling heads closer. Their stillness was a heartbeat and a pulse above me. Perhaps their hands clenched, their fingers laced between each other.

For each of my hands was now held, and a girl's slender fingers laced through mine, and each gave a tight squeeze of my hand. I was held now, my cock held close and tight and warm; my hands held firmly in young, strong hands; and my face was held safe between the firm thighs and the comforting sex of my first girl. And now the girls starting a slow rocking motion above me, my cock clenched and released, and the wettened sex pressing down on my mouth and then floating above me. Their combined rhythm was setting up an inevitable climbing of the hill of pleasure, and it might be a race to see who gets there first. I think it will be me, because I have been hard now all through Jenny's first pleasure and she is well on her way to her second climax, and the splendid Molly is beginning to heat and quicken with her own.

And I start thrusting up into the clenching cunt of the girl riding me, and she rides me strong and firm, her long body bouncing on my groin, her firm thighs tight against my own. But it is little Jen who gets there first, for above my face I feel her body writhe and stiffen, and she pushes her hot twat down on to my face and clenches my head hard with her thighs and then she is motionless. When she comes she always stiffens and reaches a still point, as if all of the stars in her head have suddenly stopped moving, and all of the colours of the rainbow have merged and become one, a single bright, brilliant colour, and she is motionless, as the stars and colours slowly expand with pleasure and light inside her head, and then they explode with a slide and a slip of consciousness and ecstasy. She makes a single shake all over her body, and twists to the side and falls away from me, and is all a sprawled on the bed.

"Ah Alex, you precious thing, you have made me do it again," she sighed, "I am all a tremble."

"But," Molly panted, "I am not yet there yet, so fuck me now, fuck me your best, and your hardest." And her green eyes flashed, and there was a blaze of blushing red upon her throat and chest, and her breasts were high and proud, and she held them both now in her hands. So I clenched my hands to her waist and held her firm and tight, and then she rose up high on my cock, and with a quick twist of her body, she straightened her legs along mine, and dropped her luscious lean body to mine, and her hard tits were against my chest. I reached to her arse, and gripped those firm mounds and fucked up into her, my hardest and my best.

And she clenched her long cunt around me and pressed her hard breasts against me, and thrust her sweet tongue into my cunt drenched mouth, for Jen's juice were sticky on my face, and oh Lord, Molly fucked hard and long above me; her lean long body writhing upon me, her sex gripping mine. And our bodies were slicked with sweat and then her rising passion was upon her and with a long rising moan she was coming hard upon me and around me, and her long clenching was enough for me, and from deep within my balls and from deep within my spine I felt my first pulsation burst and explode into her tight cunt, and she throbbed back at me; and then my second and then third pulsing bursts were upon me, and with a long groan I fucked all my seed into her, deep into her womb, and all pulsed there, all spending and throbbing. "Oh sweet Molly, take all of me into your hotness, your hot wet sweet place all a gripping me."

"Just fuck your best into me, Alex, fuck your best into me now," and with a spasm she came again, her writhing body all over mine, and her sharp little teeth bit upon my lip in her pleasure, and she did not know that she did it. And then she reared back her head, her long throat beating with her speeding pulse and gripped my hand tight above my head, as if to trap me there upon this bed. But she was all shuddering and heaving above me, as the last ripples of her pleasure flowed through her. 

I felt a movement on the bed, and felt soft curves of little Jenny beside me, and that sweet one threw her arm around Molly and I did too, and we held all each other close and warm, our sweat cooling our skin on our sprawling limbs. And we murmured little nothings to each other, and tried not to be sad this last night. 

The fire cracked and sparkled in the grate and the room was warm with the heat of us and the heated air, and our three bodies were sprawled along each other and around each other. I, lucky man that I was for the first part of that night, lay between the two delectable young things and I was content, and they too were content. Little Jenny was especially langorous, as I had tongued her tight bum hole and red lipped cunny twice now and she had peaked twice in all her pleasuring, and her cunny was swollen and wet and her arse too. Her eyes were slowly shuttening up with her sleepiness, and Molly found a little blanket to all cover up our littlest friend with the biggest breasts, for these girls truly loved one another and always cared for the other.

In the room below we could hear the clatter of the last glasses being collected, so we knew that the long legged Luce would be up soon with her mead and her tits spilling all out of her blouse. Mol and I wondered whether we should play some game with her, some jest. But then we remembered that Lucy had been on her feet and working hard all this evening, whilst we had been slack a bed and all playful together. So we thought it best not to tease our Lucy when she came, for she could have a wicked temper when she was all tired and weary.

"Perhaps we should give her the treat," said Molly, "when she arrives, perhaps we should pamper her and sooth her?" And we thought that was best, and neither us was troubled with the idea of it, because Mol liked to lick sweet cunny juice just as much as she liked to fuck on a hard cock; and Lucy didn't mind a good shaft in her back hole at the same time as a good tongue. And we thought we could manage something like that. And little Jen was asleep now, and would be dreaming, so she would be contented, too.

And the door clattered open with a bang, a firm foot placed to the bottom of it, for here was the long-legged Luce, her long skirts swinging and both her hands full. She held in one hand a large pottery jug, a wift of heat and a waft of steam rising from its opening. "Here's the hot mead," she said, and placed the warming jug upon the mantle. "And here are some fresh strawberries from the garden by the brook, and here is some clotted cream from Daisy at the dairy!" And she flicked the long mane of her straight long hair, her long blonde hair, away from her face, and it was a fan of flowing gold in the air, glistening with threads of silver in the moonlight, for the moon was full and high and round.

Lucy's breasts too were full and high and round, and she had two rising crescents bouncing upwards from her tight barmaid's blouse. Her skirt whirled and shifted with the pace of her entry, and her bosom heaved from the run up the stairs and the fury of her arrival. And the blonde bouncing girl was all a loud noise in the room, and she was a vibrant presence there. I knew I was well and truly alive when Lucy was in the room. "Hush girl," Molly whispered, "little Jenny is asleep, she has had a good tongue fuck already and can take no more."

"Oh hush, my loudness," cried Luce, her excitement flashing in her bright blue eyes, "so you have spoiled that wee little mouse. But what about me, for I am the hard working girl?" And the challenge was there, in her long legged stance, and her skirts aswirl and her long hair falling and her blue eyes sparkling. She was alive and noisy and tall, and it would take Molly and me, with all our soothing hands and gentling lips, it would take us both some time to calm this girl. For she was like a young fawn, her long limbs all flouncing around herself, her spilling breasts all high and bouncing.

Molly cast a shawl around her shoulders for warmth, although I wondered if it would be warm, for it was a dainty thing with patterns and swirls, and her flesh was pale inside it, and the pink of her long nipples poked through. And she found a purple dark robe for me, for it was unfair that Luce should be all clothed and us all naked; and besides, we knew that an undressing was always a surprise. And we had our work to do with this tall willowing wench.

"Lucy, girl, calm yourself my pretty, and let us sup upon the strawberries and cream, and the hot honey wine, and it will be a little feast in the night. You are all hot and bothered, so let us be your serving slaves and you shall be our queen." We would create a tableaux for Lucy's enjoyment, and she would be the regal woman at the centre of it all. And her luscious tight sex would be the prize, and Molly and I would race each other to it. Lucy laughed at the idea and pouted prettily as she stopped by the end of the bed and looked at us both and the sleeping Jenny.

Molly and I stood beside her and placed our arms around the taller girl, holding her close and caressing her beautiful hair and her soft skin. I cupped her heart shaped face in my two hands and kissed her gently, and at the same time wrapped the skein of hair around my arms so they were covered in the soft silkiness of her straight long hair, all shining and fine. Molly meanwhile was attending to the buttons on Lucy's blouse, for she was eager to press her breasts against the other girl's tits, and to feel their heat against her own. Lucy's breasts were round and firm and high, her deep cleavage a line of dark shadow on her lovely torso. Because Molly was not so tall, it was a simple thing for her to kiss the throat of the girl beside her, and she nibbled upon her ear.

With her fingers cleverly undoing the buttons of Lucy's blouse, Molly was first to touch those beautiful breasts and her palms held the lovely weight of those orbs, but I did not mind because they were a feast for my eyes. The girl's were reaching for each other's tightening nipples now, their palms caressing and pressing against the peaking flesh. "Look Lucy, your red nipples are like the strawberries, let me taste if they are as sweet," said Molly, and she bit down on a strawberry until juice ran over her lips till they shone. Her fruit red lips then suckled upon the bud on Lucy's tight tit, and her juice laced down the pale white skin, and her white teeth gently bit upon that bud.

"Molly you are a witch," sighed Lucy and pulled the other girl close. I kneeled in front of the two girls, and loosened the belt on the tall girl's skirt until it dropped away to a puddle of cloth at her feet, and there were her long legs. At the base of her belly was a fine, small triangle of blonde curls, and her hips were narrow and her belly was flat, for her build was something like that of a boy, but for her bounteous breasts and her fine limbs. Her arse was tightly muscled and rounded, with a cleft like a ripe peach, and her legs were slender and long. I touched my tongue to her navel, and she shivered. Standing now in front of her, I gently separated her thighs and slid my lengthening cock up between them until we stood, belly to belly, my cock along her cunny lips and she clenched her thighs around it, and the head of me was between the cheeks of her arse, the head just peaking at the back of her.

Then Molly was indeed the wicked one, for she kneeled behind the standing Luce, and popped the head of my prick, which was purple like a plum, not red like the strawberries, into her hungry mouth, and she bit just a gentle nip with her teeth. "Be careful wench, that is a soft place you nibble upon, so be gentle," I gasped, as my cock throbbed with the touch of her tongue and the nip of her teeth. 

So the bad girl swirled the head of me with her tongue, and smiled up at me with her flashing green eyes. "But Alex, your fine cock head is like a sweet strawberry, and my little teeth do not know the difference." The wench is a tease, and she teases me. 

But Lucy has had enough of our playful chatter, and she wants some more pleasing. She moves away from my embrace and lies upon the bed now, and takes several of the strawberries and bites each one of them into two halves so she has a handful of the sweet, red fruits in the palm of her hand, each one heart shaped with a white soft centre. And they were like tiny replicas of her ripe sex, but with the colours quite the opposite. For the fruit were white centred with rich red on the outside, but her sweet sex was red centred and pale white on the outside, for she was pale in her skin.

So there she is upon the bed, and the juice is seeping from the split fruit in her hand, and her legs are spreading wide and her sex is split and her juice is seeping. And one by one, she takes each half of the strawberries and teases apart the lips of her cunt, and presses the sweet fruit into herself. She rubs the red flesh of the strawberries over her own red flesh, and over the rising bud of her centre, and the sweet scent of the fruit mingled with the heady scent of her arousal, and her cunt is all sticky and sweet and messy with the fruit. And her cunt is full of the strawberries, and all ripe for eating.

Molly is the first to that sweet Lucy cunt, and she is eager to clean up all of that juice, and to sup upon those strawberries. And there are those two girls upon the bed, Lucy with her legs spread wide and Molly's head between, and Mol is up on her haunches and there is her throbbing sex high in front of me, the tight moons of her rounded bum all wonderful for my eyes. Ah, there is the choice for me, a sweet puckered arse hole or a long wettened cunt and what should I do? I am lazy this night, though, and do not have the patience to enter into that tight, delectable arse, but I do not think that Mol will mind if I shaft her sweet cunny. So that is what I do.

With my full proud shaft in front of me, I take Molly's firm cheeks in my hands and spread them wide apart, and she pushes back to me, thrusting her dark cunny up to me, and it is a simple thing to slide straight into her. She is wonderfully wet and hot, and her sweet sex grips me like a hand, and I am into her. I am primitive now, and my moans and grunts are quick upon me as I fuck and shaft her. She pushes back onto my prick, all the time feverishly licking on Lucy's strawberry filled quim. She thrusts into Lucy's sex with her fingers and plucks from that wet place one strawberry, which she offers back to my mouth, and a second berry which she offers up to Lucy's mouth, and a third which she eats herself; and we all taste the sweetness of the cunted fruit.

Lucy cries out, "Alex, I want your last fuck before you leave us, and Mol, give me your tits and your nipple to bite on as he fucks me." So Molly and I please the long legged wench, for she is the bossy one and we are happy to obey, and again it is a simple thing to rearrange ourselves on the bed. Lucy's long legs are spread wide as I enter into her, and she is all filled up with some of the strawberries which make a wet pulp inside her and a smooth channel for my prick. There is so much juice spilling from her open sex that it feels like my cock is floating inside her, and the squelch of juice is up and down her thighs. She reaches down to her drenched groin and pulls the sweetness up to her belly and her breasts, and she is shining with the slick fluids, spreading it like a balm all over her skin and her rounded tits. 

Molly now is by Lucy's head, and her long nipple is suckled into the other girl's mouth, and her nip is tugged at by sharp little teeth. "Oh sweet bitch, be careful how you bite me, be gentle there," says Molly, for her nipple is tight and tender, and the teeth are sharp. I start up a long slow fuck into dear Lucy's hot sliding cunt, and she wraps those long legs about my back and holds me close and pulls me deeper. And we are together, and I am slow and gentle and deep into her, and her blue eyes gaze into mine, and finally our Luce is peaceful below me, and I am proud and hard above her, and Molly's loving hands caress over our sexing bodies. And we three, who have known each other for so very long, take our pleasure from each other, gently, for we know that this is a last night for us.

And little Jenny wakens from her drowsiness, and crawls up beside us. And I slowly bring Lucy up to a shuddering peak as she lies long beneath me. The other two girls are on their sides beside her, and all of their hands are gentle and slow upon each other and upon me, and idly upon their own wet centres. There is no hurry for any one of us to peak first, and sighs and ripples of pleasure are soft in the room, and the air is warm around us. The air smells sweet from the juice of the berries and the scents of the three girls and my own hot muskiness and we are all slow and gentle with each other.

Slowly though, the heat in my balls builds, and Lucy's strawberry cunt is tightening now as our gentle swiving works away the pulp of the strawberries from her sweet channel, and the stickiness is about her lips and her curled fair hair, and my fucks lengthen into her and I am taking her deeper and more strongly now. Her breath is in faster pants and she arches her big breasts up against my chest and grips my back strong with her clasping hands, and she is fucking back up against me, hard and fast. Her eyes flicker closed and her tongue tips mine and thrusts in between my lips, and her hands hold my head tight to her breast and faster she arches her throat back. 

She is long and slender and her breasts are big and her nipples hard, her cunt clenches around my cock and we are thrusting into each other and she is my girl and here is my pulsing, throbbing seed and here is my rising cry and her answering sigh and oh my fuck, here is my spend deep into her. "Lucy, Lucy, oh my sweet fuck, Lucy, take me into yourself my honey, my sweet, ahh... yes, yes, Lord, fuck yes..." And with a final pulse and push my deep seed spills into her lush cunt and I am spent upon her. With an answering cry she too gasps into her ecstatic climax and her blue eyes open and stare straight into my deepest soul. And she anchors herself there, and this pretty wench with her spun gold hair, she falls into my memory, tumbling deep and losing herself there. "Alex," she sighs, "go well and go strong, we three will never forget thy love of us."




In The Library Ch. 15



And the fire in the grate crackled and sparked and we pulled blankets up around us, warm in the cooling night. And we were young together once, and we had often slept together, more than once, and when the sun rose I would begin a long journey. 

Once upon a time, Lucy, Molly and Jenny met the boy from the big house, and they grew up together, once upon a time....



In The Library Ch. 16



I have crossed the broad ocean and I am now in a new country. I have left the country of my birth and the country where I grew to become a man, and I have left the country where the woman named Catherine reared me as her own son. But she was not my mother and I am now in my mother's country. For my mother is Alexandra Cain and I am Alex Cain, but I do not know my mother.

I am alone in this country and I know no one. I travel alone, and no one knows me. That is good, because there are things I must discover before I confront her, this Alexandra who abandoned me as a babe. But I do not know how I shall approach her, for I have learned that she was young, younger than I am now, when she birthed me. And I suspect that she was afraid then, very afraid, and perhaps that fear is with her still. Or perhaps it is not. But I am not a cruel man, or do not think that I am, so perhaps I shall forgive her. Or perhaps I will not.

I am in the city of her birth, for I have learned much of her family from the letters I found in Catherine's house and in newspapers and journals since, and I know where she lives. I know much of this Alexandra. She is rich, for one thing, very rich, for her father has died and and he was a very wealthy man, and she is the only daughter. And I too am rich, very rich, for her father has died and he was Catherine's brother, and her estate was split between me and her brother. And the damned cat. The cat still lives, so Catherine's house in England is maintained. But no matter, Catherine's wealth has come now to me, so where there is blood there is money, it seems.

She has not married, this Alexandra, so we have the same name. We are both Cains, and we are both blood.

I am in a small tavern, waiting for her maid, Odette. I have decided that I shall approach this woman my mother through the other woman, the faithful maid. I shall see how faithful the maid is, this Odette. This Odette - and the strange, strangled voice of the old man in the library echoed: "Dette 'oved me... Lexanda 'oved you." I could not forget the passion in his voice and in his gestures and in his strange eyes, and he had kept a twenty year old photograph in a precious box, and the locket that I now wear around my neck. The locket with the tiny image of me as a babe, and the tiny feathers.

Odette does not know me and I shall be a stranger to her. Ah, there she is. She is a tall, and still a striking woman, well built and moves very nicely. But look, her hair is grey and short, and look there, a blaze of white down the side of her head, a shock of white. Her face is soulful and lost, but I do not think that I care about her loss. She at least had the strange man in her life for something of a year, but I was a babe then and cannot remember my mother.

"Good woman, do you care for a game of 'gammon, to while away some hours and to keep a stranger in this town some company?" I approached her gently, and gestured at the board and dice and the black and white rounds, there on the table.

She looked forthrightly at me, with a strong gaze, "yes I shall, sir, although I do not know you, but I know strangeness." A curious reply, but no matter. Her voice was soft and low, and there was tiny lilt of my home county in her accent, so even after all these years she has kept a trace of that time. Important to her, then?

We sat at the table and fluttered the dice, and the click of the rounds on the board kept pace with our idle conversation. I was circuitous and circumspect and trusted that her knowledge of accents and place in England would be limited, and she would not pick the disguise in my voice. The bar-keep brought us some wine and bread, and we supped. The fire crackled and snapped, and the warmth was soothing. And as I spoke with her, I became beguiled with this Odette. Even though she was twice my age she held an earthiness about herself that I found enticing. I suppose she had something of Lucy and Molly about her, or perhaps it was just the servant girl in her, still there in this ripe woman.

I became more flirtatious, and she returned my look with that confident gaze of hers. " Young sir, do I sense that I please you? I did not expect that. I am no longer young, sir, and would think you might like some younger lass." She is testing me, I think, and I think I like that confidence in her.

"I think, my lady, that you do please me."

"Oh please sir, I am no lady, I am just a serving woman. My mistress, Miss Cain, she is the lady." So, she might be willing to reveal more. But tonight I think that I am not interested in the mistress, but I do think that I am interested in the wench. But she is ahead of me in her interest, for under the table I feel the touch of a boot, the tip of a boot, against my leg. She is forthright then, and as confident as her gaze. Perhaps she thinks her superior years give her some advantage over me. And I do confess that, while the ripe young bodies of Lucy and Molly and little Jenny were sweet and dainty, fresh and enticing, the older body of this tall, strong woman represents more experience and a sexual awareness that the younger girls were too innocent to possess. Perhaps that is it, perhaps I no longer desire innocence, but might now prefer worldliness, now that my world has been shattered.

But I think I think too much on it. "Madame, and I shall call you that, because your rank is more than that of a mere girl. I think you might be a confidante of a proud woman, and I think you have your own wisdom too, that I would share." I would leave a thread for her to unravel to Alexandra, if she chooses, and I flatter her, too.

"Hush sir, you exaggerate, I am just an honest working woman." But again the tip of her boot told another story. I reached my hand under the table, and placed it upon her firm thigh. Above the table, she did not react, but threw another dice and took another sip of her wine. But beneath the table her thigh moved towards mine, and her other hand pulled up the cloth of her skirt, and her fingers brushed mine. Above the table I threw the dice and moved pieces on the board. And beneath the table my fingers caught the edge of the cloth she had pulled high, and I pulled it higher, and traced my fingers inside the flesh of her thigh and then higher still, up her leg.

Above the table, then, we were just a young man and an older woman making a conversation and playing a game of backgammon. And if anybody cared, that is all they would see, for we both kept up the pretence of it, and the act. But beneath the table, my hand was creeping higher to the top of her thigh until her leg was spread wide for my touch, and my fingers began to run along a rippled crease of skin and her soft lips, and the ends of my fingers began to tangle in her hair. I idly traced my fingers back and forth along the edges of her sex and then ran one deeper into a slight slickness.

Above the table, Odette's eyes opened wider just a fraction and sparkled and once again her confidence impressed me. "I think, young sir," and her voice was low, "I think, sir, that our game is done at this table, and you should escort me to the door, for I am a respectable woman and you, sir, must be very tired after your long days of travel. It would be best if we were seen to go our separate ways." But beneath the table she snapped her thighs together and trapped my fingers there, and her eyes confirmed the message of her capture of me. "Sir, I trust you will sleep well, and I suggest you leave your boots by your door, and they can be collected by the lad in the morning to polish them." So that is how she will know my room, I am impressed with her quick thinking.

We rose from the table and made our way to the front door of the tavern. I bowed to her and took her gloved hand and kissed it, as a respectable man would respect an older woman of his acquaintance, and she played along with the act. "Goodnight, good sir, and I trust you shall sleep well this night." And she walked away up the road. She was tall and splendid in her walking, her hips swayed.

I turned back inside the tavern and made my way to the rooms I had hired at the back of the inn, and left my boots at the doorway there. Inside the room I made up the fire and pulled back the quilt on the bed, and then sat in the chair by the fire, my bare feet warming there.

Some time later there was a soft knock and the door opened a fraction, and the tip of a boot nudged it further open. Odette stood there, in her tall haughty way, the blaze of white a strange marking in her greyed hair. She was a confident woman, comfortable in her body, comfortable with her age. A little daunting even - I wondered if I was truly able to match her wiser ways. "Good evening, sir, and I trust that it shall be. It has been some time since a strong young man has favoured me and I will do my best not to disappoint." It was not clear exactly who was leading this seduction, although I was starting to think that it was not me.

Odette came to me and sat upon my lap. She was forthright, and I sensed that she knew what she wanted in a man, and with her strong, generous body I think any man would have been pleased to know her. She set about knowing me, by caressing my cheek and the line of short beard there, and with her soft lips she kissed me. Her breath was smokey from the wine, a tart taste on her lips. Her tongue nestled between my lips and probed into my mouth like a tiny finger, and she pulled on my tongue with her lips, sucking it to her own mouth. She sucked upon my lower lip like some sweet fruit and I tasted her lush lips. I ran my hands through her short hair and traced my fingers down the white blaze. As I did so she arched her head back and softly sighed, and her eyes were half lidded and nearly closed, as if she were drugged.

With a bigger intake of breath, she held my face strongly in her two hands and was fiercer, hungrier for my mouth. My fingers touching the white blaze seemed to have triggered some emotion in her, and I recalled the photograph I had seen in the library. Her hair then was a long tumble, a long mane of fair hair, with thick waves. It was a tinted black and white photograph, but showed her hair clearly. Her hair was long then, and all of one colour, fair it seemed. But long, and a rich mane any girl would have been proud of. But she has cut it short since, and I would not have thought her age would have greyed it so. But grey it was, and short, and the streak of white along its length.

Odette's fingers rose to my shirt and its row of buttons, and with her clever fingers she began to undo each button, while her other hand caressed the back of my head and my neck, fingers combing through my hair, her hand pulling me to her insistent kiss. Her hand reached inside my opened shirt and her short finger nails pulled upon my nipples and they tightened to fine points, and a thread pulled upon the nerve straight down to my cock, which twitched and began to fill and lengthen. She could feel it under her thigh, and with a slight twist and rub she acknowledged it there. "Sir likes that, my fingers upon his breast." It was a statement, not a question.

And in response my fingers too found a row of buttons and loosened each pearled circle, one by one, until her blouse was two folds of cloth, and her full breasts were held in another wrap of cloth about her neck and across her back, with a twist of cloth at the front, her two breasts full and heavy, swathed in cloth. The cloth was not tight, and my hand cupped in under one fold and held her breast, warm and a satisfying weight in my palm. My finger and thumb found the end of her hardening nipple, and again she sighed as I pulled upon her teat and held the weight of her full tit. "Ah, sir, I like your fingers upon my breast." Again, it was a statement, not a question.

My hand moved around her side to her back, and loosened the tie in the cloth there, so that I could pull away the wrap of cloth, and she twisted her body so that the full, proud swell of her bared breasts was before my eyes and her ripe flesh in my hands. She was full and magnificent, her breasts still high even with her age, but with a fullness that my three younger girls did not possess. Here was a ripeness and a firmness, heavy with her age but lovely, and I bent my head in worship to her nipples and sucked upon them and twisted her tight nips into my mouth. And I gave a gentle nip with my teeth around the suck of her nipple,and her flesh was tight and sweet and full. The crease between her globes was tangy with her sweat, a slight bead of scent there. And I palmed the weight of her breasts in my hands, and then pressed them hard against her chest, their fullness hot and hard with nipples tight and long.

Her fingers toyed with the locket about my neck, but she did not ask about it. She ran just one finger along the length of the chain and around the hanging pendant against my chest, and then her finger traced lower, down to my belly, and lower, down to the barrier of my belt. And my fingers too traced the weight of her belly, a nicely mounded fullness around her navel, her skin pale yet traced with the finest fair down, faint and blonde. I cupped the flesh of her belly, and it was a soft comforting place for my hand, for it was womanly and soft and full. "Oh, dear sir, your hands are firm but gentle, you caress my skin like a precious thing."

"It is your turn to hush now, sweet woman, for you are alive and aknowing of yourself, and you have a ripe beauty and a womanly grace that you know well in yourself, and I am most respectful of it. You are mature and beautiful but I am young and shallow, and would drown in you." I was not just flattering her, for her worldly beauty was something I had not yet learned to properly appreciate, but her age gave her wisdom about a man and a woman that I could not yet know, and she was teaching me, this proud woman.

And our lips caressed again and our tongues thrust at each other, and her hands were upon my chest and my hands were upon the soft sides of her body and cupping the weight of her breasts and my palm against the roundness of her belly was warm, and her fingernails scratched upon my flesh. She was leaning her body against mine now, reclining against me and her body was turned so I had full access to her splendid breasts and full nipples, and my hand wandered down to the base of her belly. I teased apart the folds of cloth about her waist and loosened her skirt, and my hand wandered to the tight place between her thighs. "Ah sir, you find the centre of me," and again it was a statement and an encouragement.

She was still sitting with her full, handsome weight on my lap, and the throb of me was against her thigh. My hands found some loops of cloth in the folds of her skirt, and I tugged them apart, and the skirt fell away from her long thighs and she was displayed in a full, wide spread of her long legs, stockings rolled high on her strong thighs, dark curled hair a triangle at the top of those limbs. And about her hips and haunches were a series of parallel scars on her flesh, five parallel scars on each side of her body, each about two or three inches long. The scars were thin and fine and straight, and she had been cut deep at some time in her life. They were not new, and were a part of her. I touched my fingers to them and traced the ends of my fingers to them, and the scars matched the line of my fingers. And as I touched them Odette gasped, and her hand reached to her hair and touched the white blaze there, and I saw that her eyes glistened and were bright and wet, yet faraway. Some sharp clawed hand or creature had made these scars upon her and had marked her. 

My touch was gentle upon her skin, and I did not know whether to ask a question or to remain silent, for the scars were a part of her and marked her, and the white blaze in her hair was also a mark upon her. 

"Odette, what manner of man or beast or woman made these marks upon you?" I had to ask, and the notion of a beast was in my mind because no human hand could be so quick and sharp and clean, but I could not imagine what creature might do this. 

"Dear sir, you are kind and gentle to ask, and your touch is delicate upon my flesh and it is a caress, but I cannot compare your caress to the thing who marked me, but I cannot say who made these fine scars upon me. It is not a believable thing yet I cannot forget him." And once again her hand went to the blaze of white in her greyed hair, her short hair. And I knew then that she had sacrificed her precious long hair, and had suffered some terrible, but some ever longed for thing, and she had never forgotten. And I could not compare to this thing that happened to her once, and that was why she was confident and proud, for she knew that no man could ever compare to some long ago love that made her strong and proud. For she knew her own flesh, and it had been loved beyond compare.

And I was humbled before her and her strong memory, and the powerful thing that had loved her and she had loved it in return. And the torn throated voice of the of man in the library, that man who had been beautiful once, that torn broken voice came back to me, "Dette 'oved me." And I thought then, that I knew who her past love was, but I could make no sense of it because I could make no sense of him. And I could not say to her that I knew of this man, because that would reveal I knew of her past, and that would reveal me.

Even though I was humbled and could not compare to her unforgotten love, Odette was nude before me and I had to worship her beautiful presence and in so doing honour her with my lust. It might be a clumsy thing but it was what I had, and she at least should have it, even if it did not compare. So I bade her fall back on the bed, and knelt between those long thighs , black stockings with a blacker band at the top of them lightly compressing the flesh of her thigh, and her skin was soft and smooth, and the dark cleft of her sex was plump and full, long lips edging above the line of fine dark hair, lazily curled and spreading just a little down the inner part of her thighs, a tiny bit of hair there. 

And the delta of hair spreading up the base of her belly was fine and lightly curled and there was a thin line of soft down running up the centre of the plumpness that was the bottom of her long torso. And she was full and luxurious and her cunt was before my eyes, and I traced my fingers up between her lips and Odette gasped with the press of my fingers into her. I pressed on with my fingers and they teased and touched apart the red cleft of her soft sex and her clitoris rose like a small red pearl, and I trailed up a loop of her wetness around her high centre and again she sighed.

"Put your tongue to me, you beautiful young man, put your tongue to me, lick into me and fuck into my cunt with your long fingers." Odette urged and demanded me, and her urging was my desire and I wanted her then, but wanted more than my tongue and fingers in her hot heat. She was wide before me and open, and her cunt was inviting and her full breasts enticed me too, for my hands loved their weight, and her red lipped mouth had been a treat for my lips once already and would be again. And I wanted to prove to this proud woman that she might command me and compare, but it would be on my terms, and more than all else at this time I wanted to fuck into her.

So I stood above her and stood tall to show her my youth, and I peeled down my pants and my prick sprang high and hard against my belly for I was a young man and it rose hard and full against my gut. And her eyes opened a little wider at the sight of me, and a slow glaze came over them and then her eyelids drooped and there was a slight smile came to her mouth. And I think that Odette compared me, and I was worthy of that matching, or my young prick was at least a rod to compare to his, in her memory, if not I.




In The Library Ch. 16



And I took my heat and hardness into my hand and caressed it about her lush cunt and pressed the head of it to her high pearled redness, and rubbed upon her there, and she sighed. Odette sighed for me, and I slid the head of my prick to her wet centre and pressed one small inch into her and stopped there, all still. And I was astonished, for she too stopped still and motionless with just that one part of my rod in her, yet I would have expected her to push up against me to latch her deep cunt to the length of my prick, and to grab the cheeks of my ass to pull me into her. But she was controlling and tantalised all at the same time, as if she teased her own pleasure and teased and slowed mine.

So I pressed another part of my rod into her, but not the fullness of it, and again I was still. And again I was astonished, for she gripped at my shaft within her tunnel, but she did not move on it. I could feel her shimmering with her pleasure as if she was balancing on an edge, but she would hold herself from tumbling, and the stillness was exquisite and arousing. Her control over me and her own pleasure was precise and complete, and she had some extraordinary instinct of herself and her sex and her lust and her cunt that was learned beyond my knowledge. She was more powerful than I, and I succumbed completely to her, and with a deep groan I thrust myself complete and full into her. I could not resist her stillness and her grip, and she had made me hers completely.

This older woman was teaching me more than I could learn, and her grace and beauty of herself was an estrangement and an enrapture. In my simple way I could only pleasure her in one way now, and that was to fuck deep and hard into her, even though I knew that her capacity to receive was greater than mine to give, for she was wiser in her sex than I. I was just a callow youth in her cunt, and humbled by her proud soft breasts and the woman in her, and all I could do was fuck into her sweetness and drown.

I sunk deep and thrusting into her hot cunt, and I wrapped my arms about her and pulled her to me, her full breasts against my chest and my arms wrapped her hard. Her long legs gripped and wrapped to my back and she was wide and open and receiving of me, and I was deep and thrusting and filling into her. Odette's hands grappled about my back and caressed my skin and gripped me to her, and her eyes were open and a strong gaze to mine, and I could not look away. She matched me fuck for fuck, thrust and thrust, and she was powerful and strong in her love of her own pleasure, and she was content with me, even though I knew I did not compare.

"Fuck into me, young sir, take your pleasure into my warm cunny and pleasure yourself. Your rod is splendid and is long and deep into me, and pleasures me well." Her voice was low and a quiet whisper, but her breath was a heat in my mouth and her body all a rhythm on mine, and our fuck was sweet and long and deep and full, and her breasts were hot and firm against my chest and her nipples were tight. Her mouth was hot and her tongue a thrust, and her hands were about my back and we held each other close and our fuck was full and deep and long, and our skin slid hot and my cock was rigid and her cunt was deep and wet and the deep spill of me was starting from the base of my spine and I thrust deeper into her and my pulsing spasm was rising in me and along my long prick and oh fuck, fuck, fuck, woman, take me deep into you deeper and ah, yes, oh fuck, I can feel your spasm on the thick of my shaft and oh my sweet fuck, take me all.

And with a long shuddering spasm I came into her lusciousness and her full, deep cunt and again I spasm and my seed is into her deep and full and her grip milks me. And she too rises into a long cry of her own pleasure and her sharp teeth bite into the side of my neck with a nip and a bruise, but not fierce, she is gentle. This Odette, she is gentle and beautiful. " Ah, young sir, you do me good, I had not expected this pleasure in my limbs and breasts and my deep cunny." And her eyes were soft and her smile was sweet and I felt that perhaps I had brought her some small pleasure as best I could, even if I did not compare. But I was young and that difference did not matter, because I did learn. This Odette was indeed faithful, but to herself and to her lost longing love.

As we cooled against each other, my cock shrank and softened within her hot sex, and we fell onto the bed and rolled aside each other, and I remained softening inside her. Our hands were a slow caress on each other's flesh, and my fingers once again traced over those scars on her flesh, softly. And once again her hand touched to the white blaze in her hair. She shivered and I held her.

"Sweet sir, I must away from you before the sun rises, I cannot stay."

"Dear woman, can you say why that is?" I did not want this lovely woman to leave so soon because I loved the warmth of her.

"I cannot explain, because it is beyond belief, and it is strange, but I fear the dawn." And again her hand touched upon the white blaze in her hair, and I realised this was some automatic thing that she did, but she did not know that she did it. And unbidden, the memory of that strange room in Catherine's house came to my mind, that room with the old and new scratches, and the old but once beautiful man and his tortured throat. And my fingers traced upon the flesh on her hips and the long parallel scars there, and I remembered the strange but familiar movement of the man as he circled about me in the library. And I remembered, "the damned cat," and whispered the words before I realised what I had said.

And Odette reared back from me and her eyes flashed. "What did you say, then, what did you whisper?" And she scrambled away from me, pulling her clothes into her arms and pushed to the door. "Oh mistress, it is him, your son is here and I have betrayed you, what have I done? He is here."

My name is Alex Cain, and I am revealed.



In The Library Ch. 17



I have been in this city for just over one month, but I have not yet met Alexandra, my mother.

I have made a mistake and revealed myself to her maid, Odette. So I have left the tavern and taken untidy and cheap rooms down by the lake. I keep to myself, but I do not know what to do about my mother, for I have discovered that she is a powerful woman in this city, and I am the interloper. I am uncertain.

I am sitting in a small tea room down by the shore of the lake, and there is a bridge across the water here. My coffee is a hot and strong tasting brew, and refreshes me. I reach for the day's paper, and there on the society page is a small, grained photograph of Alexandra Cain, who "has recently announced her engagement to ..." 

So, my mother is to marry, and hastily, it would appear. Has she had the misfortune of another misadventure, I wondered, for that is usually the reason an only daughter and an heiress announces a quick match. Clearly, she was too young to be match-made when she was disgraced by me, her bastard son, so I wondered who the slut had partnered with this time, that a swift marriage was required. Or was I too harsh, perhaps my mother could truly find it in her heart to love, just not her babe of a son. My own heart was hardening against her, this Alexandra. 

But her wedding is to be a society event, and maybe I can gate-crash it. Odette will know my face and would inform Alexandra of my presence, but the woman cannot risk a confrontation, for I am the walking evidence of a prior disgrace. So perhaps I could turn an encounter to my advantage. I did not know how I might do that, but if I was careful and subtle, I might find an opportunity. At the least, I could speak to my mother discreetly, but in a public situation, and she would be obliged to listen for fear of what I might do. I thought that I would be able to make a discreet entrance, and observe from the shadows. So there is the plan. It is all I have got, but I have nothing to lose.

The Cain mansion was emblazoned with electric lights, the grounds filled with tents and pavilions and numerous tableaux for the wandering guests. Naked men and woman, dancers most likely, were posed still as statues on pillars and in front of constructed grottoes, their bodies cleverly lit with spot lights and shadows, light and dark, no movement. And then the lights would flicker and change, and the human statues would strike a new pose. Their nakedness was blatant, but there were so many unclad bodies of all shapes and sizes, and all about the gardens and rooms of the house, that eventually their licentiousness became predictable and did not arouse.

But look, there is the bride Alexandra, promenading at the top of the grand staircase. And I am spellbound and struck speechless, for she is the image of the woman who was not my mother but who raised me as her son. This Alexandra is clearly of the same blood that ran in the veins of Catherine who reared me, and the likeness is uncanny. I am unnerved and tremble, for here is my family like some strange echo of my family, yet I have been cast out and am alone.

Alexandra is exquisite in her long white gown, or is it the palest cream, or the palest silver? My eyes cannot hold the colour of her gown clear in my head, for it shimmers and shifts in the light on the stairs. She is medium height, perhaps halfway between a tiny five feet and my six foot, and exquisitely curved in the hip, but slighter in the breast and waist. She is slender but not thin, and her hair is long and waved and thick and black, and falls like a wave of midnight down her back. I gaze upon her from beside the foot of the stair, this beautiful woman who is my mother who deserted me.

And I hate her and love her, and my emotions conflict and torment me, and I do not know what to do. I remain motionless and in the shadows. There is no sign of the groom, her husband to be, so I can make no measure of the man who would have this woman for his wife. 

But there is Odette, there beside Alexandra, and she is tall and handsome, the white blaze in her hair striking in the light. And she sees me by the stairs below her, and her eyes narrow. She turns to her mistress and whispers in her ear, and the raven black haired woman slowly turns her head and gazes down at me. I cannot back into the deep shadows fast enough, and I am unnerved, for her gaze reveals nothing but everything. 

I cannot respond and do not know how to respond. The corners of Alexandra's mouth turn up in ever so slight a smile and she is amused. Some small thing (am I that small thing?) amuses her. She turns away and her gaze passes to one of her guests and small talk is made. I am dismissed, yet she then turns back to gaze again upon me, and I feel as though I am summoned and welcomed. Damn the bitch, she commands me and I cannot control this night.

I turn away, for I must leave and lose myself elsewhere in this house. I do not know how to cope with Alexandra's presence, and I am best away from her. So I grab a glass from a passing waiter, and make my way to the lawns where there is an entertainment underway in one of the pavilions. A number of naked men and woman have set up a casual fuck on the lounges under the white billowing canopies, and guests mingle among them and touch or watch, and a murmur of voices runs commentary on the scene.

And an elegant, tall, thin woman comes to my side and stands. She too holds a glass of wine in her hand, and she is silent beside me as she observes the play proceeding before us, these people carelessly fucking. She is tall, as tall as me, and in her high heels, even taller. Her limbs are long and slender, her back thin, even gaunt, but lean muscled. 

She is clad in a flowing gown, with a plunging neckline falling over breasts that are hardly there, nipples the only flesh rising from her chest and pushing against the cloth draped tight, and the cloth is joined in a single clasp at the centre of her flat belly. Her back is bare, with just a thin edge of cloth sweeping down to the slight curves of her ass cheeks. Her skirt is long to the ground. She is dressed in midnight black, her long dress a shimmering material, seamless and a curious texture, as if it were a part of her.

Her face, too, is long and thin, with high cheekbones and dark dark eyes. Most striking of all, her head is completely smooth, not a thread of hair, and she is tall and bald and striking, pale and tall and thin. But I cannot fix my eyes firmly upon her, she has a strange tension in her body that is somehow not solid, yet not ephemeral either. It is as if she is somehow concentrating on her being, silent beside me. There is a strangeness here, but I cannot settle on what the strangeness is.

In front of us there is a beautiful couple fucking hard into each other; she is face down and breasts flattened onto the cushions of a couch, he is strong and dark behind her, his thick cock pounding into her cunt, bouncing her body into the softness of the pillows. Her hands grapple at the covers of the ottoman, and soft cries are sobbing from her mouth. Her partner rears back his head and growls a low sound as he thrusts into her. 

And then the tall, tense woman beside me moves forward, and she trails her long, thin, almost skeletal fingers over his strong back and muscled ass, her hand snaking close to his flesh as he thrusts. Alerted by the touch, he turns his head to her, and she leans to his mouth and thrusts her tongue to his lips, and fucks his mouth as he fucks the girl.

My prick tightens in my pants at the sight of them; and this tall spectral woman moves with a strange and powerful grace, her long limbs twisting in her flowing gown, her muscles shimmering with her strange concentration. She twists her long hand between the rutting couple and rolls two fingers around his thrusting cock and wettens them with the juice from the girl's lush, wet sex. And then she returns to my side, her black eyes jet and dark, her pale flesh like a skull with the roundness of her naked head, and she offers those cunted fingers to my lips. 

The smell of sex is upon those fingers, and heady to my nostrils, and I touch the tip of her fingers with my tongue, and the taste of the girl's sex is upon my tongue. And she then touches my tongue tasted fingers to her own lips, and then we have both tasted the sex of the girl to our mouths.

This tall woman, and she is older than me by many years, this tall woman takes my hand and leads me to another pavilion, sumptuous pillows on a wide bed, braziers burning scented oils into the billowing canopy above the bed, and a slight mistral blowing the canvas cloth of the tent walls. The bed is wide and the blankets deep, and a bowl of fruit is beside the bed upon a small table. The tall woman, and she has not spoken and somehow I know not to speak, turns to me and with her preternaturally long fingers and hands, she caresses my head and the locks of my hair.

And I in turn caress the smooth skin of her hairless head, and trace my finger down the protruding bones of her spine, down her gaunt back, down to the rise of her ass cheeks, and I pull her thinness to my body. I feel the strange tension in her body and she is almost quivering, as if she is struggling to keep herself solid and planted to the ground. It is as if her long thin body is not so much standing on the ground, but somehow drifting ever so slightly above the ground, as if she were a tree bowing its limbs in the eye of a storm. 

I put a slight pressure on the base of her spine as if to anchor her, and for several minutes she sways slowly in my arms, my hands holding her tight and slowing her quivering tension. She is pale and tall and tense.

My fingers are trailing up and down her spine and the tightly muscled flesh of her back. She is tall and gaunt and thin but uncannily sensual, her black gown a shadow over her long body and legs. Her nipples are pressing hard against my chest, but there is no soft flesh there, just tight nubs. My hands drift down her long back and over the tight cheeks of her taut ass, and I separate the weight of those two small globes into each hand, and I edge them apart. She arches her body back so that the fold of cloth covering her ass lifts away from her flesh and makes a gap for my hands there, and I can curl a finger down to the heat and crack of her ass hole, and she only has the gown about her body, there is no lingerie or intimate covering about her centre. 

My finger then is an intimate cover for her hot hole, and I press the tip of my finger onto that small pulse and feel a tight clench there, and then a tiny opening and pull on my finger. Her ass clenches my finger and holds me firm there, hot. The tent is shadowed and the movement of the breeze outside shifts and flickers the walls, and shadows drift across her body and parts of her body are pale and thin and white, and other parts are shadowed and black and dark. She pulls away from me and reaches to my clothes and belts and buttons, and with her long hands and serious eyes upon me, she pulls them from my body and I am naked before her and she is tall and her strange tension is still upon her, and her dress is still upon her like a veil of blackness.

Her eyes widen at the sight of me, my rising prick summoned up by her gaunt beauty, and a slight smile turns the corners of her mouth. I please her, and her long fingers curl, one hand along the shaft of my cock, the other cupping my rising balls carefully in the palm of her hand. She is caressing and gentle, and my prick pulses between her fingers, my heart beating there. My hands stroke again down her long back, and she arches her spine, her strange tightness and tension pulling on her own muscles and they are ridged across her back. My fingers caress in slow looping circles across her flesh and up and down her spine, and I hear her breath quicken.

I turn her body slightly so that my fingers can twist on those long hard nipples, and her breath quickens again. She presses to me, and again arches her body, and the flatness of her chest and those tight nubs push against the palm of my hand, and she has a hot heat over her heart. I undo the clip at the front of her gown and two long swathes of cloth separate down the front of her, and the blackness falls like water from her flat breasts, and her nipples are rich and dark and long, and there is a heat to my tongue as I suck on them and pull them between my lips. And her breath quickens.

There is an urgency to her movements now, and she takes my hand and places it to the mound at the base of her belly, and her mons is smooth and hairless. She has no hair at the split of her, not even a fine down on her skin, her head is smooth and the base of her belly is smooth. The split of her sex rises up the front of her belly, her lips are smooth and slightly raised from her flesh. The red nub of her is high and bright and protrudes from the top of her crease. Her long fingers twist around her rising nub, and one long finger threads in between the lips of her sex and is wet with the juice of her. She drifts that cunt wettened finger to my lips and I taste her deep into my mouth, and it is a little fuck there.

And as she trails her finger down from my lips, she traces her finger down my throat and it touches the chain about my neck and the tiny locket there. And her finger stops momentarily on the heart of the locket and is paused there. The wind holds its breath. And then gusts again and the curtains billow, and her finger traces down my chest and around the stiff nipple there. She bows her head to my chest, her eyes closed and heavy lidded, and her lips suckle to my nipple and pulls it into her mouth and she lightly bites. The slight pain in my nipple jolts a connection through my nerves to the base of my prick, and it tightens and twitches. And her hand upon my shaft can feel the connection through my nerves to my nipple, and as she sucks she squeezes, and a circle is made.

And with my finger I make another connection into the wetness of her naked cunt, and she is slick there, her moisture like a sweetness upon the tip of my fingers, and I gently push two of my fingers into her heat and I feel a clench there, and she grips me. Our fingers and tongues and lips join us together in tight twists of sensation, and still she holds her strange tension, and her breath quickens. We sway against each other like this for several minutes, our bodies upright and our legs apart for balance, our hands upon each other, smoothing over the flesh of ourselves like water liquid over rocks in a tumbling stream.

But now she is backing towards the bed in this tented place, and she lies back upon it, her flat breasts even flatter now but her nipples long and peaked, her long legs raised and apart, the long black folds of cloth draping between her slender thighs. The bare slit of her sex is soft and open, the open wings of her cunt long and dark and the mound of her is high and heart shaped. The glisten of her arousal is like dew in the morning, and her sex is like a mouth, calling for the filling cock of mine to slide into it.

My prick is hard and full, and my balls are high and tight, and her long fingers spread apart those wet lips and her other hand places the head of me, that purple red helmet, at her opening. And there is a motionless moment between us as I lie poised there. And then one of her hands is upon the cheek of my ass, and the other hand is upon the cheek of my face. She unblinks those heavy lidded eyes and her dark eyes hold mine. But before I lose myself in her eyes and in the long depths of her cunt, I glance to her mouth, and there is the edge of a slight smile there.

And then her mouth is open in a soundless sigh, her eyes blink closed and I am lost to her sight and she to mine, and her hand upon my ass pulls at me, and she pulls me deep into her long depths with a speed and a certainty that shocks me. And I know then that her control of me has been complete, but I do not care, because her cunt is deep and gripping and hot, and her lips and tongue are teasing my mouth and fucking there as I fuck into her with a long heaving thrust and I am buried in her, my balls thrust up to the centre of her groin and I am in her deep.

And from deep within her I hear a long keen from deep in her throat and her breath hisses from her mouth, "yeeeesssssss."

And as I reach up to my own quick climax, my seed rising from deep within me and churning from the base of my spine and pulsating up my thrusting shaft, my hands grab the insides of her thighs to widen them further so that my body can be closer to the deep core of her and the head of my cock deep to the womb of her, and as I grasp her long thighs one of my fingers touches across a strange raised hardness of skin upon her thigh, brushing over raised flesh there.

And as I do so her convulsion is upon her too, and her neck arches back in ecstasy as she comes, hard, and as she comes she clamps her long legs tight to me and holds me deep into her as I come, spurting deep into her womb. And as she comes around me and my seed jets into her, deep, I hear her voice finally. I hear the long keen of her voice, "ah, sweet boy, I cannot hold this shape any longer, you have made me peak." 

And as she cries out, there is one massive final shudder along her whole body and then that strange, strong tension in her is gone. Her body shudders and shifts and softens, and where her smooth bald head had been smooth and hairless, now a soft mane of midnight black, silken hair is swift about her body, spreading long about her breasts and draping to her waist. 

And where that long black dress had clung to her limbs, now there was a pale nakedness beneath me, and her black hair was long around it. And where that long gaunt thinness had reached long limbs and gaunt fingers about my body, now there was something slighter and softer under me. And the golden locket with its two tiny feathers lies on the chain about my neck, and the metal lies warm between our breasts.

And where those dark, lidded eyes had once had some dark spectral essence about them, the eyes that gazed at me from that pale, heart shaped face, those eyes were the eyes of my mother Catherine who had reared me. But Catherine was dead, and Catherine was not my mother.

"Sweet boy, my father and my aunt were wrong. They could not break the line of blood and I was more willfull than they could ever know. And my aunt taught me too well."

My name is Alex Cain, and Alexandra my mother holds me close in her arms, and my seed is deep in her womb, and we are blood.



In The Library Ch. 18



I have to leave this place. 

Alexandra has woven me into her life and the blood line has been made whole, once again. And now she seeks to save me from the consequences of her choices, and I will do as she says, for she is my mother, and a good son should not doubt his mother.

Alexandra has married, but he is a cuckold. She has been my secret lover these past months (or I have been her's) but the world thinks that I am her Aunt Catherine's son, and therefore her cousin, visiting.

But now that her belly is starting to swell with our child, we have agreed that I cannot be here when that child is born. And just as Alexandra left me and never knew my boyhood, I must leave my unborn child and never know a son. Or never know a daughter. Or, God help me, never know my sister.

For this blood line is perverse and an abomination to all good people, and Alexandra has been corrupted by it and it corrupts me; but at the same time, she wants to give us a strange and fantastic hope. For she has learned of a curious invention, and she has immense wealth and has engaged the inventor to construct a device.

So why do I think that something is not right, that something is very very wrong? Alexandra has not seen something here, and she has not foreseen something, but I cannot place it. I do not know what it is nor when, but I sense that something is very wrong, and that I am at the centre of that wrongness. 

---ooOOoo---

A letter, dated 7 October 1902

My dear Welles,

I have not written for some time, and beg your indulgence, for I have been engaged on a secret business that is now completed. I am eager to inform you of it, even tho' it is fantastical, as the machine I have constructed makes real the very machine you wrote about before the turn of the century.

I can tell you of it, for you know the family of whom I tell, and I can trust your confidence. Indeed, it was at the house of Catherine Cain in England that I first made your acquaintance, as a fellow guest for one of her entertainments - you will surely remember the splendid wench in the library, and that exotic fellow.

But I write of Catherine's niece, Alexandra, for it is she who has commissioned this fantastic venture. She is wedded now, but this commission began before that occasion, and she has impressed upon me a certain urgency, and bid my work not be casually done.

As you know, I experimented with the etheric mysteries before I turned to the electrical sciences and made of them such a success that they are now my main business. This device, and I am uncertain what to call it, combines the electrical agents with the etheric forces. I have perfected a way to tune them both to the life forces of a man in such a way that the combined alternating currents and direct currents, when they work in correct sympathy with a man's heart beat, enter into harmony with the etheric forces and, when a great pulse is applied, the man is thrust electrically along a channel of time into the future.

Yes, Welles, into the very future of this world! Alexandra's cousin, the young Mr Alex, has bravely agreed to be the subject of this experiment, and this intrepid adventurer has succeeded in transmitting himself one month clear into the future! 

It is a strange effect, and I have not quite figured the fullness of it. But our first experiment was completed this last week, and here is the essence of it:

One month past, we prepared the machine. To the uneducated and the non scientific eye, it looks as does a chair, constructed completely of wood, for it must not conduct any electrical force in its own material. The navigator, or pilot (again, I do not yet know the best name for the adventurer) has control levers and electrical dials to measure the forces and to regulate their energy. 

Constructed in a careful array of loops around the chair are the alternating current wires, a separate set of cables for the direct current, and a cunningly crafted array of glass tubes and vacuum enclosures which channel the etheric waves. The man himself is strapped to the machine, and his heart and another place are strapped with electrical detectors for his body's vital indicators.

The electrical power is fed into the machine from my very own generators, and the etheric power feeds from a large array of crystals, which were provided by Miss Cain. She discovered them, I believe, in ancient places like the Egypt of the pharaohs, and Mesopotamia. She has sent a number of teams to old countries over the years, and has investigated many books of the mysteries. 

But one month past, we prepared the machine. Young Mr Cain strapped his unclothed body to the machine and prepared for his entrancement. 

I am not certain of all of the complexities, but I have found, through experiments with mice and rats, that the body within the machine must be completely uncorrupted by any other thing. For if there is the slightest tampering of the singular life essence of the occupant, unaccountable impacts will occur, and dreadful combinations of living material will happen, with unpredictable results.

Mr Cain, therefore, entered the machine as naked as the day he was born. As he strapped himself into the chair, he took especial care to unclip a chain about his neck, and to hand it and the locket to me. "Edisson," he said, "I entrust this, my most precious belonging in all my life, I entrust this to you, and I will collect it from you when our times re-align."

For we have discovered that the stream of time moves differently for the traveller thrust forward. I believe that the sudden jolt of the harmonic forces suddenly pushes the man into the future, the period being determined by the electrical power that can safely be applied. Once that point in time is reached, it as if the time there slows down, or even drifts slowly backwards, such that the person enjoys a slower pace of time than those he leaves in this time. So we in this time slowly catch up with the traveller.

And so it was with our first experiment. Mr Cain entered the machine clean shaven and splendid in his nakedness. We adjusted the currents for a one month transmission, and he fell into his private entrancement, which is the key thing to synchronise his life beats with the electrical and etheric harmonies. At his peak moment his life energy was all properly synchronised with the humming power of the electrical and etheric energies, and he simply vanished from my sight. I cannot describe it, for I am a scientist and an engineer and was studying closely the meters and controls to record the exact powers involved. So my attention was completely on the recording instruments, and I simply did not see him go. One second he was there, and next he was vanished.

I had instructed Mr Cain to find evidence of the day he arrived in the future place, by finding some thing, some record, of what day it was, and if possible, what exact time. Once he had that evidence, and he found us, we would be able to compare that date with the date he was sent forward, and the difference in days or hours would be the time period he jumped in a second. For the first experiment we calibrated the machine to jump forward approximately one month.

But in the end it was a simple thing to measure. Every day after young Alex disappeared from this time, I went to the laboratory to continue experiments and measurements, and took care to be there the same time every day, at the same time that he disappeared. For I felt that the rotation of the earth was an important thing, as if the traveller was somehow jettisoned into the ether and would arrive back to the same place one complete rotation of the earth later, and he would instantly travel what would take you and I a day of our lives to live. 

And so it turned out. I was in the laboratory four whole weeks later, when there was a strange twist in the air, and there was Mr Alex, suddenly appeared. But for him, only some five seconds had past. Indeed, he was still expelling his etheric fluid, which is a key element of the secret transport, as if it was still the same moment he vanished.

"Alex, it has been four weeks since you strapped yourself to the machine, but how long has it been for you?"

"It has been but a moment," he replied, " no more than five seconds, ten at the most. Look, my fluid is still spilling." And yes, from his splendid organ, his life force was spurting white upon his skin, for his sexual essence is the key to channeling and focusing the etheric forces in this machine.

"Miss Alexandra and Miss Odette will be pleased to discover the results of this experiment," I commented, for these two women were intensely committed to the outcome of my work, and eager to know what time movement was possible. But I do not know their motivation.

"But who is Odette?" young Mr Cain asked. 

This effect was not anticipated, and I must ponder on it some more. I will write again, dear sir. Until then,

I am your humble friend, Thom Edisson.

---ooOOoo---

A letter, dated 12 March 1906

My dear Welles,

I write to inform you of the latest state of my experiments with accelerating through time, and to say that I have perfected the technique and refined my machine, my chrono-etheric accelerator. However, I have also found a terrible side effect that will surely prevent its proper development and use.

Mr Alex Cain has this day shown proof that an instantaneous movement forward in time is quite possible, and he has aged but five seconds while I have aged near on three years. Today I was working in the laboratory, cleaning up some of the vacuum jars and cables that are the power source behind the accelerator, when I felt a strange twist in the air, and Mr Cain emerged as if from fog, until his handsome body was clearly seen in the device, his member still rigid and his life essence spilling from that proud shaft. The last time I saw him had been an early autumn day, just less than three years previously, when he strapped himself to the time accelerator.

I turned to the safe and found there his locket and chain, which he placed around his neck. "You are a good man, Thom, keeping this precious thing safe for me, as it is a most important thing for me. But something is a bit vague in my head, and I cannot place my thoughts nor my knowledge to this oddness. It is as if my head is in two places, and is both coming and going." He pondered for a few moments. "How far forward was I thrown this time," he asked.

"Around two years and six months," I replied.

"Good Lord, the child will be about two years old exactly," he cried. "What sex is the child?"

"A girl, sir, a girl."

And a strange look came over his face that I could not interpret. "When can I see her?"

"I will arrange a time for you with Alexandra, who will no doubt want to show off her beautiful daughter," I replied. "She is dark and lovely, just like her mother, and the resemblance to all the women of the Cain family is obvious. She is like her mother Alexandra, and I can also see a resemblance to her great aunt, Catherine."

"But who is Catherine?" Mr Cain looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

So this second trip has confirmed one of the most unfortunate side effects of the chrono-etheric device. The traveller in time loses a memory of his loved ones. In an instant I am shocked and cautious of this experiment, for the memory of the dear woman who bought him into this world has been wiped from the mind of young Mr Cain. This is a terrible loss, and I must prevent him from using the accelerator again. It is too dangerous a machine, I see that now.

The next day we attended to the house of the lady Alexandra, who bade Mr Cain most welcome. They greeted each other with a warm embrace, for that splendid woman had not seen the young man for near on three years, even though for him it was yesterday. He accompanied the lady to her sitting room where they made conversation of their own. I sat with the lady's maid, Odette, she with the unusual blaze of white in her hair and the faraway look in her eyes, and made idle chatter with her. She is a splendid woman, Welles, be assured, but I feel that she lives in her own dream world.

Then the little girl awoke from her nap and came into the room. She is a bright little thing, her eyes big and wide and with a thick curl of hair long from her head, just like her mother's. Odette called to Alexandra and Mr Cain, and I observed his face as he entered the room and gazed at the child.

The girl ran to her mother and hid shyly behind her skirts. Mr Cain stood motionless at the door, the strangest strange look upon his face, the meaning of which I could not puzzle. Then he fell to one knee and held out one hand to the girl. The little one looked up at her mother, who also had a new strange look on her face that I had never seen before, but a look of strong emotion, there was no doubt of that. "Go to Mr Alex, my darling, and give him a kiss on the cheek, for you are a lovely girl and he deserves that."

And the little sprite went to that man and stood in front of him, and stood quite still, her dark eyes gazing firm to his face. And then she reached one little hand out, and reached for the gold locket hung on the chain at Mr Alex's neck. The gold locket that was his most precious thing in the world, that was of great sentiment to him. And she touched it with her tiny finger.

"Be careful, Grace, don't touch Mr Alex's locket, it might break. And then where would we be?" There was a quaver to Alexandra's voice when she spoke, as if her heart were pierced through.

There was the deepest emotion in the room, but I knew that I was outside of it all. My challenge, though, was to prevent Mr Cain from ever using the machine again.

Later: 

I have failed in my mission. Mr Cain has gone, vanished. I have checked the instruments, and it would seem that he has applied an extraordinary amount of power to the accelerator, and he has thrown himself forward some twenty years. Yes, Welles, twenty years. He will find himself in the early 1920s, as if it was his tomorrow.

I fear for his mind, alas, because I have proof from his first experimental transits that the accelerator wipes memories of his loved ones, and undoubtedly will wipe any last vestige of memory from his head. He will be lost in a future time, a stranger there. But those who will arrive in that future time in the normal way, by living the years in between, will know him as the young man he is today. But he will not know them.

And Welles, I fear too that he has corrupted his last transmission. Near the machine, I found his precious locket on the floor, as if he had thrown it from himself as the machine surged with its electrical power.

The little locket lay open, its glass broken and a tiny photograph of a babe there. But the other half of the locket was empty. 

I did not know what was contained there, but when I told the lady Alexandra of the discovery and the emptiness, her face went pale like a ghost. 

"Oh my sweet boy, what have you done? Have you clutched those tiny feathers to your breast, just as you did when I left you as a tiny babe? What evil will that terrible gift bring, that the cat brought to me, that gift that I accepted?" She wept, Welles, she wept as if her heart was broken apart.

"And our daughter Grace, my God, what have we done to the child, that is so innocent?"



In The Library Ch. 19



Seeing the child Grace shook me to my core. 

In my heart I could not begrudge Alexandra her desire to mother the child, as more than twenty years before she had been unable to mother me. But I found it far more difficult to reconcile what the woman had done to secure her bloodline. Her convoluted and complicated past with all its wrongness and corruption had ensnared me and entranced me, but what did that make me? 

My mind was also becoming lost, my memories shifting and changing within me. Edisson's time device had shattered memories each time I used it. I had been able to re-learn who Odette was, as that woman was still alive, and her splendid flesh and strong personality were there in front of me. But people spoke of a Miss Catherine, but she was a void, not even a ghost, in my mind, and a blank was there.

But Edisson's machine promised an unsettling but possible escape from my terrible dilemma. I reasoned that, if I could use the machine to travel several decades into the future, then I would remove myself from Alexandra's influence, and I would not be tormented by the child's growing up, and the woman and her daughter would only know me as a distant memory. The child, possibly, would not even know me at all, and perhaps that would be best for her, since she was but young. It was also likely that my memory would again be purged, and if I did not know something, then I could not be tormented by it.

So I resolved to apply as much electrical and etheric power to the machine as I safely could, and throw myself as far forward in time as I was able. My mind would be what my mind would be, but if I could not remember, then it would be as if my past never existed, and it would not be a loss. If I could not remember anything at all, then I would not know what had gone.

So, to the device, then. I set the controls to maximise the alternating and direct currents and the harmonic fluctuations that would be set up when the etheric power from Alexandra's crystals was applied. I calculated that I would need to enter my erotic peak some ten minutes after the power cycle commenced. That was the trick, to time my orgasm, which had to be from my own hand aided only by an etheric presence which would arc across from the glass piping, to time it such that my seed would erupt from my organ exactly as the power cycles harmonised.

I locked the door to the chamber in which the device was housed. I checked also that some clothes were securely sealed in waterproof and vermin proof bags nearby. For I would transit the ether in something less than ten seconds, but real time would pass for those objects left in the room, including those clothes, and they would be older by the number of years the device would accelerate past. I could not seal food in the same way, but made sure that a bottle of water was sealed and stowed with the clothing.

I was prepared. I shed the clothes that I was wearing, and secured myself to the chrono-etheric chair. I resolved to dream and imagine the best of the women I had ever known, for the lustful conjuring of an image in my mind would aid my four fingers and the circle of my thumb on my own shaft. Shutting my eyes, I began to picture my three wenches from England, for they were innocent and young and playful, and best to raise my prick. Ah, there is Lucy of the high breasts, slim hips and long legs, proud and willful. And Molly of the long waist and teasing mouth. And look, little Jenny with her curves and spilling breasts.

My hand was gently curled about my balls hanging heavy between my legs, and with the palm of my hand I lightly caressed both of those eggs in their soft haired sacs. With the light touch of my hand I could feel my testicles rise and tighten, and I lingered one finger down to the heated bud of my ass hole, and pressed myself there. With that pressure a first beat passed to my cock, and I felt that flesh tighten and start to fill. Conjuring an image of full red lips and wicked white teeth, I pictured a long tongue on the base of my cock, and I ran my finger up the raised seam of my cock as if it was that tongue licking there. And my flesh beat again and filled again and thickened.

I set the timer to the electrical circuits, knowing that the etheric and electrical energies would begin to hum and glow about me, and I would be a golden traveller when my time was upon me, and I would hurtle into some future time. For the moment of transmission would begin in the depths of my spine, and my mind and body would spiral into the time vortex just as my sexual charge would rise and burst its pleasure like white light from the gland between my eyes, my third eye. And my pulsing bursts would be charged with that strange ancestral power. And time would shift.

So my hand settled to a firm and gentle motion on my shaft, squeezing the hardness to it. The head of my prick slowly filled with heat and soft skinned hardness, and the length of it filled and pushed the covering folds of skin back from the flesh. My cock is an uncut cock, so the soft skin of my fore flesh pulled back as the head thickened, and my flesh beat again and hardened and thickened.

And to my mind came an image of an unknown woman, as I had often dreamed of, but she was no woman that I knew, and was just a conjuring, a combination perhaps of women I have known and sex that I have had, but no singular person that I knew. But no matter, because she was tall and exotic and curiously clad, in no clothes that I had ever seen. Her legs were long, black stocking long, and her shoes were red, high heels red, and her stride was firm and confident. This was a wench all in my head, but herself for all that, and my prick was rising strong.

My hand lay idle away from my prick, for my visioning of her was enough to swell my shaft and to solidify it there, as if this woman also was solid and real, and parading in front of my eyes. Her legs were sheathed in lace patterned stockings, and her skirt was short and above her knees, indeed far up her thighs, and tight around her firm limbs. And as she walked towards me, the pale flesh of her skin above her stocking top occasionally flashed, her skirt was so short. And look there, there is a ridge of suspenders, a stretched thin line clearly seen under the tight cloth of her short black skirt. And then the image of her was walking away from me so that this vision would reveal her firm ass to my eyes, but my eyes were tightly closed. And her ass cheeks were firm and luscious, shaped tight under the cloth of her skirt.

And then the vision of her in my mind walks towards me once more and there is the full swell of her mound rising curved under the skirt. And then in my mind the vision of her sheds her garments, that black skirt dissolves and her belly is naked and her black bush is thick and darkly curled at the base of her belly and God, her breasts are full and deeply cleeved, erect nubbed nipples dark and tight and jutting proud. And my hand is to my shaft now, and it is full and swollen with the rich exotic vision of her and my imagining. My balls are riding high and tight and my hand caresses their rising firmness and my fingers curl to the rich purple head of my shaft and I pull the skin back from that smooth sensitive place and rub the flat of my thumb over the head of me and I stroke myself there.

And my other hand descends to the high tight sac of my balls and curls around the cooler weight of them and my shaft is hard and pleasing and full, and I stroke pleasure into it and it rises and bounces under the pull of my fingers and the circle of my thumb. And in the eye of my mind she bends close to me and the long fall of her hair is dark around my chest and belly and prick, and my breath quickens and I shudder.

Around me the hum of the machine is increasing its intensity and frequency, and there is an etheric glow forming in the vacuum glass tubes and lines. The glow is pale blue and darkening, and I look down and see that there is a glow like a corona forming around my prick, and that long full shaft is like some spectral thing, hard and tight, thick and long. And my hand and tightening fingers stroke firmer now and I feel a pulse from deep in my spine, and a hot heat there, and my seed is starting to thicken and rise.

And again there is an image of the tall unknown woman in front of me, her hands caressing her own breasts and pulling upon those thick nipples, a rich deep red and long, tight nipples jutting hard. And I imagine my palm upon the full weight of her breasts and she lowers a full breast to my mouth and I suck on her hot tit and pull the nipple into my mouth. But she is a vision still, and I reach both of my hands around my cock now and squeeze it tight like a cunt is holding it tight and firm and wet, and I am slow with my two palmed strokes for there is a slow building up of heat to be done, and I have taught myself to be slow and langourous with myself, as if there was a lazy woman slowly tugging upon my shaft with one hand as her other hand idly plays with a wet sex between those imagined legs.

And my fingers stroke to my nipples and pull them to tight peaks, my finger and thumb pulling hard on the points on my chest. There is a direct nerve to the throb of my cock and that shaft tightens and rises from my belly. And as I tease my own tight tip of a nipple, my finger brushes the chain of my locket and I remember Edisson's warning, not to have any metal part within the machine, for the electrical power will jump to any metal and conduct. So I pull the chain from my neck with a snap, for I know from the rising hum of the circuits and the intensifying light in the tubes, that the etheric power is reaching its harmony with the electrical agents, and so too must I bring myself to my own peak, that the forces may align. But I must keep the precious tiny mementos in the locket, for I sense that those tiny feathers have some importance.

I flip the glass open and take the tiny feathers in one hand to my chest, and then cast the chain and locket away from me. I hear a tinkle as the glass shatters on the stone floor of the laboratory, but the polarity and the power is harmonising now, and my other hand is insistent and faster, my cock hard and hot. So the machine spools up to its full force, and I feel a strange heat around my body and there is an intensity building in the air, and blue and golden threads of light began to flicker from the glass channels to my body, and especially to the head of my cock.

My hand is faster now, and the tall woman of my imagination is spreading her own legs above me and I gaze upon the red cleft and there is glistening wetness there, and a darkness of hair tightly coiled. Her legs are long and her thighs firm, and as I stretch my cock to the blue light laced through with golden threads, I imagine that heat of cunt around my standing cock and the weight of her body dropping down onto my cock and gripping me there.

And the fullness at the base of my spine is shuddering into my body now, and I am in the grips of the fantastic power that is in this device and that is in the etheric infused cream that is rising from my body now, pulsing and rushing through me then peaking up high. And for a full second my cock is on the edge of a huge pulsing pump, as if the seed and fluid there is compressing, and with a cry I feel my fluid rise up that long shaft of my cock and begin its bursting rush. And at that moment the machine cycles into one last, precise and powerful harmony, and the hum increases to a howl. And I can feel the power in the air around me. 

With one final powerful convulsion I feel the semen rise up through my shaft and the first pulse of fluid erupt from my prick. And exactly at that moment there is a huge twist and lurch in the air, and a rushing blackness, and an incredible surging speeding shift in the air in the place. And as my seed explodes, time shifts and is gone, and the howling hum ceases. And there is a massive jolt of energy centering on my prick and then a vast black silence, a strange twisting of the air, a rushing sense of vertigo and speed, both at the same time. And there is a final pulse of my creaming whiteness, and then stillness and silence. And blackness.

And then a fast heartbeat which starts to steady and slow, and I realise it is mine. And then there is stillness and darkness around me, and a blackness. 

But I am alive, and have no knowledge of this place, and I do not know why I am here.

Later: I have extracted myself from the machine, and I find the place is quiet and dark, a fine layer of dust on most surfaces, but not all. I have found a tightly sealed bag of clothes - clearly someone has made preparations, for I have also found a sealed bottle of water. It is warm, but I quench my thirst with a long drink, and my gut is somewhat satisfied. My mind is vague, I cannot place a name to myself, and I do not know why I am in this room.

I sleep, and then with the dawn and a beam of light shafting through the suspended motes of dust, I rouse, and set to a discovery of this room. And I find a book, placed in an obvious place for any finder to find. In it, I read the trail of a story, left by the inventor of this machine, a Mr Thom Edisson. I read that he has experimented with several jumps of time, and his pilot in these experiments is a certain Mr Alex Cain. There is also a regular tell of a woman, Alexandra, who it would appear has paid for Edisson's work, and I can see from the words that Edisson is clearly enthralled, even enamoured, by this woman. But at the same time there is a thread of fear of her, for he recounts that she is a force not to deny. And he is fearful of the last experiment, of which he writes, but it seems it is not yet concluded.

At the end of the book there is a list of dates, increasingly irregular and far apart. It would appear that Edisson returns from time to time to this place, to see if there is evidence of Cain's arrival back to Edisson's own time stream. He has being doing this for just on twenty years, and records a date of 1925 as his most recent visit to this place. This year means nothing to me, but I do not think that I know it. I sit and look at this machine, and wonder at it. And I wonder at myself. Am I this Cain?

But speculation is a pointless thing. I find a pencil and write a short paragraph after the last entry, describing how I have found myself here, with no memory of who I am or how I got here. I cannot date it, for I do not know the date. But if I am Cain, and if Edisson lives still, then he will know that I have arrived here. But I do not know what he might do with that knowledge. No matter- what I cannot fathom will not worry me.

I resolve to find food. I pack a bag with whatever belongings I can find, that a travelling man would have, and I find some bank notes, in a currency I do not recall or have never seen. I need to remember that most likely I have lost twenty year of living time, and this place and this time is for me some future place, some future time, and it will be strange. But I am formless, and without sensible memory (although some vague sense of something is upon me, but I cannot place it). I set out.

Outside, there is a darkness of water and the shadow of a bridge over it. Down at the edge of the water I find a small tea room or shop, but it is closed. Ah, the sun, it is still rising, it is early still, the businesses not yet open. I will wait, for I am hungry and weak with it.

The sun shifts around an hour or two and the shadows shrink and draw in on me, and still I sit. Then there is a rattle of door bolts behind me and the shop is opening. "Sir, have you been waiting long? I do not often get custom so early in the mornings, I usually have time to get out the tables and umbrellas."

I turn to look at the owner of the voice, for it is low and appealing, calm and quiet. "No, I have not waited much time, but certainly I have hunger. But please, instruct me, and I shall help you set up your stall for the day, and then perhaps I can break my fast." She was tall, but of advancing years, and her back was something twisted as if an oldness was bearing down on her.

"Sir, you have a curious accent, are you English, perhaps? And your turn of phrase, it is curious, but somehow familiar to me, yet I cannot place it."

"Yes, I suppose you could say I am a traveller to this place." I should not speak so much until I knew more of the customs of this place, and had learned something of it. 

I stood, and went to a stack of folded tables by the door. Lifting one in my hand I carried it back and placed it where she gestured. The shop was quickly set up, and I placed myself under an umbrella to shade myself from the rising heat of the sun, while the woman clattered in the kitchen. Shortly, she appeared at the door with a tray, piled high with some fresh pancakes, a pot of strong coffee, and a newspaper. And a strong, steady, blue eyed gaze, and she held my eye. "Forgive me, sir, but I feel I know you, your face is familiar to me, have you been to this place before?"

"No, Madame, I am new here, I do not know this place." Nor this time, but I could not say anything of that. She gazed at me some moments longer, and then shook her head as if to dismiss some fanciful notion. She returned to the counter, and was busied with other customers. 

I turned to the newspaper, and read every page to learn of this world. And I read of things that I had never imagined and of some things that I held a vague memory of, but as if from a deep depth of forgetfulness. Every now and then I glanced around, and to my unease I saw that the woman kept glancing to me, clearly trying to fathom me. It was getting hotter now, and I resolved to leave. I worked out a payment for my breaking fast, and figured the values of the notes and left her some. 

I stood to go, and as I did so, she undid the scarf that was around her head because it was hot and she needed to cool her head. And as I gestured to the notes by the cup, she once again fixed her deep blue eyes on my face, and ran her long fingers through her hair to pull it cool from her head. And her hair was a deep grey, and her fingers ran through a white blaze of hair all down one side, and I could see her mouth something silent to herself, and then suddenly she sat, as if collapsed, her eyes wide with fear.

"Sir, I do know you. It was so long ago, and you should not be so young, you should not be here, looking as you did that day you came back." There was a madness upon this woman, but she knew me, yet I did not know her.

"Your name is Alex Cain, and your mother is Alexandra, and I fear a doom is on your family, a doom is on your blood."

Odette watched the young man walk away from this place, and ran her long fingers through the white blaze in her hair. She remembered the first time that he had come back, and she ran her long fingers through the white blaze in her hair. Over and over, she ran her long fingers through the white blaze in her hair.



In The Library Ch. 20



I find that I have not forgotten everything. As I walk around this city, I recognise some places but not others. There is newness in certain buildings that I have clearly never seen before, but there is oldness as well that I do recognise, a shop here and a bordello there, cafes and restaurants, civic buildings. 

But there are also older buildings that have obviously been a part of this city for many years, but for some reason these sit as if in a fog, even on the brightest days. So I conclude that the fog is in my mind and in my memories. If I am the Alex Cain that Edisson wrote about in his journal, and as the mad woman by the lake would rant, then (if the tale of the time accelerator is true) those memory losses are surely evidence of that truth in me. That I have flashed from the past in an instant, and this is some future place, and I have forgotten.

I have been here a month now, and I have determined that indeed I am in 1925, and this is a strange and distant place for me. The moving pictures that were but a novelty in the time that I came from (for I have resolved that I must be Alex Cain and have travelled through time) are now plentiful in the cinema houses around the city. Aeroplanes regularly fly overhead, their piston engines beating a throb of sound into the sky, and their silver wings glinting under the sun. 

Motor cars are long and luxurious, and there is a thing called streamlining that is full of scientific principles. Voices fill rooms, transmitted through the air by radio waves, which must have the same science as the etheric waves that I have travelled upon. And it is a strange and fantastic world.

But I remain a young man, while those who have lived their years are much older now. Surely they will recognise me, for I will be a memory in their minds, but I do not know how I would recognise them. Although I have read the names of Thom Edisson and Alexandra Cain, I have no image of them in my head, so they are strangers to me. Yet I live each day with flashes of deja vu as I make my way about this city, and it is a strangeness. 

And I have a sense of someone following me. And there are strange birds in this city, more than I have ever seen.

I am learning to enjoy the new jazz music, and have discovered a club called the "Peacock Club". I have started to frequent it most nights, for I find the strange rhythms and singing instruments hold an entrancement over my mind, and the place exerts a strong pull on me. I do not know why. The owner is a wealthy woman, but she is a very private person and I do not know her name and I have not seen her. People seldom do, I have heard, and an appearance is a special occasion, not to be missed, as her voice is that of a strange broken angel.

One evening I arrive and there are new posters placed in the windows and on the walls, announcing a special act. And there is a swirl of large cars arriving in the forecourt of the club, wheels crunching on gravel, with doors closing and exhausts panting in the night air. Ahead of me I see a big black limousine arrive and stop, its body work low slung, black windows curtained and private, a chauffeur uniformed and attentive. And I see a young man step from the car and look around, before stepping up the stairs to the front entrance. And his walk and bearing are curiously familiar, although I see just the back of his head.

And there is a strange feeling in my head, some strange shimmering thing, and my brain is at once sharp and at the same time, curiously numb. The ground sways, or is that my balance?

And there in front of me, partly hidden by the young man who has arrived before me, there is an elegant woman, older than all the others in the room, but silver haired, proud and poised, beautifully dressed in a peacock green dress. Something tugs at my brain, but I am blank and formless as to any meaning there. She speaks to the young man with familiarity and a warm smile on her face. I cannot see his reaction, but he follows her to a long flight of stairs. 

She is an older woman, but elegant. As she takes the man's hand, she looks over her shoulder and slowly moves her eyes around the room as if looking for something or someone. And I am startled when her gaze holds to me and stops there, and a slight smile curves to her lip. And her eyes open just a fraction, and I cannot tell if she makes a small nod of her head or some other movement, but it is as if she has acknowledged me.

There are several flights of stairs up to a higher gallery, and I climb one of them. At the end of a corridor I see the edge of a door close on a shimmer of green gown and a fall of silver hair, and the woman and her young man are gone. Beside me there is a brass handled door, slightly ajar and a flicker of light beyond. A slightly open door is an intrigue, and I am intrigued, so I step through.

The flicker of light is from a series of candles sputtering in holders along the wall. At the end of this corridor (which is a strange parallel to the one I have just stepped from, but why would a building be made like that?) at the end there is a small alcove, shrouded in long curtains and with a central chair, sumptuous and comfortable. And it is on a strange rotating dias, and as I take my place in the chair, I see that there is a range of mirrors or glass panels evenly spaced around the hexagonal wall. And the chair can rotate to each of these windows and latch into place there.

And then I see that each of the windows is indeed a small opening to another room, but hidden from that room by a series of mirrors and tunnels of glass. The room is for a central observer to observe, like an astronomer might gaze upon separate planets with cleverly constructed optics and telescopes. And I look into each of the windows, but there is darkness beyond in all but one room. In that one room; and I do not know how far it is in truth from where I sit, for there is no sound, only silence here; in that one room I see a silent shimmer of movement.

She is draped elegantly on a couch, both long legs long across the lap of the young man. Her body leans against his, her long silver hair a skein of fine silk falling across her neck and shoulders, a silken fall like water. He brushes the soft fall of her hair away from her neck and touches his lips to her throat, his fingers a gentle caress on her neck. Their heads turn towards each other, and their lips met, her hands now caressing the back of his head, slow, running her fingers through his hair, slow. 

And in the astronomer's chair my pulse was quickening with the slowness of this watching. The woman was slow and relaxed, her hands gentling the young man as if he was an eager horse, and she the whisperer to tame him. I was watching a mature woman's patience calm and bewitch a younger man's haste; and I desired that I was him, that I, who was now forgetful and scattered in the void, could be taught. 

Her fingers undid the buttons on his shirt, and she peeled the cloth down his ams and away from his torso, dropping the cloth to the floor. And then she was crouching on the floor in front of him, her long green dress falling between her legs, her elegant hands undoing buckles, belts and buttons, and making him all naked. 

For a moment the woman was quite still, holding his balls in one hand and his shaft in her other hand, and then she bowed her head to the centre of him and placed a single kiss on his rising shaft. And it was as if there was a worship there. And then this beautiful woman stood, and led her young man, his prick in her hand, to a bed. I rotated my chair to the next window, to see them there.

She lay gracefully on the bed, her long green dress falling loose about her body, a simple belt about her waist. He was naked beside her and undid the buttons over her breasts, and peeled the cloth from her back. Her skin was pale, and her breasts were sheathed in a simple cloth band, which the young man undid, slowly and as if in a trance. 

She arched her back with the pleasure of it, and hishands went to her waist and lifted her body up and against his chest, her arms falling away as if in a swoon.

And her back arched and her nipples stood proud, and his mouth was upon them. Her torso was slender, thin even, the ribs to be counted, her belly hollowed. She wore a garter belt on her hips, slender straps black to her stockings, the black lines a contrast to her pale skin. She wore a pair of silk knickers, which were ivory coloured with tiny buttons down the sides. 

The young man eased her green silk dress away from her body and it became a split of cloth like the wings of some brilliant butterfly, her pale body long and beautiful. His fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons of the silken cloth hiding the centre of her, and then her mound was there to be seen, her hair fine and silvery blonde, delicate curls at the base of her belly.

Her inner lips were like a small fan of wings, her fine soft hair with a few drops of dew, glistening. And just at the top of her thigh there was a small blaze of deep purple and brown, a birthmark maybe. And the shadow of that sight reminded me of some small thing, but it was fleeting and then gone, and I did not know what it was. 

Then I saw her hands pull on his cock, her lips and hot mouth bobbing down onto the length of him. He in turn had his mouth and tongue deep into her sex and I could see that they were rich and hot for each other and each gave the other such pleasure.

And his arms were around her now, his hands kneading the tight cheeks of her ass and pulling her hot cunt onto his face. She pushed against his face and bucked, her open sex a silent scream of pleasure, and I could see that her body was shuddering, her body fucking down onto his. Her hands grappled at the sheets with soft grabs at nothingness, just grasping at the empty sheets with the fullness of her pleasure.

She then pushed him back onto the bed and sat astride his hardness. And she stroked her hands down her slender ribbed frame, caressing her own small breasts as her hands flowed past, and with a look of intense concentration she ran her fingers to her cunt lips and spread them. She lifted her sex away from his long prick and then lowered herself, slow inch by slow inch until the two of them were one joined thing. Slowly she began to ride him, her cunt wet upon him like a kiss. They started a long, slow fuck; and my own prick was hard and in my hand with the silent sight of them.

I watched for about five minutes, my own prick a hardness in my slow hand, gently stroking and teasing the plum coloured head of my shaft. And then they were in their ecstasy together, their bodies silently arching their heads away from each other but their groins hard onto the other's. 

As they finished, I could see their mouths talking but could hear no words, they were silent words, unheard to my ears. Then she ushered him from the room, and she wrapped the peacock green dress about her.

As she did so there was a movement in the corridor behind me, and a voice murmured, "oh, have I missed them do it, my mother and that young man?" And then the girl, for it was a young woman's voice, realised that I was in the chair, which had its back to the entrance. "But who are you, who has taken my spying chair? What do you do here?"

I quickly hid my prick in the folds of my trousers and urged it to soften, but there was a ridge of hardness there, the visions were so strong. "I confess, I have taken your chair and swivelled it between these two windows, that I may see the lovely woman there, and her young man." 

This girl must know the purpose of the rooms and this spy chamber, so there is little point in pretending. "But did you say she was your mother, that you expected to see?"

And I stood to welcome this visitor, for I supposed I had stolen her chair. And as I turned to her, I recognised the young woman who was featured in the posters for the special show tonight. Her skin was white as alabaster, her lips scarlet, her eyes dark and her hair midnight black, cut in the short bob that was favoured by the most famous cinema actresses of the day. She was about the same age as me, from what I could tell, but the girls of 1925 could surprise me - some were older than I might think and some were younger.

She was dressed in a figure hugging white gown, with cleverly cut black side panels that were shaped inwards at the waist and shaped outwards at her breasts and hips, which had the effect of shaping her spectacular figure even more like an hourglass. Her breasts were round and high, a deep cleavage separating those full curves, her belly was softly rounded and smooth under the clinging cloth, and her hips and ass wonderfully rounded. She gazed up at me, her eyes steady and compelling.

"Yes, my mother. She commands the young man, and entices him. But who, sir, are you? You could be a brother to my mother's boy. Are you his twin?"

"No, I am a single son, but I am new to this place and have come a long way, and do not know anyone in this city." I could not tell this beautiful girl that I had no memory of my mother, nor the strangeness in time that brought me here. "But who is the young man, that you say is my double? I do not know him."

"Nor I, I do not know him. But my mother does, and has seduced him, even though he is so young for her. He must be the same age as you and I, I think." And she turned away. "But I must prepare, we are performing tonight, my mother and I. Go down to the theatre, and I shall meet you after the show."

So I made my way to the room below and took a seat by the bar. I looked around, and saw a reflection of myself in the mirror on the wall. And there was a strange shift and shimmer in the glass, and the dizziness I had felt earlier was upon me, and that oddness in my head. I looked again, and realised that it was not a mirror, but a clear window dividing one part of the room from another. And I saw a movement as someone walked away from the room divide, but I did not see his face. 

But the stage was being cleared and set up for a pair of vocalists, two microphones out the front, with only the piano player, drummer and upright bass player remaining on stage. "Ladies and gentleman, please welcome the Diva of the new jazz age, Alexandra..." And with a round of applause, the magnificent silver haired woman sashayed onto the stage, slinking seductively across the floor. 

Her voice was smokey, her delivery world weary, just perfect for the material. Alexandra sang four or five songs, before stopping to announce, "tonight is a special occasion for me. I've just spent some time with a dear boy, an old friend, and one long missed. And now I would like to introduce my daughter, for her first time on stage. Please welcome my dearest girl..."

And the beautiful creature who I had been talking to just twenty minutes before, in the curious viewing room, appeared on the stage, her curves accentuated by the white and black gown.

"...Grace!"

-ooo OOO ooo-

"Goodnight, Mother, thank you so much for tonight, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to sing with you. We will be a hit, you and I."

Grace had instructed me to wait outside the stage door while she made her farewells, and I sensed that she wanted to keep me hidden from her mother. Perhaps she felt that one young man, my mysterious doppelganger, was enough for her mother; and I wondered if there was some competition between mother and daughter, some driven thing, that might drive them apart. 

Whatever it was, Grace was certainly an enticement for me, and there was some strange presence about Alexandra her mother that I could not place but gave me an unease. Something kept tugging from the depths of my mind but I could not grapple with it. It was an intangible thing, as if some knowledge was just beyond my reach. But my mind was already struggling with the idea of the timeshift, and I could not fathom any other strangeness.

Grace, on the other hand, was a beautiful and most tangible thing. And if she wanted to use me to achieve a victory over her mother of some sort, I would not complain. She took me by the hand, and we walked down a moonlight path. Her arm was linked through mine in a simple gesture, and every now and then she rested her head against my shoulder. We made small talk, but I did not tell her much, for fear of my own confusion. But she seemed content.

We made our way to her small apartment, which was set below a clock tower built tall above one of the university buildings. The room was small and comfortable, and in the centre of one wall she showed me a door that opened onto a circular dove cote, locked with a solid padlock, the key in a box on a shelf. The door was the only entrance for people, but all around the walls there was a circle of small openings, and doves and pigeons came and went through these holes, their wings clattering on the air, a beat of sound.

"I love the birds," she said, "I love their freedom and the way they come and go on the wind."

As she spoke I realised that my hand was clutching against my chest, as if I was holding something close there. But my hands were empty and I shook my head at the strangeness of my own clutching. My mind was thickened and dizzy. "I must lie down, my head is not right," I said, collapsing onto her bed.

She lay beside me, stroking my hair in a gentle comforting gesture, and soon my thinking became clearer, my head less blurred. I turned to her and caressed her pale cheek with my hand, my fingers soft and gentle on her skin. She gazed at me with her dark eyes, and her lips were red and the tip of her tongue licked over them, to moisten them. And I held her still, and kissed her on those full red lips, and she let me do that. 

Her face was delicate and pale, her black hair framing it was midnight black, a short bob cut tight around her neck. She was still wearing her performance dress, its panels of black and white echoing her own flesh and hair. About her neck there was a fine gold chain and a locket. I touched my finger to it and my mind twisted with some shimmer of memory, but I could not grab it.

"My mother gave me this locket when I was just a young girl," said Grace, "she said it was the most precious thing that a child of hers could ever have."

And the dark eyed Grace opened the small locket, and there on one half was a broken glass but nothing behind, and on the other half a tiny faded picture of a child, a babe. "But who is the baby?" I asked. The picture was faded and tiny, and there were no clear features.

"My mother has not told me everything," replied the girl, "but I think that he might be a tiny brother of mine, that my mother had when she was just a girl, but she had to give him up as a child of her sin." Grace touched my cheek with her finger, gently. "My mother sometimes weeps late at night, and when she dreams she will cry out a name. Alex, she will cry, Alex. It breaks my heart, but she does not tell."

Alex? Alexandra? I had read of the connections between the woman and the young man from Edisson's journal, but surely this cannot be me, I have no memory of Alexandra's face and this girl Grace is a stranger to me. A coincidence then, no more than that, a strangeness.

But Grace is no strangeness, she is voluptuous and warm on the bed beside me, and her lips are red and full, and sweet to taste. And her finger idly flicks apart one of the buttons on my shirt, and her eyes flash a challenge to me, her lips smiling. And I meet her challenge by undoing one of the pearl buttons on her gown, and the deep shadow between her high round breasts is longer now, and deeper. 

Our hands toy in each other's hair, our fingers a caress, and the fingers of our other hands entwine. 

We are slow and playful together, learning the look of our faces, our eyes. Our noses touch, and we are soft and slow. There is no hurry here, and we have a slow greeting of each other. 




In The Library Ch. 20



My hands and fingers caress and trace out the curves of her cheek, the tilt of her chin, and the length of her throat. And her finger traces the pulse at my temple, the rim of my ear, and the length of my neck. Her finger traces down over my lips, down my throat, down the centre of my chest, and there is another button she must undo. And she undoes two more, and pulls the cloth apart and curls one hand around my side to my back, and the other hand is palm flat to my chest, over my heart.

I too take my turn to undo more buttons on her gown, and undo the small pearl beads that hold the white silk over her belly, until the panels of cloth are open down to her hips, and I make one fold of cloth peel away from her body like the wing of a bird and the other crinkle of cloth folds upon the sheets between us. 

Her beautiful curved body is exposed for my eyes, her breasts firm and round and each nubbed with a rich red nipple budding proud, crinkling flesh rippled about the firm centre. She is lying on her side, and her breasts curve down to my hands, and I love the weight of them in my palm, and I press onto the hard buds of her nipples and she gasps, and utters a small sigh.

And further down her body her belly is pale and softly rounded, her navel a neat cleaved dip of flesh at the centre of her belly, and there is the tiniest thread of darkness lacing down the centre of her to the base of her belly, for her hair is dark and softly lined and threaded there. 

Again she gasps as I trail a finger down her flesh, and with an intake of breath her muscles tighten and her belly is firm. And again our lips and tongues touch and tease and taste, and we share our breath in our closeness. And our hands and fingers are slow and gentle upon each other and there is a delight in our discovery. Our bodies marvel, and we are slow.

But then we are not so slow, for her hand bumps the heat of my risen cock, and my hand palms over the height of her mound and cups the heat of her, between her legs. There is an urgency upon us, and we each take our own clothes off our bodies, for it is quicker that way; and we clasp the lengths of our flesh, limb against limb, my cock against her belly, hard; her breasts against my chest, soft; my hands about her back, and her hands nestled between us to my chest and arms. 

We roll upon the bed and my weight is upon her, and then we roll again, and her weight is upon me. And she is above me and arches her head back to better see my face and I gaze to her eyes and hold them wide. And her pupils are big and black and there is a red flush to her neck and her breast. The gold locket bumps against my throat.

And we roll again and I am above her, and one of her hands reaches between her thighs and she opens and slicks herself with her finger, and then grips the shaft of me and pulls me to her centre. And her legs widen and the head of my shaft is into the heat of her, and her legs are wide and her sex is open and her hands are a pull on the tightness of the cheeks of my ass, and she pulls me to the sweet centre of herself and I am in her deep. 

And she raises her legs and wraps her thighs along my sides and her calves are against my ass, and I am deeper in her, deep. And with a gasp she is as open as ever she can be, her eyes wide and her mouth an open cry, "oh my God, you are home." And I am as deep in her as ever I can be, and deep, and then still. We are silent and still together, and there is some quiet joy at this togetherness, that has been so long apart and so long coming together. 

And my mind spirals, and it is as if I am in two places at the same time, and I cannot tell whether I am moving back through time or forward into time.

And then she buries her face to my neck and grips the back of my head with one hand and the base of my spine with the other, and she holds her cheek to my cheek and I can feel a hot wetness there and it is tears. And as she urges herself up to me faster now and careless of the depth of my thrusts, she doesn't care if I hurt her with my size because she just wants me to be so deep inside her and she under me, and the tears on her cheek are hot and she weeps. 

And as she weeps she gasps into the release of her pleasure and her sex tightens and clasps to my prick, and as she comes she arches up to me, and oh my God, yes, she quickens the come from the base of me and we are coming together and are together in our connectedness, but alone in ourselves and in our sadness. And Grace weeps, for even though she is with me now, it is as if she knows it cannot be forever. So as we find ourselves, so do we lose ourselves, and we come together but we are each alone.

After the quickening of our heat and the depth into which we found ourselves, I gently pulled out of her and rolled onto my side, and she too rolled to her side, and her back was against my chest and the softening weight of my cock nestled close to the curve of her cheeks, and she was small in front of me and her cheek was damp with her wet tears. She lay with one of my hands clasped to her breast and her breathing softened and she murmured and even slept a little. I pulled a sheet over our bodies in the cooling night air, but even as she pushed back against me she looked away from me and there was a distance between us, and perhaps it was too fleeting and momentary.

But then there was a disturbance on the stairs to her small apartment, and a rush of wind as the door banged open. "What do you do here, girl, and how did you find him?" There was a tremble in the voice, and an uncertainty.

"Mother, he may look like your boy, but it is not him," Grace shot back, "this one is mine tonight."

"Dear God, sweet girl, tell me you have not coupled with him, you must not."

"It is too late, mother, we are naked here and we have loved."

With a howl of agony, Alexandra her mother tore at the sheet over us and pulled it away from our bodies. Grace twisted to her feet and glared at her mother, her dark eyes blazing, a challenge in them, her breast heaving with her panting breath. 

"What is wrong with you mother, are you jealous of me, your own daughter?"

"Not jealous girl, no, not jealous. But I have cursed this family, and done a monstrous wrong upon you and him; for he is your brother. And so much worse than that." 

And she turned to me, her face now ravaged with her age but a deathly beauty there still. "Alex, you are a Cain, and we have done an unspeakable thing, you and I, but you have forgotten it. Our bloodline continues in this girl, our Grace, but is a monstrous and twisted thing that I have done. First I birthed you and then I birthed my sweet Grace."

Alexandra wept, and my brain twisted and shifted in this room; and the world spun upon me and my balance spiralled and a dark memory crept to the surface of my mind. 

And I looked upon Alexandra and I remembered the night she married, that night when she held her shifted shape and was silent in the strength that it took to hold that long thin shape for so long, that devoured my seed into the depths of her womb.

My name is Alex Cain, and Grace is my daughter.



In The Library Ch. 21



My name is Alex Cain, and I will soon be accused of murder, and I shall be executed for it, and that will save me. For I have a plan.

But the women have made it complicated, and I am also shadowed about this city by a stranger who they say has my own face. I am curious about that, to some small extent, but not too concerned. For if he is who I think he is, then my plan will succeed, despite the peril that is contained within it.

But the women have made it complicated. Alexandra my mother and Grace my daughter; my God, what a tangled web has been woven. Or perhaps a badness has been spun. Still, there is a saying that blood is thicker than water, and the Cain women have the witchery in this family, and they excel at it. I don't. I think something has passed me by, or my brains are perhaps quite small. I do not know.

My time is spent between the chamber by the lake in which Edisson's machine rests, and Grace's apartment under the clock tower. I work on the accelerator to make sure that it will not fail me when next I depart, and Grace works on me, that she may know me who has been a stranger for all of her life. And Alexandra has told me of my birth and the forgotten Catherine and I have to believe Alexandra's tell of her aunt, because despite all of the words, the name Catherine remains a name, no more.

For the accelerator has a permanent effect of erasing memories of those I can never see again, so it is certain that Alexandra will be lost utterly to me because she surely will be dead when next the machine stops. And I will not know Grace, but she will know me.

But the women do not know what I plan, so there are secrets here that I must not reveal. So my life is a curious double one.

But it is also a pleasing one. Grace, it seems, is her mother's daughter in that she too understands the blood line and the conjuring necessary to keep it alive, and she too is learning the witchery. And it appears that there is a new animus in the blood, that was a gift from a cat, and it is within Grace now, and she is learning fast. Grace certainly leads her own life, and I am a small part of it, but she is also mysterious. 

Recently, she has started to take herself away from the apartment for a day or two at a time, and then she returns, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes at the same hour each day. It is strange, sometimes, for she will greet me as if I have been long lost or myself gone many days. 

"Grace," I will say, "I saw you last Tuesday, and it is only Thursday." Still, she has a strong passion upon her, those days, and it is worth being in her way when the passion breaks.

There is a strange paleness to her, some days, as if she were translucent and her milky white skin the most fragile covering of her muscles and bones. Her high breasts will have a delicate, fine tracery of veins blue against her whiteness, with her rich red nipples jutting firm, hard to the palm of my hands and she moans as I press against her breasts and take the hard weight of them into my hands. I love the full weight and round firmness of her breasts, lush and high on her chest, a fullness, and with a deep cleavage between.

On other days there will be darkness to her skin, as if she is shadowed and in a penumbra, and it is as if her muscles have a different tone, and a leanness and a wiry strength to them. And it is strange, and I think a trick of the light, for some days it is as if the fine hairs on her arm are darker, as if there is a fine down upon them. It is often like this after she has been away a day or two.

Tonight she has returned from several nights away, and she has run herself a bath and languishes there in the heat and has taken a razor to her smooth skin. Through the open door I see one long elegant leg raised and propped on the side of the bath, and I watch as she takes her razor and slides it up her leg so her skin will be so smooth when finally she wraps a silk gown around herself and comes to our bed. And she is methodical and patient with the slide of the steel on her skin, and careful with the sharpness.

Then she stands in the bath and applies soap to the base of her belly, and slowly and carefully removes all of the tightly coiled hair that is triangled there, so that she is completely smooth. The rise of her mound is traced with a glistening of bubbles which shimmer and burst as she moves, and the small lips of her sex are a neat cleft, slightly curving a little up her belly. So too does she remove the hair from the pits of her arms, black and coiled for she is dark haired, and tonight the skin on her limbs is dark.

"Alex, come dry me, I am tired." She calls to me and I reach for a towel and wrap it warm around her as she stands by the bath. I reach the towel around her, and as I wipe down the water from her back I feel a strange ridge along the line of her shoulder blades, that is new and was not there the last time I was with her. As I dry her body, I slowly turn her away from me so that I can see her back. And I am curious, for there along the edge of her shoulder blades, on both sides where the bone juts prominent under the skin, I see a pair of dark ridges, each one eight inches long, on both sides of her back, and bumped with a row of small black follicles, as if her hair was hugely grown and thick. I trace a finger along the ridge and Grace does not react. It is as if she does not know the new strangeness is even there.

But her body is rich and delectable, and her new smoothness is different and soft under my lips and tongue, and the tidy cleft of her sex is smooth and fresh at the base of her belly. Some water droplets trail down the curves of her hips and down her thighs, and my fingers follow them. She widens her stance on the floor, and her legs are taut and the gap at the top wide and enticing, her lips with their own dew glistening there. And I gently press one finger between the slim lips and press it on into her wetness. I look up to her face and she gazes down at me with wide eyes, her mouth a round O of inhaled pleasure, and her eyes widening at the push of my finger.

Grace places both of her hands on my face as I kneel before her, her palms on my cheeks to hold my head still, and I feel a tight clench upon my finger inside her, a pull upwards into her. And my finger sinks entirely inside and she gently rocks and pivots on it, and the knuckle of my middle finger presses into the heat of her tight anus and I can feel that muscle pulse and open and close. I ease my finger down from inside her so that I can straighten both fingers, and then press my hand upwards once more. My forefinger slides easily into her cunt which Is wetter and slicker now, and the straightened finger next to it is an exquisite fit for her tighter channel. 

As I press up into her she bears down ever so slightly, as if to speed the spearing of her cunt and ass upon my fingers. And then they are both deep inside her, one finger gripped and wet, the other gripped tight and hard. She clenches, and both fingers are squeezed. She rocks, my fingers within her. The muscles of her legs are tight and taut, and I glance upwards, and see that her head is arched back now, her throat long. Her body is moving so slowly upon my hand that her breasts barely move. Her nipples are long and hard.

And then there is a pair of hands upon her breasts, each palm a cup and slender fingers pressing into her flesh. I look up, and once again Grace's mouth is an O, and she gasps. "Mother, what do you do here?"

"Hush child, let me stay." 

Alexandra has stepped silently into the room and stands behind the girl, her hands upon those younger, fuller breasts, and she is slow and gentle with her caress, for a mother is always gentle with her child. I gaze up at Alexandra from my kneeling place and she is behind Grace and to one side so that I can see half her body, which is clad in a long flowing leather skirt and bodice, both made of old leather which is soft and supple with its age. Her bodice is tightly laced and her breasts are slight and small, a contrast to those of Grace, which are full and high and round, and naked with her long tight nipples. Alexandra is slender and slight and fey, and her daughter my sister is curved and full and supple. Alexandra's hair is long and silver like molten metal down her back, and Grace's hair is short and midnight black.

Alexandra's leg is thrust forward and her leather skirt falls away between her legs, and her flesh is enticing. With my one pair of fingers splicing Grace's centre and she grips me tight into her, I touch my other hand to Alexandra's leg, on the inside of it, and she moves it forward at my touch to make it easy for me, and I slide my fingers up her calf and thigh until the tips of them are at the touch of her wet heat, for she too is slick and aroused. I cannot see my hand now, as it is covered by the leather which flows over my arm like a softness. 

And my fingers probe to the centre of this proud woman who has lived a life and borne her children, and her birthing place is no longer for that role, but has returned to its pleasuring heat, and is wet with arousal, not blood. My two fingers are straight and firm, and one tip is on the hot throb of her ass hole, and the other thrusts into the easier slide of her wet sex. And like Grace, the older woman also pushes down just a little to force the rims and ridges of her tightest hole onto the press of my finger. So she too is pierced by my fingers.

I kneel before these two beautiful women, one older and no longer a girl, but lean and lithe; the other young and still a girl, but ripe and full; my upright hands like a prayer with my fingers gripped and held tight by the two of them, their cunts and asses gripping and holding me and they are impaled on me and we are all joined through my fingers.

There is a stillness in the room, and a rising heat, and my prick has risen strong between my thighs. But it beats alone to my heart, as my hands are trapped at the groins of the two women, and they are standing tall, their legs straight and taut with the tension of their muscles deep in their tight places. 

Their hands are upon each other, at their hips and waists and breasts, for Grace has unlinked the laces of Alexandra's bodice, and her slight breasts are free to be palmed and caressed by the younger woman's soft hands. And my hands are pivots upon which they twist and circle while their hands weave and trace, and their tongues push and their lips suck.

I lean forward on my knees, and lick my mouth and tongue to their risen clitorises, one at a time. I suck their little bright pearls into my mouth and slick a long wetness over their buds with my tongue. Both women twitch and tighten as I do so, and their tightening clench on my trapped fingers in the centre and wetness of their heat is an echo to the thrust of my tongue. As I tongue Alexandra's silver trimmed sex and fold out the butterfly wings of her lips, her ass tightens and I offer her a deepened twist in her dark channel, and I sense rather than know that her tight tongue echoes that thrust into the sweet mouth of her daughter, my sister.

And then I suckle and twist my tongue into Grace's smoothness and her sex lips are a thin tight line of red purple flesh pointing to the pulse of her clit, and I sense too that her mouth sucks on Alexandra's lips and tongue and there is an echoed throb through both their bodies and a rising heat. I look up and see heavy breasts cupped and pressed by Alexandra's hands, and hard nipples tugged and tightened by Grace's finger and thumbs. And their hands alternately caress each other's back and their asses, and squeeze there, and they caress my face and touch my hair.

I feel through my fingers an urgency upon them and I deliberately thrust my fingers up into their wet and tight holes, and with my fingers I start a faster fuck to their cunts and anuses, and my tongue is hard upon each their risen clitoris. And I feel the younger woman intensify her grip and cunting grab and she is becoming faster and more urgent in her movements, for she is younger and less certain of the inevitability of her cresting orgasm, whereas the older woman is indeed certain and knows how she will take her pleasure and is slower and more persistent with her rising heat. 

And we both concentrate on Grace, and she is an oblivion to rational sense now, as her orgasm rises within her, pressed along by the thrusting push of my fingers, the long lick of my tongue, and the firm push of Alexandra's hands. And she topples over into her open mouthed O, and her eyes roll back, and there is a guttural "yeeessss" from the depths of her throat, as she arcs her body and grasps my fingers high within her. And there she is, helpless and near swooning in her coming, and she is supported by Alexandra who surrounds her, and I, Alex, whose hand is a prayer within her.

As she rides to her cresting surge, so too does the rolling sea of their passion crest and break over the older woman, and there is a high, soft pant in the room as she too comes, her tongue like a small fuck into the mouth of Grace her daughter, and they come together, shaking and near swooning. And my fingers are held firm in their tightening cunts.

They cool from their rising peak, Grace and Alexandra, and both ease themselves from my fingers. They are still close, and they each take one of my hands and lead me to the room with the bed, and where there is the door to the dove cote. The large key to the door rests upon a shelf nearby, and the door is locked.

The two women, their breasts and necks flushed a deep red with their pleasure, sit side by side upon the bed, Alexandra still with her unlaced bodice and the soft leather skirt about her waist and flowing between her legs, and Grace all naked and voluptuous curves, but for her chain and locket about her neck. My fingers trace a light touch on the locket, and there is a deep tug of some hidden memory dark within me, but I cannot place it and bring it to the light. So there is a darkness.

I stand before them, and my cock stands hard and proud between them, the risen purple head at the same level as the ripe fruit lips of their mouths. Alexandra is the first to place her hands upon my shaft, and Grace waits. Alexandra takes the rise of my shaft in one hand, and with the other she takes the weight of my balls, which are tight and risen. And she presses the length of my cock to my belly, the tip just touching my navel, and she looks upon it as if comparing it or measuring it, and then she places a single kiss to the very centre of my shaft, as if there is a small worship or remembering.

And then Alexandra runs the circle of her fingers up and down the heat of my flesh and her thumb over the ridged purple head of me, and starts a slow measured beat, up and down slowly, up and down. And with her other hand she twists and swirls upon the sharp peaks of my nipples, and a shudder connects straight to the base of my cock. Grace now has her lips to the end of my prick and her teeth nip and tug on the ripe plum head, and shudders bounce my cock in our mother's hand.

Alexandra's stroke is slow and certain, and she twists her fingers around my shaft so that the sensation is varied and strong, and her fingers are relentless. One hand is upon my shaft, steady and regular, but unbearably slow. I want her to move faster but she will not, for she knows how to prolong me better than I know myself. Her other hand caresses the heavy sac of my balls, and as they rise and tighten she grips her fingers around them and pulls them down and away from my heat, and the skin is stretched. She rolls my eggs within their sacs and squeezes gently, tugging. Her rubbing is ever so slightly faster now, and her hand stretches over my length, long and faster, then long and slower. And her gaze is on the length of my cock and her eyes widen. "Sweet boy," she sighs, "my sweet, sweet boy."

Grace makes a small mewl in her throat, and her mother starts, as if she is reminded of the girl's presence in the room, her concentration has been so intense. "Take him to your mouth, girl, and you shall drink him deep." Alexandra has passed something to Grace with those words, and with her hands firm upon my cock, the mother offers me up to the daughter, and there is a connection down through memory, made then.

Grace takes my purple red head to her lips and the tip of her tongue lances at the slit at the end there, and she pushes it wide, and her tongue is pointed and penetrates just a tiny length. Then she opens her mouth wider and sucks the whole head of my cock to her tongue, and the women hold my cock still, so that the only movement is the swirl of Grace's tongue over the head, and Alexandra's hand holds me firm and then, fuck, Grace has nipped me with her teeth. I try to push myself back to release my shaft from her mouth, but Alexandra is firm and will not let me move. Grace looks up to my face and smiles, and there is a rich blush of blood on her raspberry coloured lips, which she licks with her tongue. 

"The blood, brother, it is our blood." And I know, even my slow brain knows, that the daughter has learned from the mother and will do what needs to be done to protect the blood.

And the pressure on my prick is building now, and there are now four hands grasping and pulling upon the rigid shaft, and clutching at the tight muscles of my ass, and pulling upon the tight tips of my nipples. And there are two mouths upon my prick as I am suckled first by the older woman, her last succour; and then suckled by the young woman, who is inheriting the knowledge and the duty, and between them they are making my seed rise, my seed that is the connection between them both. 

She is hot and hard and firm on my prick, and her mouth is hot and her throat is deep, and there is a string of spittle, pink strung with my blood, linking their lips to my cock. Her fingers squeeze and scratch over my balls, palms cupping them. And her finger is on the bud of my ass and she enters me there and twists. Her hand is much faster now, yet still I am commanded, and her suckle is much deeper now, and still my seed is rising. 

My hands and fingers are blindly grasping at air, I cannot think where to place them, for all of my sensations are focused on that tight shaft that connects the depth of the seed in my balls to the hot red swollen head that is in her mouth and there is no other space in my mind for any coherent thought at all, and she pumps and she sucks and she pushes with her finger and then my groping hands are each grasped by a hand, and their fingers interlace with mine and my hands are gripped and straightened out away from my body, and my arms are out straight like a crucifixion, their fingers lacing mine and holding my hands still and her suck is deep and her stroke is long and then there is a stillness, nothing moves, just the deep spiralling pulse about to surge within me, and all is still, my orgasm posed on the brink, and all is still, her hand has stopped, and all is still, her tongue swollen but still on my prick.

And then the world is no longer still, she makes one final gripped stroke of my shaft, she makes one long suck of my swollen prick, and then oh fuck, fuck, Christ yes, my loins surge and the hot seed explodes from my shaft and spills into her throat and she drinks me down deep. Her finger pumps in my ass and milks more from me, and that too is drunk down, but my spill is too much, and she pushes back off my cock so she does not gag, and there is a long string of my seed from the head of my prick to her Iips, and it is thick and holds together even though our flesh no longer touches. 

Alexandra reaches down and takes that thread of come-laced spittle between her fingers and pulls it apart and puts it to her lips. "There, I taste both my children, my blood is safe."




In The Library Ch. 21



Shuddering still, I begin to soften in their hands, and I fall to the bed between them, my hand knocking the key from the shelf, and it falls to the floor with a clunk. I am bare assed between the two women, and feel a soft caress on my back and a hand through my hair, but do not know which one of them touches me. 

"Alex," but they have both spoken at exactly the same time and their voices merge as if one, and they stop. There is a low laugh as the mother and daughter realise what they have done, and their minds are tuned together and mine is not. "Alex," my mother repeats, "Alex, I am going now, please care for your sister." And my head is filling with a deep drowse and a sleep is starting upon me.

"Alex," my sister repeats, "I too am leaving now, but will not be gone long. Sleep,dear brother, you must be tired, you have given up a lot of yourself today." 

And my head is fogged and my mind darkens into darkness. And the last words I hear, before the blackness is complete upon me, are from the low voice of Alexandra my mother: "Care for the girl, Alex, for she is our blood, you and I."



In The Library Ch. 22



Grace has disappeared and I am accused of doing her harm.

Arbogast has tracked me down to the chambers by the lake and is asking me about the accelerator, and is suspicious of me. He has found a locked room under the clock tower and has found its key in my possession, but I cannot explain how it got there. I do not know what has happened to Grace, and my ignorance sounds like guilt. I convinced the detective that the device is a transmitter for sound and vision which is the new technology called teleo-vision, and that I am an inventor. But I know that he is not convinced, so I do not have much time. He will return, and I had better be gone when he does.

As I set the controls for the future of time, I realised that the settings have been changed from the last time I had worked on the machine. I had set up the controls for the maximum jump forward that the machine could manage, which was just over twenty years. But the controls had been dialled right back to just two or three days, and I then noticed that the run counter showed twelve runs. But I had only done three runs - the two short experiments with Edisson in the first decade of this century, and the huge jump that had delivered me to 1925. Somebody else was using the machine.

A chill went up my spine at that realisation, especially if that person had done nine time shifts. I did not know the real consequences of a jump in time, but it was clear from Edisson's note book that each experiment that I had piloted was troubled, and left my memory ravaged and empty. I looked to the shelf with his note books, and saw that indeed the books had been disturbed.

There was my note to Edisson, written when I had first arrived in this time, when I did not know who I was. And look, on the following pages, in a circular looping script, there are another series of notes and reminders.

The author had carefully recorded the settings of each time jump, clearly progressing from six hours to twelve hours, one day, two days and three days, and then three more trips of three days each. And, oh my God, there is a note recorded on each page, where the traveller is leaving a message for herself:

"When you read this, know that you have travelled days through time, and you are in a familiar and a safe place. Know that your name is Grace Cain, and your mother is Alexandra, and your brother is Alex Cain." And there are other prompts and notes, written to remind a memory shattered person of their true self. And there, as the truth of it, there was the locket and chain that Grace wore so close to her heart, always, that was a gift from her mother. 

I took the locket up in my hand, and as I did so I felt a spiralling unravelling within my head, and a furious tug of memory shimmered and shattered within my mind, and I grasped and pulled and tugged at that thread, and there it suddenly was. I flipped open the tiny glass to find the two tiny feathers that I had placed there oh so long ago, but they were gone - but my memory now was clear. 

This locket had once been given to me by a shattered and strange man, long ago, whose shape had shimmered and shifted. And my mind remembered his strange prowling walk and the circling familiarity of his movement around me in that ancient library. And the fucking cat, I remembered the fucking cat.

And like a series of explosions in my mind, hard strong percussions of realisation washed over me, and I remembered. Catherine, my mother who was not my mother; Odette, with her loved and precious scars from the cat who I could never match; the tiny feathers that I had clutched to my breast as I made my last huge jump through time, my search for my mother, Alexandra. And the spawn of myself and my mother, our corrupt, unwholesome daughter, Grace, who was so innocent because she did not know that final truth. 

The whole horrendous cycle plummeted down into my mind, and then I was furiously hunting through the notes and checking the settings on the machine. I needed to find how long her last trip was set up for, because the locket and the chain were the clue. She had set them aside the last time she had entered into the accelerator, for she knew that she could not have metal near her skin when the machine was activated. Grace was travelling now, but how far, how when, would she arrive?

And the image of those thick black markings on her shoulder blades leapt to my mind, and I knew that she too, like me, was entranced by those two tiny feathers. And every trip she had made, she too clutched them to her breast, and they were foreign to her and corrupt, and the machine was merging the two separate lives - the human child of unholy seed was merging with the tiny relics of the bird. 

Grace was becoming a shifting, shaping, sharing of lives. Grace was becoming a monster. And I was the monster's father, but she did not know.

As my mind was plummeting and roiling with my memory shattering down through time, I felt a shimmering hum within the accelerator. I leapt away from it as fast as I could, throwing myself onto the floor, well outside the electro magnetic and etheric fields as they buzzed and roiled with a purple light and a falling descant of power. 

I watched, spellbound, as an elongated shape materialised within the machine, and it was the naked body of a woman, her torso arched back against the wooden chair within the device, her neck and head thrown far back in a rictus of pain and ecstacy, her legs contorted also, spread wide apart. 

Grace's hands, for of course it was Grace, were hard upon the centre of herself, three fingers of one hand deep inside her cunt, two fingers of her other hand still swirling on her clit, the shudders of her shattering orgasm still upon her; that had harnessed and focused the etheric power that had thrown her here.

"Grace, don't be afraid, it is I, Alex." I had to help the girl, for I knew of the confusion that existed when the accelerator stopped, and the blur of memory that a time shift would bring. "Here, let me help you from the machine. My God, I did not realise what you were doing."

She pushed back from me, afraid. "Who are you, and why do you touch me?" And with a rising cry, her voice burst, "why am I naked, and oh, why am I shamed between my legs? I am not like this." And from her hand fluttered and dropt two tiny feathers, that floated to the ground. Her arms were long and dark, and she moved them with a strange motion.

I held her close and wrapped a blanket about her, and stroked her black black hair, to calm her. And slowly she settled, and stilled her restless hands, and I pulled her close. I could feel a rapid pulse through her body, and held her dark head to my chest. She was my child, and afraid, and I held her. But I could never tell her. She was corrupted, but she was innocent.

As she recovered from the transit and slowly came to her senses, I wanted to find out what this journey had cost her, both in terms of her mind and physically. So I said nothing about her journey through time, but soothed her, stroking her hair gently, and calming her, murmuring so she could hear my voice, which was usually familiar, and might still be.

"What do I do here, when am I?" So she was aware that she has travelled in time, but was clearly still vague as to who she is and why she is here.

"It is three days since I saw you last, and your mother and I were with you in the apartment." I did not want to remind her of the coupling that went on then, but to discover whether she remembered it.

"Mother?" Her voice was vague, a question there.

"Your mother, Alexandra." I did not want to say that she was my mother too, but to see if Grace remembered that I was her brother.

"Ah, mother, yes. My mother. But Alex, you've not gone yet?" 

What, how did she know that I was planning to go? I had never discussed it, and thought my plan a secret. Perhaps not?

"I'm not planning to go anywhere, I don't know what you are saying."

"Yes you are going to go, because Arbogast thinks you have killed me, and you must go."

What was that, what on earth was she talking about? How did she even know Arbogast?

"Don't be puzzled, Alex, it's really quite clear. I have disappeared, and have left a string of pearls behind, to be found. It suits me, I think, to be dead. But it might not suit you..." 

And as she spoke, I realised that there as a cold malevolence about her that unsettled me. "How do you think Arbogast found the key?"

Fuck, I was missing something here, missing something important. Very, very important. But just at that moment there was a turmoil outside the door, and I heard two male voices, urgent and intense, and a woman's voice, shrill and frightened. Grace pushed away from me, and melted behind curtains that hid a passage through to an ante room. Unless the room was actively searched, she was hidden.

Alexandra's voice rang from the corridor outside, "stop, Alex, don't go in there, it's not what you think."

What was she on about? The door was closed, so what was she on about? Then I heard another voice that was oh so familiar, yet I did not know it; and then Arbogast' s voice shouted, "Cain, stop there, don't proceed, don't go in." 

What on God's earth was going on here, how did they even know I was here? And then the door smashed open and I was confronted by the furious form of a man throwing himself at me, violently. I ducked to avoid his blows, and spun to the ground to roll away from him. Over his shoulder I saw the detective, Arobogast; and beyond him, the frantic face of Alexandra, her hair wild and blown.

Arbogast threw himself at the intruder, yelling, "Cain, stop right there, you're under arrest." 

With a thump the intruder was tackled to the ground, with Arbogast pinning him down. And as he was tackled to the ground, the stranger's legs lashed out at mine. And with a shimmering, slicing sensation that was strange and rippling, his legs flashed straight through mine and did not touch me.

A sizzle of energy flashed through the room, and a shimmer glittered on the air. And the stranger rolled on to his back, and holy fuck, there was a mirror before me, as I looked into my own eyes and at my own face. Whoa, what the fuck was going on? This could not be real, how on earth could this be real?

And with another shimmer and another slice of light and purple heat and a smell of ozone, there was a massive shift of the air, as if some giant pivot was spiralling in the room, and a vortex was there between me and my own simulacrum pinned to the floor. 

A giant, spiralling silver thread connected the two of us together, its shimmering ends pulsating with a heartbeat. The heartbeat pulsing at each end of that moiling, spinning thread synchronised and the beats were identical. And each beat echoed and rippled down the thread between us, merging and blurring and bouncing. Beat, beat, beat.

And the thread grew shorter but thicker, roiling and twisting between us. And I stared into my own blue eyes and my own blue eyes stared back, and my mind shimmered and twisted and fuck, fuck, fuck, my mind suddenly rippled and shuddered with visions and images of trains and birds and Grace was there and images and visions and Alexandra was there and visions of Grace. And I stared at my own blue eyes, and my blue eyes stared back at me.

Grace was there and there was a black and white bird. There was a brightly coloured bird and Grace was there. There were a myriad of tiny birds and girls running. And Grace was there and an owl and a swan and a shimmer of wings. And Grace was there. All was shimmering and shifting and feathers brushed my cheek and visions of Grace surged through my head, and my mind shifted and spun and joined and I stared into my own blue eyes and my own blues eyes stared back at me. 

And my perspective of the room flickered back and forth, back and forth, as my mind merged and joined, and my vision saw first that wall and then the other wall. That wall and then the other wall. That wall and then the other wall. Slower and slower my shifting vision shifted until, finally, I was staring at just one wall, just one wall. That wall and that wall. That wall and the wall. The wall in front of me. That wall, the one in front of me. The wall. I was staring at the wall. Staring, staring, staring at that one wall.

"Alex Cain, I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Grace Cain." 

Arbogast cuffed me, and pulled me to my feet. 

"I don't know what the fuck just happened there, boy, but I got you. You can say or do whatever the fuck you want, boy, but I got you. I fuckin' got you."

My name is Alex Cain. I'm going to sit in the damned chair for this.

And that will save me. For I have a plan.



In The Library Ch. 23



The irony of the electric chair is that it was invented by Thom Edisson, as an extension of his research into alternating currents. I do not know if he refined the death device after he invented the chrono accelerator, or before. But the similarities in the technical aspects are certainly convincing. I do not think, though, that the etheric channeling was paid quite the same attention. So I will be relying on another technique to generate the equivalent of that energy, which is still essential for a time shift to occur. Luckily, human nature is inclined to be both depraved and aroused when faced with another's misfortune, so I think it will work.

I am also relying on the fact that Mac Arbogast is as crooked a bastard cop as ever I have met or shall ever need. Not only has he surpassed himself with the arrest and his conduct of the case, but he is so corrupt and lacking in even basic ethics, that I have been able to rely on him to to supply the soporific drugs that I shall need to make my execution appear to be successful.

It will all come down to timing. It's just as well that the prick Arbogast got a gold watch for "years of honourable duty to the state and to the public, blah blah fucking blah." So long as he is a good timekeeper, then all will be well.

Alexandra has visited me in gaol, as only a true and dutiful mother does. I am not at all certain as to the true extent of our relationship now, but even though I am a filial killer, or so it would seem, it appears that a mother's love can indeed be thicker than water. Or perhaps she has an inkling of what is going to happen. That wouldn't surprise me. I always was slower in the brain than ever she was.

We don't talk of Grace.

I have had my last meal and I have put up with the priest. Seriously, what the fuck would he know about death and dying and duty? Still, he passed the time. Arbogast has also been and gone, and he and the doctor (so much for the Hippocratic oath, but never mind) have rigged the needle. The doc will plunge the syringe just as I enter the chamber, and the glass tube will shatter and grind under his boots.

Then the executioner will hit the switches, and Ol' Sparky will light up with more volts and more amps than ever did the accelerator, and the fucking thing will boot me so far into the future that I will not remember a damn thing, and I have no idea how far it will go. And the sexual power needed to trigger the etheric power... well, I did say that a crowd can be both depraved and aroused when faced with another's misfortune. I'm relying on the spectators (they call themselves witnesses, but they are not witnesses to any truth that I know), I'm relying on them to be so fucked up in themselves that their pricks will stiffen and their pussies will weep as they see that power switch fall.

The clock strikes in the hall. The wheels of the gurney squeak and squeal on the linoleum floor - you would think the state could afford a squirt or two of oil - and the door to the cell clangs open. I am cuffed and placed on the stretcher, and the neons pass overhead down the corridor, one by one, one by one. And the wheels squeak. The door to the chamber is flung open, and the doc's voice is close to my ear. 

"Here we go, Cain, here we go, ten minutes and it will look like you've gone. I don't how we will explain it to the Governor, if what you say will happen, happens." There was a dry laugh. "But hey, you can only be executed once. Double jeopardy. If they have a body, eh?!" 

And then there was a sting of the needle in my arm, and a slow wave of hot drowsiness crept through my veins. I was vaguely aware of being strapped into the old wooden chair, silver conducting paste applied to my wrists and ankles, and thick copper straps wrapped around twice.

Fuck me this is a stupid idea, but I know it will work because I have seen into my own eyes and I have merged, coming back from the future and moving forward from the past. I see the curtains of the viewing rooms pull aside and there is a shuffle there. But my brain is blackening and my mind is becoming dull as the drugs surge, and there is a shadow on the wall of a hand on a big lever and the black shadowed arm reaches out and my eyes droop and the hand grips the lever and my eyes close, lids shutting red. And I hear the slow click of the lever as it notches away from its dead contact.

And I hear with super human sensitivity the quiet grind of the hinge as one axle of metal grates within the tube of the other part, and the movement is slow, impossibly slow. And the metal grinds on, and I can hear in the dead silence of the room my own heartbeat as a pulse beating under the skin like a tiny drum, beat, beat, beat. And time slows and my heartbeat slows, and there is silence in the room as the last millimetre of the switch movement clicks into place. And I can hear the rush of electricity down the thick cables, the sound of electrons colliding.

And in the moment between the maximum down-swing of the alternating current and the maximum peak of the up-swing, there is an infinitesimal blackness and a still point. And with all my will, with every ounce of my thought and being, with every belief and truth in my life, I urge myself down into that still point and through the eye of that needle into space and time and beyond. And with my last conscious thought, I feel my cock stiffen. And then black silence darkness and white exploding noise and oh fu

-ooo OOO ooo-

ck ck ck. ck ck ck. The click of a bird outside my window threads through my hearing, and I struggle to the surface of my dream. This last week my mind has been dream rich, but that last one, fuck, didn't like that at all. My body had been gripped in a paralytic stillness, a blackness so complete that I could not sense up nor down, and a giant squeeze all over my body. Fuck that for a game of soldiers.

"Alex, get up, you lazy sod, you've got stuff to do before you leave." Mum's voice outside my door, and a clank of plates and cups in the kitchen, the family is moving around.

"Yeah Mum, give me ten minutes, I was late in last night. Gotta get my beauty sleep, you know how it is!"

"OK, right. My beautiful boy needs to be at his prettiest for the girls in the big university town, far far away." 

That's what I love about Mum, she is always first to take the piss. Keeps me grounded, that's for sure. I guess it's also her way of handling me leaving this town.

I idly stroke my morning wood under the covers, thinking back to the last weekend with B. We had been to the back row of the movies on Friday night, the usual end-of-week cinema, all of the schools feeding their kids into the double feature. This was a big one, one of the new blockbusters shifting the dynamics in Hollywood. I personally thought it was pretty stupid, every shot stolen from another, far better movie, and a daft story about some orphan kid with a fucking light sabre or something. What, didn't they invent lasers in that far away galaxy? Jesus wept. Someone threw an egg at the screen, so the second half of the movie had a great streak from the top to the bottom of the screen.

Anyway, B was quite happy to let my idle fingers tangle inside her panties. She slid down in the seat some, her coat in her lap hiding my hand there, and unzipped her jeans and popped the top button of those tight blue denims. My fingers lazily circled the small softness of her belly before lacing inside her cotton panties. 

Even though I could not see them, I knew she had her white cotton-tails on - she would paint a verbal picture in her low voice: "A, they've got the cutest little pink hearts just below the elastic. But you'll never see them, since you're going away. You're my sweet boy, but you're leaving me here in this town, so you're my sweet bastard boy."

And she took my finger and ever so carefully slid it to the base of her soft fur, and placed it at the top of her slit. Her eyes never left the screen, and the shadows of light played on her face. Her lips were full, the tiniest smile the only sign that something was moving. My finger slowly spiralled on her rising clit and alternately flicked it and dipped lower into her wetness, her wet crack, and pulled the slick, slippery juice up over her bud. I kept up this slow play while the colours flashed on the screen and B did her best to keep her eyes open and her face focussed. But then her legs twitched and I knew that she was beyond hopeless now, her hips rising to put more pressure onto my fingers.

She would miss the next bit of the movie now, for she always rose into her orgasm the same way. Her limbs would twitch and she would throw back her head just a little. Her eyes would first open wide, as if the whole idea of an orgasm was a surprise, and then her beautiful smile would broaden, as if she was sharing a good laugh with the universe, and there, one lick of her pointed tongue over her full lips, dark and engorged. Her tongue passed once over the bottom of her full top lip, as if she was moistening the tight lips between her legs. 

She told me once that she would lick her lip and then wetten her finger on her lusciousness there, and then that moisture would dive down between her legs to moisten herself, parting the lips of her sex. She had discovered how to double her wetness when just a young girl, and now it was part of her pattern, always. And then her eyes would close, and her mouth open just the slightest bit, and the tip of her tongue would show between her teeth, as if deep in concentration. And of course, she was. Her sweet wet cunt clasped my finger and I could feel her tighten on my finger inside her, her clit pushing hard against the palm of my hand.

She took my other hand and raised my finger to her lips and clamped down tight on my knuckle, so that she would not cry out. And she took her pleasure silently, rising her ass up from the seat to clasp my hand and fingers hard into her wetness, as she shuddered into her silent O. And I heard, as I loved to hear, one small exclamation, "oh, fuck, yes." Just three short syllables, and that was her announcement to herself and to me. B coming. B coming on my finger. I was her sweet boy, and right now, that was my sweet finger inside her.

She opened her eyes, her face still towards the screen. Slowly, she turned her face to mine, her little smile a remembering smile. "Did I miss anything? What's going on now?" And with my finger still in her heat, I filled her in on the story. Luckily for me, no key plot points...

"Come on Alex, get out of bed, son. Things to do."

Thanks Dad, for that. No point carrying on with my shaft then, every bugger in the house was after a bit of me now. Better get up, before my sister weighed in. That would be a bit odd. 

"No, it wouldn't." What the fuck, where did that voice come from? Live as fucking day, and it sounded just like me. Jesus, have I got voices in my head? Fuck. 

And what the fuck is this? I've bought my hands up from under the covers, and I see big black and blue bruises on my wrists, and there are raised welts around the wrists. I hold my hands out in front of me, and look from one hand to the other. Both wrists, bruised, each blue-black mark working a couple of inches up my arm. I touch one of the bruises, but I can't feel a thing.

"Fucker, don't touch me there. That hurts." Fuck fuck fuck, this is scaring me now, what the fuck is wrong with me? 

"Shit, he doesn't know about me yet." And at that point I feel a snap in my head, as if some door was closing. I realised that my head had felt thick and blurred, but was now clear. I sat on the bed, my balls shrivelled up with fear, my cock a pathetic small thing. I sat there for five minutes, until I was convinced that my head was clear, my thoughts my own. Am I under that much stress, facing the idea of leaving this town?

After a shower and breakfast, my morning freak-out was mostly forgotten. Maybe I had fallen back asleep? The blazes on my wrists had faded also, and now were just dark blemishes. Jesus, that was fucking weird, though. All I could think was that I'd somehow bruised my wrists doing something. But couldn't think what.

"You all right, son? You don't seem yourself this morning." Fuck, Dad, don't you start.

"Dad, I'm leaving town tonight for a city I've never been to, with people I don't know. No, I'm not quite myself. I'm bloody scared, to tell the truth."

"Don't blame you, when I was your age I reckon I was much the same. Still, you're my son, so you'll be fine." Typical Dad, never says much, but when he does open his mouth, it's generally not bullshit and makes a lot of sense. I surprise myself and give the old man a big hug. I'll miss him. But he knows that.

-ooo OOO ooo-

I flew down to the city, the old Fokker Friendship churning along at 15,000 feet, high enough to realise how bloody huge this country was, but not so high I couldn't make out details. Below I could even make out the thread of a train working its way up the range, the track circling and curving as it made its long way into the mountains. I'd know that train very well by the time this next three years was done - this flight a rare treat because of the cost.

But the university was new, the people all new. I quickly fell in love with the place, met a cool stoned chick at one of the orientation week parties, but then found myself completely out of my depth with her. And she was from an even smaller town than I came from.

But there is a strangeness about this place. As I walk around the city, and later, find an old bike and ride around, I find that there are places with a strange pull about them. There is the huge civic library on the other side of the lake. It's a fairly new building, maybe ten years old, but whenever I am in it, there is a shimmer of age about it, something much older. Car wheels on a gravel road, big motors running. Where did that flash come from?

Outside, down by the lake, there is a small cafe, that must have been built in the first decades of this place. I am curiously drawn to it, and will often stay there for hours, with several coffees and a lot of books. I have gotten to know the young woman who owns it. She is strikingly beautiful, but remote. She says that she inherited the place from her mother, who worked there till the day she died. The daughter has a beautiful tumble of golden hair cascading down her back, down past her waist. And the hair has an extraordinary silver blaze all down the length of it, maybe one inch wide, like a ripple of molten metal on a wave of gold. 

The place is surrounded by cats, she must feed a dozen of them every day. They wrap and slink between her legs and around her skirts, their gold and green eyes watching wherever she goes. They circle around me also, but never come close. It's as if the damn things are watching me too, but I am uneasy under their gaze. They dart away from my feet, and never come near.

And the university library, there under its clock tower. I find myself avoiding the shadow of the tower as it shifts across the quadrangle with the circle of the sun each day. I can't avoid the library, for that is where I must find my books. There is a bronze plaque in its entry lobby that announces that it is the Grace Memorial Library, built by the Cain Bequest in memory of a lost daughter.

And there are birds. There are more birds in this one city than I have ever seen before, and more species, and more shapes and sizes. It is an impossible place, and one that has attracted ornithological experts from all over the world. Even one of the Cain family has published. In the lobby of the library, there is a rare first edition of a work entitled "A City of Birds, with a Speculation on their Arrival and Breeding Patterns", by Emily Cain who was, it would appear, the sister of Grace.

-ooo OOO ooo-

So, I have arrived back in this city. I am locked away for the time being, of my own accord, and silent. Madness must be a slow thing, but there is plenty of time, there is no need for haste. His eyes see and his ears hear, but I am deep and sunken in his mind, and I do not hear and I do not see. Not yet.

I do not have the power to win his mind, not yet. But I will, soon, for my sister is here, and she is awakening and will soon want feeding. And he will nourish her, and she will nourish him, and I will grow stronger.

In the basement of the civic library there is an ancient and fucked up machine, decrepit and broken down. But every now and then the lights in this city dip, and the engineers don't know why, and there is another crack of time, and another loss of memory, and another corruption.

For Grace my sister clutches two tiny feathers still, close to her breast.

Sometimes, only sometimes, I can see with her children's eyes, circling and soaring, tiny birds like a veil over the sky. 

Today I see him, myself, leave the library and stagger up the avenue of trees to his room in the college. And from a window on the ground floor, I see a currawong start from the ground, a blaze of white stark upon its blackness. So Grace my monstrous sister has fed upon her first meal.

And as he leaves the library, I see in the trees a thousand birds, all waiting and watching. And they will all have their turn. And she will grow stronger, and stronger, and stronger. 

And we will chase each other back and forth through time, my monstrous sister and I, her even more monstrous brother; and I see now the fate that will befall me, feeding and feeding and feeding. 

For there, lurching on the ground in its huge, shambling form, its huge wings dragging the ground, is a buzzard. And the buzzard waits for its prey to die from weakness, from exhaustion, from sickness. And then the buzzard will feed. 

And Grace my monstrous sister will finally triumph over her even more monstrous brother.

For my name is Alex Cain, and the monstrous child is my daughter.