4 comments/ 26891 views/ 2 favorites Morton's Island Ch. 01 By: RonRyder Introduction: It was not his fault that Mr and Mrs Stanley landed their firstborn with the handle 'Morton Henry'. 'Henry Morton' possibly seemed to them pretentious, suggestive that the famous explorer was an ancestor. On the other hand, they could not resist the allusion. They did not think ahead, to schooldays and the viciousness his fellows could have wrought on one with the handle 'Morton'. Whoever was called that? As it turned out, Morton's handle caused him no grief. He could not care less what he was called. At boarding school, he excelled in every respect except in sports, and this was the reason he was set apart from his fellows. They mocked him, of course, as a swot, not one of the crowd, but Morton did not care. He also did not care that half his teachers were morons. He learned anyway, and by the time he was sixteen decided that his school had nothing more to teach him -- nothing at least that he was interested in learning. Morton Henry ran away. He just disappeared one day, and that was the last his school or his family ever heard of him. His mother, naturally, was distraught, but had her hands full with the twins and gradually accommodated to the mysterious disappearance of her son. They registered Morton as a 'missing person' with the police, placed ads in the local papers. But this was to no avail since Morton was not in the vicinity. He went to London. How he acquired his first job at the famous investment house Peachman- Lowell is not recorded. Also not recorded is his departure at age 18, and the founding of his own investment company, Morton and Associates, though the curious will search in vain for any record of the company, or, indeed, any Associates. Morton's company was run from a flat in South London which, while unpretentious, was spacious, kitted out with the latest technology and very well connected to the stock markets of the world. By the age of 22, Morton Henry, already a multi-millionaire, did acquire an Associate of sorts, one Russell Draper, an expert in all things electronic, but lacking the entrepreneurial talent of Morton himself. They were a perfect combination. As the company's assets grew to gargantuan proportions, Russell became bound to Morton at the hip. The man was a financial genius. Russell worked regular hours, but Morton did not. In fact, Russell had never caught him asleep, or even daydreaming, lest this be about an investment that was not doing as well as expected. Morton rarely left the modest accommodations and, curiously, his motivation seemed to have little to do with the vast fortune he had accumulated. His work was art, and this he lived for. The fortune he accumulated was a mere by-product. When Morton was approaching 40, Morton and Associates' tentacles stretched across the globe and occasionally, though never with a good grace, he was moved to leave his lair and visit one or other of the recipients of his largesse. Motivate them to do better, or call them to task if they'd failed to meet financial projections. One day in late summer, Morton made such a visit, to a capital in Eastern Europe, where he had, pretty much, a stranglehold on the entire economy. It would be a visit that changed his life. Naturally, his business partners received Morton with the greatest respect and with much pomp, though no ceremony, which Morton expressly forbad. He detested the limelight and the faintest hint of a reporter or a camera in his vicinity sent him scuttling for cover. His business partners knew this, and sought innovative ways to impress, if not ingratiate. This was especially important if the balance sheet was less impressive than they would have wished and it seemed vital to maintain Morton's ongoing approval by other means. After a hard day's work poring over the books, businessmen are not unknown to enjoy a night on the town, and while Morton was certainly no ordinary businessman, neither was a visit to 'Club Venus' an 'ordinary night on the town'. * Chapter 1 'Club Venus' was as exclusive as it was reclusive. Money alone was not enough, money and influence a pre-requisite, but still not enough. Entry to the Club, whose existence was known only to the staff, the employees, and the members -- all of whom were required to sign an oath of secrecy so sacred no-one had dared ever breach it --- was strictly 'invitation only'. Members were allowed to join only after a thorough background check by the Elders, a select group whose longevity of membership gave them leverage. In short, Club Venus was more exclusive than any golf club, any country club and if there were other clubs of equal exclusivity around the world, how would one know about them? When Esterhazy proposed an evening's entertainment, Morton declined. He wanted just to be left alone with his laptop and a hard-wired, secure link so he could check what had happened to the markets while he had been busy grilling Esterhazy and his team. The Eastern European market had performed very well, but Morton was suspicious. It seemed fragile. This Esterhazy knew, which is why he persisted, impressing on Morton the exclusiveness of the venue, the presence of persons of much influence. The markets were indeed fragile. Ergo, a vital investor should be provided with an incentive to remain invested --- so he could visit and re-visit the region. Club Venus had never failed. So far. As an Elder himself, Esterhazy had the right to one guest, and he used all means of persuasion to ensure that his guest that night would be Morton. In the end, Morton gave way. He'd left Russell with precise instructions. What was the point of having an Associate if one did not allow him from time to time to take care of business? Morton had no wish to accept Esterhazy's invitation, but the man was so persistent, it was not easy to refuse. Morton Henry Stanley was a courteous man. The limousine drew up at the door to what appeared to be a derelict building. Esterhazy threw Morton a glance of reassurance. The building appeared still derelict when they gained entry. Esterhazy had muttered something into a hidden intercom. When they passed through the second door, though, they entered a world so far removed from the outward appearances of the building it took Morton a while to adjust. Damask covered the walls, elegant items of furniture threw shadows cast by candles in alcoves. It was like entering the Casino in Monte Carlo from a barren warehouse. Two young girls appeared, scantily clad. One girl took Esterhazy's coat, the other Morton's. They disappeared. A woman stood before them. She wore a black dress that more than adequately emphasized her contours, and her hair up, which gave her a slightly severe appearance. She said something to Esterhazy, obviously a greeting. Her manner was regal, but just slightly deferential. Esterhazy, evidently, was a valued personage. The woman nodded at Morton, pleasantly. A brief conversation took place in a tongue Morton did not understand. The woman nodded. "Welcome to our club," she said to Morton, in accented English, extending an elegant hand. Which Morton took. "Morton," he said. "Sharapova," the woman replied, bowing her head slightly. "I hope you will enjoy yourself." "We'll take the mezzanine," Esterhazy whispered to Morton. "Maximum privacy. Please remember, you are my guest. Everything is on the house. And I do mean 'everything'." He nodded significantly. Why, Morton had no idea. He just followed along, more than a tad bewildered, as they mounted a thickly carpeted stairwell and entered a corridor that curved around. On one side of the corridor were doors with names on them and at one of these, the apex of the curve, they paused. "This is the 'Scheherazade Suite'," Esterhazy said. "Nothing but the very best for our distinguished guest." Esterhazy knocked gently. The door opened, seemingly of its own accord. Esterhazy gestured, Morton hesitated. "I'm right next door", he said, indicating. "Here." "You mean....?" "In case you need me," Esterhazy said. "Though I don't think you will. Maybe later." "You mean...?" Morton stammered, indicating the door that had opened. "Your suite. Absolutely private. You'll find the service here exemplary. Only the finest -- of everything." Morton was way out of his element, but he saw little alternative than to comply. His inclination -- to turn his back and retreat the way they'd come --- seemed too inappropriate. He entered the booth, his eyes adjusting gradually to the dim light from the candles. In front of him was a small sofa, of extraordinary elegance, opulently upholstered. The sofa faced out on a picture window that encompassed the entire frontage of the booth. As he advanced towards the sofa, Morton became aware that the window looked down on a stage. And on that stage were --- girls? Oh my goodness! At that moment he also became aware that he was not alone in the booth. Who was this? A waitress? That she was extraordinarily beautiful Morton did not immediately realize. His exposure to members of a sex other than his own had been restricted to the odd female executive, whose body language was quite different from that of the apparition, who now suggested with a slight movement of her arm that Morton may wish to occupy the sofa. Which Morton did. "May I bring you a drink, Mr Morton," 'Scheherazade' said, standing at his side. Morton noticed, not without alarm, that beneath her thin blouse, low cut, the contours of her breasts were clearly visible. Firm nipples strained against the cotton. He noticed also, that her legs not only went all the way to the ground, but almost all the way up as well. Only the briefest of skirts, slung elegantly from her hips, hid their fulcrum. Morton was confused. Where could he look? He fought for utterance. "How d'you know my name?" he said, suspiciously, not looking. "Oh, I'm so sorry," 'Scheherazade' said, in a soft, gentle tone, accented only slightly. "Would you prefer another mode of address?" Since Morton said nothing, the apparition continued, "We are very discrete here. I'm sure the Count has told you of this." "The Count?" "Count Esterhazy. The gentleman who introduced you." Esterhazy? A Count? They had aristocracts in this part of the world? Through the picture window, the girls on what appeared to be a round stage were beginning to discard the few items of clothing they had on. Naked breasts appeared, each pair beautifully formed, firm, succulent, bobbing just slightly as their owners moved gracefully around the stage, presenting themselves to each point of the compass. Morton felt sweat break out on his forehead. What on earth did Esterhazy think he was doing? He must leave immediately, Morton told himself, and he half-rose so to do. But something held his feet in place. They seemed not to want to move, and gradually their resolve transmitted itself to the rest of his body, in particular his eyes, which riveted themselves to the stage just a bit lower down than where he sat. A perfect viewing angle. The girls had begun to finger the ties of exceedingly brief bikini bottoms, which hid so little, but at the same time much that was of rather significant interest. "A drink perhaps, Sir?" Her voice floated into Morton's ears. He had fallen back onto the sofa. "Er, perhaps, a cognac?" he heard himself say. Yes, a cognac would be most appropriate. Morton drank alcohol only when it was forced upon him. He'd asked for cognac because this was the only alcoholic beverage whose name he could recall. Not a great drinker, then, but something inside Morton told him right now might not be a bad time to gain experience. "Certainly, Sir." Morton heard the door behind him open and close, presumably on the elegant back of 'Scheherazade'. He was alone. Goodness! Morton had never before beheld the nude body of a live woman. Now, unfolding on the stage were four. His eyes, all but popping out of his head, fastened on each gleaming mound of Venus as its owner paused, and posed in front of his booth at just the right orientation. Something inside him was thumping. He'd not given the matter any thought, of course, but merely assumed that women, like men, had pubic hair. These girls did not. Of hair there was no trace, just a sheer sheen between silken thighs, and hip bones that protruded just a little bit over taut velvet skin. Morton's eyes did not know where to point. Wherever they did, a rising sense of excitement overcame him, the like of which he'd never before experienced. The girls turned, flexed perfectly formed backbones, ripples of succulent muscle on each side. They could have been cloned except for their hair, one blonde and long, another brunette and short, a third red and braided, the fourth blonde with a red streak down the center. It took a while for each to round the stage. Morton's eyes drank in one gorgeous torso after the other. Then they squatted on the stage and eased effortlessly into a sitting position. Gradually, tantalizingly, their thighs parted, wider and wider. Clefts displaying a delicious shade of pink titillated his retina. 'Oh my dearie me! Oh Lord!' He was thinking. 'What is happening to me?' 'Scheherazade' reappeared. She moved with such grace, Morton hardly noticed. She laid a silver tablet on the side table next to where he sat. On the tablet were two crystal cognac glasses of massive proportions and a bottle. On the side of the bottle was imprinted, simply, 'Louis XIII', unbeknown to Morton one of the finest cognacs mere money can buy. Morton's eyes remained riveted on the vulvas displayed before him, full, ripe petals that opened out as thighs spread wide apart. 'Scheherazade' poured from the bottle and held out the glass. "Your cognac, Sir." "Oh! Er.. Thank you. Thank you." The glass was pleasantly warm. "May I, perhaps?" "Er...?" Morton looked up. An inquiring glance. "Yes, of course. Of course," he said, hastily. "My name's Elektra," 'Scheherazade' said, seating herself on the sofa next to Morton and swirling her cognac expertly around in the glass, its stem held between elegant fingers, long with tastefully polished nails. "What may I call you?" Morton truly did not know where to put himself, ogling like a schoolboy with such an elegant lady seated next to him. "Please do call me Morton," he said. "Not Mr Morton?" she replied, in a seductive tone. "No! Morton. It's what I like to be called." "Ok, Morton," said Elektra. "Do you mind if I sit next to you?" "Er... Not at all, er. No! Not at all." Now his eye was seriously challenged. On the stage, the girls had paired up and were stroking each other, breasts, stomach, thighs. They did this very slowly, looking each other deep in the eyes, kissing sometimes. Yet next to him sat a creature no less delectable, and so much closer. So very much closer..... He noticed she had shed her shoes. Such fine-boned feet, just a touch of polish on the toe-nails. The word 'erotic' was not in Morton's vocabulary, so it was without assigning verbal meaning that he felt intense arousal at the sight of such perfect proportions. "I hope the cognac is to your taste?" Elektra said, in a sultry tone. "Oh .. er .. Yes! Indeed. Yes." "Perhaps I could refresh your glass," she said. "Er ... Oh! Yes, indeed. That would be most nice of you." Cognac should be sipped reverently, not swigged down. Morton knew this, but he swigged anyway. Truly, he was at that moment not in full command of all his faculties. As she replenished his glass, Elektra bent over ever so slightly. Just enough for Morton's eye to register, and his brain to process, that underneath the short skirt, she wore nothing. 'Oh my goodness!' Of course, by now Morton was very seriously aroused. But he did not know what the feeling was that had engulfed him because he had never experienced its like before. Elektra settled back on the sofa, though not quite in the same way as before. Her thighs were parted, one leg extended in his direction. "You like the show?" she said. "Er.. Yes. Indeed, Yes. They are lovely ladies." "And they love being stroked, you know. Like they're doing now, to each other." "Yes. They do seem to enjoy it," Morton managed to mutter. "I like being stroked, too," Elektra said, extending her leg just that little bit further. "Would you like to stroke my legs?" Oh my holy Jesus! His hand strayed. She helped it. "Just there. Gently. Then higher up, and higher up still..." Elektra arranged her position to aid access. In the process, her skirt rode up, just enough to reveal the hint of a cleft, violet of hue. It gleamed out at Morton in the dim light of the booth. "Mmmm! That's so nice," Elektra said, as Morton's hand inched further and further up her thigh. "Keep on doing that." The skin of her thigh was so soft --- the softer, it seemed, the higher up his fingers explored --- its mere touch sent thrills of yet new dimension through Morton's body. What on earth was happening to him? On the stage, the lights went out. A short while later they sprang on again. The girls returned, still naked, but now each had in tow a smaller, slighter, younger girl, covered from neck to foot in a long white gown. Around each girl's neck was some kind of band, studded, to which was affixed a chain, by which she was led and paraded around the stage, once, twice, thrice. Even as his hand continued to explore Elektra's inner thigh, Morton's eyes were glued once more on the stage. The parade had ended. One pair stood directly in front of Morton. He watched in a trance as the tie holding the gown in place was loosened. The gown fell to the floor, revealing a lithe body of the purest white. The girl had small breasts with prominent nipples, long legs and her rib-cage showed through the taut skin of her upper body. Her pubis was disproportionately prominent. He eyes were down, almost as though she was drawing attention to other attributes. "Mistresses and Slaves," Elektra whispered, in that sultry tone of hers. "Mistresses? Slaves?" "Just a game. Watch. It's fun." To Morton, fun was the wrong word. It was entirely the wrong word. He was transported into a world he had never known existed, one in which he was not comfortable, but could not leave. Such feelings as now suffused his being he had not conceived could be possible. But watch he did. The Mistresses stood beside their slaves and began to tweak their nipples, which stood out even more prominently. First one side, then across, to stand on the other side and give the second nipple the same treatment. The Slaves kept their eyes down and their heads still, but nevertheless appeared to wince slightly as the tweaking continued. "Doesn't that hurt?" Morton found himself saying. "OhYes!" Elektra said, her eyes sparkling. "But it's a nice hurt. Would you like to do it for me?" Glancing across, Morton saw that the blouse had disappeared, in its place two perfect pear-shaped breasts. Elektra ran a slim forefinger across her nipples and looked at Morton expectantly. She moved close. "I do so love it," she said, seductively. Tentatively, he reached out and took one of Elektra's nipples between finger and thumb. "Squeeze, and roll," she said. Morton obeyed. "Harder." Again, he obeyed. "Harder, much harder. And pull, too." "OhYes! Oooh! That's better. Keep on doing that." Morton did, keeping half an eye on the stage, where the Mistresses had swapped Slaves, but continued to work on their nipples. The stark white body in front of him was beginning to show slight signs of strain, a rib here and there showing just a bit more prominently, as though breathing had been interrupted. "Now the other one," Elektra said. It seemed like a command. "Even harder. And stroke my thighs with your other hand." Morton's Island Ch. 01 Her thighs parted further, drawing his hand higher and higher. It was inevitable. With a thrill that cast everything that had gone before in pale shadow, Morton's forefinger grazed the underside of Elektra's pussy lips. They were moist. A shudder went through her body. "Oooh!" Morton removed his finger hastily. "No! No! Please....I love being teased." Gradually the focus of his activity shifted from Elektra's nipples to her pussy lips. He stroked their tips, up and down, then, as she moaned softly and opened her thighs yet wider, began to spread them out and massage their inner walls gently. "Ooh! Oooh! That's good. You're good. You've done this before, haven't you. OhYes! Keep on doing that." Whether she was serious or not, Morton could not tell. He knew only that something that had long laid dormant within him was welling up quite alarmingly. On stage the scene changed. The Slaves' nipples now stood out, dark brown and hard, at the center of small, soft white breasts. The Mistresses used the chains to drive the Slaves to their knees. To Morton's astonishment, the Mistresses spread their legs wide apart, the Slaves' heads were raised, their tongues came out ---- began to lick between their Mistresses' legs! Oh my dearie goodness me! "Do that for me," his ears picked up. "I sooooo love being tongued." When he looked, the skirt was gone, Elektra had hooked her left leg over the back of the sofa. The right leg trailed, knee raised. His eyes feasted on the bright pink rose. Carefully, Morton edged himself into position. The sight of her, the aroma of her drove him wild. Resisting an impulse to bury his entire face in her, he began to explore those gorgeous petals with the tip of his tongue. "Oh! That is good. That is sooooo good." Elektra's groin assisted. "Up and down," she'd say, then, "Round and round...." Moisture emanated from somewhere and entered Morton's mouth. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop!" She began to moan, then to groan, the motion of her loins became more pronounced, wilder, then wild. "Up, up, up...Now. My clit. Ooooooooh! Aaaaaaah! More, more, press, press, press, press.......... Aaaaaaaaaarrrrgggggggghhhhhhh!" Her thighs closed around Morton's head like a clamp, holding him tight, his mouth buried in her. For a long moment, they writhed together, so joined. Then release. Elektra fell back on the sofa, her legs loosening their grip. Morton withdrew, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slouched back on the sofa. Something had happened that was so far outside his experience it was surreal. He could not believe it. It had not happened. It could not possibly have happened. And anyway, what had happened? His hand found the bottle. He poured, and slurped down the finest cognac money can buy as though it were soda pop. Down on the stage Slaves were still licking at Mistresses' pussies, urged on by impatient hands to ever more vigorous action. Through the surreal medley of confused feelings that tortured his brain, Morton Henry heard her voice. "Morton, you surprise. That... was just superb. You've done that before, haven't you." Of course, Morton had not. He did not know what to say. His brain was telling him something, but what this was registered only when the import of Elektra's utterance struck home. "Now it's my turn to do something extra nice for you," she said, in a seductive tone which seemed to carry also the hint of challenge. Who knows what other parts of his anatomy were telling him. Morton's brain had decided that it had taken as much as it could take. It was exhausted, with utter bewilderment at this new canvass that suddenly, with no warning, had unfolded before it. The lobes of his brain where emotion is registered and enjoyed were underused. This night, they had already been strained beyond capacity. Unsteadily, Morton struggled to his feet. "What?" Elektra said, looking up. "Please don't take this personally..." Morton began. At least his frontal cortex was functioning. "What?" "You are a fantastic woman. It's not you, it's me...." "But... but? We're just getting started!" Morton's ear was deaf. He lumbered up the slope of the booth, threw open the door, exited, closed it behind him and leaned on it, breathing deeply. His only thought was to get out of there, out of this Club, where hidden pleasures, treasures, had driven him almost to madness. But yet, there was his host. He could not leave without an adieu. It would not be polite. Stumbling along the corridor to the next room, Morton knocked gently on the door. No response. He knocked again. Still no response. He tried the handle and the door gave way. About to give vent to an utterance, what met his eyes arrested all thoughts of speech. There were three persons in the booth. None had noticed the opening of the door or Morton's presence. One naked girl stood on the sofa, her groin placed strategically over the Count's mouth. Whatever he was doing for her, she appeared to be in seventh heaven. Her eyes were closed and her hands pressed her breasts against her ribcage. She moaned softly. The second naked girl knelt on the sofa. Morton could see only the curve of her rump --- and a slender back that rose and fell, rose and fell ........ Morton retreated as silently and with as much dignity as he could command. Looking about him as though escaping from a crime scene, he made his way on tip-toe along the corridor, down the stairs and out the door. He did not wait to collect his coat. Chapter 2 Emily -- her trade name, of course -- had not expected to be amongst the chosen. The ad sounded odd, and the brief phone conversation even odder. But for that money, it was worth a risk. Anyway, what could happen to her at one of the most venerable and reputable hotels in all of London? Especially when the party occupied not a mere room, but one of the top-floor suites. No Tom, Dick or Harry, then. Whoever this person was, he had format. Apprised of the name, the clerk behaved deferentially toward her. Another good sign. Of course, he would probably anyway. Emily was a female of stunning looks and regal bearing. She ascended in the lift to the top floor, sought the door marked 'Marlborough Suite', and knocked firmly...... What had happened? When Count Esterhazy took Morton to Club Venus he set in motion a sequence of events he could scarcely have foreseen. Had he done so, he would immediately have acceded to Morton's request, sequestered him in an office with a fast, secure internet link and left him in peace. Or, better yet, he would have conveyed Morton personally in his own private jet back to London. But clairvoyant the Count was not, and no other could reasonably have been expected to predict the consequences of his actions. Esterhazy had been told of course that Morton had left the Club that night very early in the proceedings, and in a state of considerable agitation and disarray. Elektra could shed no light on this. They were doing great, she said, until he suddenly up and left. No, she couldn't understand it. No reflection on her, she'd said, indignantly. The guy was nuts. But even this could scarcely have warned Esterhazy that the very eventuality Morton's admission to Club Venus was supposed to pre-empt came almost immediately to pass. Esterhazy watched in bewilderment as Morton's entire holdings in the Eastern European market were sold. Cleverly, of course, so other investors would realize and react only too late. When they did react -- when the stock began to plummet -- Morton was out, his funds sequestered elsewhere. Esterhazy could not know that Morton had likewise withdrawn his financial support from all other markets and the Count would have been utterly mystified had he been told why Morton chose at that point in his life to consolidate his assets in readily convertible bonds, keeping a rather large chunk as ready cash in hand. Russell himself was given no reason for the termination of their long 'collaboration', as Morton had referred to it. But he complained not. The severance amount was so generous, he would never need to work again. The flat in south London was vacated, Russell re-located to a Villa overlooking Lake Geneva. And Morton? He simply disappeared. It is commonly believed that the worldwide recession of 2008 was caused by irresponsible behavior on the part of banks and other financial institutions. How could anyone know the real reason --- the sudden withdrawal of Morton's holdings in companies around the world, and the 'knock-on' selling this occasioned? No-one knew who Morton was. And who would believe a single individual could hold so much power? None of the eminent economists and analysts who struggled to make sense of the catastrophe that had struck the financial community across the globe gave it a single thought. Maybe if Morton had noticed, he would have cared. But he was himself unaware that a sudden change in the nature of his 'art' would reduce the great financial houses of the world to mayhem. One could not blame Morton, and in fact, if any one person was to blame it was the good Count. Esterhazy's introduction of Morton to Club Venus brought about an epiphany. In particular, Morton's encounter with the delectable Elektra awoke in him forces of such immense power and intensity, they could not be ignored. And since Morton did not do anything by halves, he had taken a decision. "Gentleman of means seeks counsel." He'd worried for days over the wording. Not too overt, not too flabby. Open to interpretation. But some there would be who would interpret correctly. Emily was one. Of course, she was not to know that she was one of ten Morton had chosen from a long list. Seven had come and gone. The position of 'counselor' was still open....... The door to the Marlborough Suite eased ajar and Emily found herself confronted by a man dressed in a bathrobe. It was a large, exceedingly elegant bathrobe on which was embossed the Marlborough Crest itself. But, when all was said and done, it was a bathrobe. The man inside it was of medium height, eye to eye with Emily, thanks to her heels. He was neither handsome nor ugly, his hair, neither long nor short, was red, his figure, insofar as one could detect, was neither stout nor skinny. His feet were bare, neither large nor small. In short, an unassuming figure. One who in a crowd would be utterly invisible. Emily thought for a fleeting moment that this may be not the gentleman she had agreed to meet, but his 'man'. This thought evaporated when a hand was extended in her direction. "Emily, I presume," Morton said, then, baldly, "Morton." A few moments later, they were seated across from each other in a drawing room the like of which exists, very probably, only in the exclusive hotels of pre-World War I Europe. The furnishings were a tad on the shabby side, which is unsurprising. Their hey-day lay at least a century in the past. "May I offer you a drink, perhaps?" Morton had asked, politely, standing beside a well stocked cabinet. Emily opted for mineral water. Morton poured himself a healthy portion of cognac. It had become his drink, and nothing other than 'Louis XIII' would do. "Now Emily," Morton began, "I want you to know first that I am a very direct person. So you must be also. I do not want platitudes and I assure you I can detect insincerity at five hundred paces. So please be honest with me." Emily nodded. In her shoulder bag was an envelope that, at Morton's invitation, she had taken from the table beside her chair. This, presumably, was her 'consultation fee'. She had half a mind to say, 'I don't actually like men who are direct, so I think, if you don't mind, I'll leave right now', and head for the door with her loot. But this she did not. She was not sure why. Perhaps because she was conscientious. She had guessed, as it turned out correctly, what was meant by 'counsel', and believed that a contract entered into should be fulfilled. So instead of leaving, she said, in keeping with his admonition to be direct, "Please tell me what you expect from me." Her voice was neither deep nor shrill. In fact, it was rather pleasant, and modestly laced with an accent she had acquired at finishing school and had never managed to shake off. "It's quite simple, really," Morton replied. "To set you in the picture, I'm 39 years old, I've led a reclusive life and have only recently become aware of certain of life's pleasures. I wish now to devote myself entirely to the pursuit of these pleasures. I do mean entirely," Morton added, with emphasis. 'Weirdo', Emily was thinking, but she held her peace. "Now here's where I run into a small problem. First, I have no experience. Second, though I have conducted very thorough researches over the internet, I am convinced that I will not be able to achieve my goals without, as it were, hands on assistance from one who is sympathetic to my situation and conversant with the pleasures I wish to pursue." 'Definitely, real weird,' Emily was thinking. But she held her peace. "Now, as I said, when I pursue a goal my devotion to this is total. I am either totally immersed in something, or not immersed at all, if you understand. So I seek someone --- of the female persuasion, naturally --- who will assist me in the total immersion of my being in the pleasures I wish to pursue." Morton paused and gazed at Emily quizzically. Clearly, he was expecting an utterance. Clearing her throat, she said, "I presume you are referring to ... er... sexual pleasures?" "Exactly," Morton replied. "For the foreseeable future, I wish to exploit to the full my potential for enjoying the pleasures of sex." Emily thought for a moment before saying, "I presume you're referring to what people call 'casual sex'?" Morton's answer took her by surprise. She thought everyone knew what was meant by 'casual sex'. 'No strings attached' etc. It had never occurred to her that the term could be interpreted differently. "Oh No!" Morton said, with emphasis. "Certainly not. Constant, not casual. I do not do things casually." "Constant?" Emily was confused. "Indeed! Constant. I shall eat, sleep but otherwise spend all my time enjoying the pleasures that over all these years I have not enjoyed." "You mean, sort of 'catch up'?" Emily said, tentatively. "If you want to put it that way," Morton replied. "I do not really think that way because I have enjoyed very much the life I have lived to date. I do not regret it and I do not feel I have been in any sense deprived. As fortune would have it, the pleasures of sex have recently been revealed to me and I have made the decision that the next segment of my life will be devoted solely to exploiting these pleasures to the fullest extent I am able. It's as simple as that." Since Emily could think of nothing to say, she said nothing. Eyeing her, Morton said, "Now the question for you is this. Do you think you are the right person to help me achieve my fullest potential? If you do not, then we can part amicably right now. If you do, then we can proceed." Emily gulped internally. 'Weirdo' just did not cut it. "It's not quite clear to me," she said at length, "what my role would be." "To make it simple," Morton replied, "your role is supervision --- of my personal development. I have certain goals and you will help me attain them." "Goals?" "Yes." "What goals?" "Goals that foster my development as a sexual being. I'll be blunt with you. At this point in time I cannot pursue my aims because of certain shall we say anatomical deficiencies." 'OhMiGod', Emily said to herself. But she hung in there. "Could you be more explicit?" "Certainly. However, if we are to proceed beyond this point, I have a request." "Please," Emily said. "As you've noted, I am wearing a bathrobe. You may have surmised that this is all I am wearing, and if so you would be right. If we are to proceed, it should be on a level of equality." "You mean...?" "Yes," Morton said. "I will remove my bathrobe, and you...." "I see what you mean," Emily said. Then, "Do you want me to strip here, in front of you? Or is it ok..." "As you please. This is a large suite. Here, or wherever. If this makes you uncomfortable, you are under no obligation. You are, of course, free to leave whenever you wish." Emily gave the matter a few seconds' thought. Many were the men who had seen her naked. What difference did one more make, even if he was an obvious lunatic? Only once, however, had she actually stripped overtly in front of a man. That was in her final year at finishing school. A bet. There was a boys' boarding school nearby and it became known amongst the girls at her school that the seniors had become tired of pursuing local girls and wanted a bit of class. A stripping contest had been proposed. Strictly secret. Ten guys, each with a vote. Five girls had entered. Emily had won. She had not really understood the reason, which was very probably her own innocence versus her competitors' experience. Whereas the other girls engaged in exaggerated gyrations and swirled their garments about their heads, throwing them into the rows of youths, she had simply stood straight up and slowly, very slowly removed her clothes. One by one. Just as she might have done when alone, but with much greater deliberation. When the other girls were naked she was still easing off her stockings, unrolling them carefully and stowing them neatly on a chair behind her before proceeding. This she now repeated in front of Morton. There was not much to take off. Her dress she unzipped and allowed to slide off her shoulders onto the floor. Stepping aside, she scooped up the garment with one arm, folded it neatly and placed it on the table by her chair. Next were her strap-ons, which came off as easily as they slid on. Placing a foot on the chair she'd vacated, she rolled down one stocking, stepped out of it, then unrolled and folded it. The second stocking followed in symmetrical fashion. Casually, she unhooked her bra, slid this half-off and stood for a moment looking at it, something she did subconsciously, but which of course created a heightened sense of anticipation in whoever was looking on. Resting the rim of her bra on her nipples for several seconds, she allowed it to slip down, revealing breasts that were neither small nor large, but were firm, succulent, vibrant, supremely natural. The act of stripping aroused her, so her nipples had stiffened as she progressed and the areola's surrounding them had grown puffy. As the bra slid down her arms, her fingers brushed briefly across her nipples, drawing attention to them and to the suppleness of her breasts as they swung slightly to one side, then the other, before they settled. The briefest of panties slid down her legs. She stepped out of them, folded them and completed the pile on the table. She stood upright, hands by her sides, her mound of Venus, naked of hair and lightly oiled so it gleamed in the muted light in the room, slightly to the fore. Then, the final act, she pulled loose the tie that kept her hair up. Shaking her head slightly, she allowed her hair to fall down her back, a long cascade of blonde. Her feet were slim with long, lightly painted toe-nails, her legs were slender, thighs muscled in the right places, her pelvis protruded just enough to draw attention to a slender waist and flat stomach, her breasts swung firm, her shoulders were wide -- and everything was milk white. Naked before him, Emily eyed Morton seductively. Unsurprisingly, she expected praise, at least a sign of appreciation. She was not a vain woman but she knew she had a body 'to die for'. Morton's reaction was unsettling. He studied her carefully, up and down, down and up, making no attempt at disguise. He had discarded his bathrobe, revealing a figure that was at best in need of toning up, and a penis that showed little sign of life. Making eye contact, finally, he said, Morton's Island Ch. 01 "Thank you. Now we may proceed. Please sit. May I get you another drink, perhaps. Something a little more interesting?" Emily was mightily disappointed. Was this what he meant by 'deficiencies'? All the men who had ever seen her naked, until now, had been fulsome, if not gushing in their admiration. The most she could detect in Morton was, perhaps, a faint twinkle in his eye, though she could easily have imagined even that. But she was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve. There's a first time for everything, she thought. "Perhaps a Campari? On the rocks," she said, in neutral tone, "if you have ice, that is." Morton searched the cabinet for the bottle that said 'Campari', poured a healthy portion into a crystal tumbler, added two ice cubes using the tongs, stirred with the glass stirrer, then crossed the room. As he transferred the tumbler to her hand he said, "You have a very nice body." "Thank you," Emily said, glancing at him over her glass. "Of course, you do understand that supervision of my progress would involve your person, in an .. er .. intimate way," he continued. "I understand," Emily said. Then, "So you did you like my strip? I wondered." Morton looked at her and at first she thought he had not understood. But he said, "Yes, indeed. You did that very well. Indeed, very well." Emily was thinking 'So why the limp dick? Was this the 'deficiency'? Was the guy impotent? ' But Morton had continued. "You have perhaps observed problem number 1. You asked if I enjoyed your strip and I answered that I did. This was entirely truthful, but it occurred in my head. My head was most aroused. However...." Unnecessarily, Morton drew attention to his flaccid penis. Emily gulped inwardly. But she was into it now, she was naked and she was not about to leave. Where was this going? "I suppose in my youth and previous life certain 'connections' that one would expect in a male of my age have never been activated. My life has been entirely cerebral, you see. So there you have it. You begin your counseling with, as it were, a clean sheet." Morton allowed the hint of a smile to cross his features. "Now as to my ultimate goal, this is very easy to work out. Let's take 8 hours for sleep. I get by quite well on 6, or even 4, but let's take 8, the accepted number. Then half an hour for breakfast, an hour for lunch and, say an hour and a half, or even two for dinner --- I do enjoy a leisurely dinner. Now, adding this up and subtracting from 24 leaves more than 12 hours -- for sexual activity." Emily blinked. Had he said what she'd heard? "Let me try to understand," she said. "Your goal is to .. er .. have sex 12 hours a day, every day!?" "Yes. Well, I would not say 'have sex' but rather 'be in a state of sexual arousal', and not only mentally. This is fine as far as it goes, but I have made the experience that one's brain goes into overload. It becomes too much for one. It goes on strike, if you will. There is simply no way I can attain my goal of 12 hours devoted to sexual pleasures in a purely cerebral fashion." "Now," Morton continued, over Emily's stunned silence, "I am fairly sure that once the appropriate connections are established and my arousal finds, as it were, expression, my brain will not overload. That is where you would come in. Let me see, what's the best way of putting it? Aha! A personal trainer, perhaps. Someone who will assist me, first in establishing the connections that are absent, and thereafter assisting me to achieve my goal." "And you expect this to be 12 hours a day, every day?" Emily said, in a tone of incredulity. "I do." Emily thought. Should she or should she not? She decided she should. "Mr Morton," she began... "Oh please," Morton cut her off. "Just Morton. It's what I like." "Well, Morton then. This -- your goal -- is very unusual. In fact, quite honestly I doubt that it is possible. Perhaps some women can have sex 12 hours a day --- I suppose there really are nymphomaniacs out there. I do truly doubt, though, that even a nymphomaniac can enjoy sex for 12 hours every single day. And a man? Well, he is limited by his physiology, isn't he. He simply cannot do this at all." "Did you say 'cannot'?" "I did." "And on what basis do you say 'cannot'? "I've never heard of such a thing." "Ah! There we get to it. I thank you for being forthright. Amusingly, all of the ladies I've interviewed so far for this post said 'No problem!'. Are they all liars?" Emily considered carefully. A weirdo, for sure. But a dope he was not. Be direct, he'd said. Ok, she would be. She responded, "I would have to say, er, Morton, that Yes! They are. Any woman who tells you that your goal is attainable is not being truthful." "Indeed. And you think this because no woman has ever heard of such a thing." "Yes." Morton Henry Stanley rubbed his hands. "I really like you, Emily. You are forthright and honest. You are very pretty and you have a body that appeals to me. Very much so. In fact, in spite of my infirmity, I can feel mild stirrings already, as it were. So let me pose the question directly. Would you be prepared to be my personal trainer, to assist me in achieving my goal?" Emily thought furiously. "I understand your skepticism, Emily," Morton continued, "and I appreciate it. You may be right that my goal is unattainable, but how does one know until one tries? I daresay some of the goals I have already achieved in my life would before they were actually realized have been regarded by most people, possibly everyone, to be unattainable. This did not prevent me from trying, and attaining them." Emily now thought long and hard. Her life was at a turning point. Two relationships had already gone bad. Either she was no good at relationships, or she picked lousy guys. She'd lost her lucrative job with the Ad-Agency, and that was before the recession. What were her chances now? She'd maintained her standard of living by moonlighting as an 'escort', but did not enjoy it. The money was good, but the clients the Escort Agency landed her with were either aggressive, or conceited, or physically repulsive, and more than a few combined all three attributes. Morton may be a weirdo, but he was neither aggressive, nor physically repulsive, and while his 'goal' suggested an element of conceit, the way he described it did not. Naïveté, perhaps. What harm was there in giving it a go? She wondered about the money. But finishing school had left its mark. To ask would be mercenary. "I answer your question this way," she said, carefully. "I will help you in your attempt to achieve your goal, even though I believe it is unattainable." Morton clapped his hands. "Excellent," he said. "I'm very pleased. I suspected you would be right when you took off your clothes. I very strongly suspected it." He continued, pensively, "You know, I regard what I do as 'art'. Whatever this may be, I pursue it with the same passion a painter, or a composer pursues his or her art. As I mentioned to you, I have conducted very thorough researches and these naturally covered the full spectrum of pornographic movies. I have to tell you frankly that I was shocked. Not because of the scenes and acts depicted, though some of these seem to be rather disgusting, but because the 'actors' --- I presume this is what they are --- show no trace of enjoyment. How can one find an act erotic when it is painfully obvious that the protagonists are 'going through the motions'? They are doing what they do solely because someone has paid them to do it. Who could possibly find such images arousing?" Emily had been silent, wondering where he was going with this. Since Morton was looking at her expectantly, she said, "Well I suppose plenty of people do. It is a huge industry. Aimed, I have to say, almost exclusively at men." "It is indeed. I've researched it very thoroughly. Worldwide it's amongst the top ten in revenues. And a sorry picture this paints, if I may say so, about the manner in which consumers of such rubbish obtain their sexual pleasures. D'you know, I even came to think it's a blessing that I am, as it were, starting late. If my peers, who presumably went through a normal sexual development, are sexually aroused by such trash, then I can only feel pity for them, and thankfulness that the same fate was spared me." Emily wanted to speak, but she couldn't think of anything to say. This did not matter, since Morton continued blithely on. "Now I'm gabbling away about this, and I'm sure you find it very boring." Emily managed to get in a "Not at all" before Morton continued, "What I wanted to emphasize, though, is the way in which you disrobed. As I said, I did enjoy this. You did it very well and I found it most arousing. But more important than this, much more important, was that you yourself enjoyed it. You yourself were aroused." Which took Emily aback. She had to think about it. Morton had fallen silent, which gave her the time she needed. Had she enjoyed it? The question must have shown on her face because Morton began again to speak. "You are uncertain, I can see. But I am not. I do pride myself on my ability to assess people. It has been of great assistance to me in my previous life, as it surely will be in the life I am about to embark upon. I watched you most carefully, and I would be amazed if my conclusion that you were aroused is incorrect." Emily had decided. She had to admit it. She had enjoyed it. Maybe the guy was not so weird after all. Well weird, but in a weird way, as it were! "This is important in two respects. First, you enjoyed stripping in front a strange man for itself, not for reward. You have in your bag the agreed honorarium for this consultation. This was unconditional. You could have walked out at any time, whenever you wanted to. But you did not. When I asked, offering no reward, you stood before me and took off your clothes." Emily was chewing on this, wondering what she could say, but again Morton continued, over her silence, "Now I am not naïve. I'm sure other thoughts went through your head. But there is a second point. The manner in which you disrobed suggests that you have at least the potential to regard sexual fulfillment as an art form." It was time to speak, Emily felt. This strange man should be under no illusions as to how she had maintained her standard of living. It would not be fair. An escort surely does not consider what she has to do to please her clients as 'art' in any sense other than the 'art of deception'. But as she opened her mouth, Morton interrupted. "Please, say nothing. I do not want to dwell on your past life, as I shall not on mine. I want you, like me, to think of yourself as a blank page. A page on which will be written not only my sexual development, but your own as well." Again Emily opened her mouth to speak. What did he think? She was a virgin!? Before her tongue could give voice to utterance, Morton continued. "Now," he said, with emphasis, looking at his watch. "It's three o'clock. What do you think? Dinner at eight, perhaps?" She found her voice. "You mean, here?" "Yes, of course. Where did you think? You'll have a few things to sort out. Five hours should be sufficient, don't you think?" Emily looked dazed. "You mean, you want me to move in here, tonight?" "Of course." "And stay...?" "Of course. How else shall we achieve our objective?" Emily gulped. This was not in her plan. She said, hesitantly, "Can I have a night to think about it? Sleep on it, perhaps?' "What is to think about? We've agreed. You have no boyfriend --- that, as you recall, was established prior to your visit. You live alone." "But.... But...." Emily was thinking furiously. What else was established? That she was unemployed? Yes. It had been. "But what?" Morton seemed genuinely puzzled. "My friends will wonder ..." He waved a hand. "You'll think of something. And you won't be needing clothes, will you. And as for toiletries, that sort of thing, you will find the hotel more than adequate for your every need. It's nauseatingly opulent, you know. Not really my style. But where else can one rely on utter discretion," he sighed. "So there's no need to pack anything. The clothes you came in are all you'll need. There are plenty of these around," Morton pointed to the discarded bathrobe, "for when we eat. The rest of the time...." He left the sentence unfinished. Emily fell silent. She'd run out of 'buts'. "So. Shall we say dinner at eight?" Morton said, looking at her expectantly. Pause. What could she say? "I suppose so, then. Ok," she heard herself utter. "Splendid," Morton exclaimed. Then he continued, in a business-like fashion, "Now there are just a couple of small details. First, I'm sure you have a cell phone in your bag. Please leave that behind. If you bring it, you may be tempted to use it, and cell phones can be located. No-one must know you are here, as no-one knows I am here, except of course the staff, to whom I am, and you will be, without identity. Please accept this as a condition. You are free to look around the suite if you wish. No harm can possibly come to you here. You will always be free to leave whenever you wish. It is not, I hope, a too unreasonable infringement of your personal liberty to require that you tell no-one --- not a soul --- that you will be here." Emily did a double take on this. Tell no-one? Not even Pat? As escorts, they always made sure the other knew, just in case. And she truly would feel utterly naked without her cell phone, a thought that almost made her giggle. If she went through with this, naked was the way she would be. All the time! How did she feel about that? "Are we clear on this?" Morton looked up at her inquisitively. "If you say so. Then, ok. I won't tell anybody." "Good. Now, second," Morton raised a pamphlet from the table by his chair and extracted from beneath a sliver of paper. "You will have some bills to pay in advance, rent, phone and such." He took up a fountain pen and removed its cap. "What name shall I write in?" he asked, looking up at her innocently. Pause. "I'm sure your bank will not accept a check written out to 'Emily'." Emily thought. Ohwell. She was in it now, and a check is a check. "Jane Gilbert," she said, sounding calmer than she felt. Morton scribbled in the name, muttering to himself 'Jane. What a nice name', signed with a flourish and handed her the check. She rose from her seat, received the check, took a quick glance, and almost fell over. "But.... But....?" "What now?" Morton said, almost crossly. "But...." Should she, shouldn't she? She should. "How do you know," she said, firmly, "that I won't just bank this check and disappear?" "I don't," Morton answered. "You are so sure of me?" "No! I am fairly sure. But not certain." "Then....?" "Well, if you were to do that, then you are not the woman I am looking for." "You see?" he continued, spreading his arms, and smiling. "A no-lose proposition." Chapter 3 "OhYes! That's good, that's very good." Jane's tongue continued to lick the base of Morton's rock hard penis, on the way brushing briefly across his scrotum. "Keep doing that, please." Jane did, even though her neck was threatening to break in half. She maneuvered Morton into a position more comfortable for her and began to lick his cock tip and slide it in and out of her mouth. "OhMiGod! That's exquisite. Come over so I can taste you." She shifted to the 69 position and her body shook slightly as Morton's tongue brushed against her pussy lips. Her own oral skills were well developed, but she'd been surprised when Morton displayed an expertise with tongue, lips and mouth second to no man who'd been there before, as it were. Now, on day three, she was surprised no longer. She just enjoyed, and moaned slightly as her lips were expertly parted and his tongue-tip explored their sensitive innards, flicking here and there, spreading out her juicy petals. She adjusted her rump, willed the tongue to go higher, where the tip of her clit peeped out from its hood. But she knew it would not. Not yet. Morton loved to tease, keeping her on a plateau. Resting on her arms, she repaid like with like, sliding her mouth over Morton's penis, slowly, up and down, tonguing its tip, going deeper, holding, sucking, then withdrawing. The tension heightened, in infinitesimal steps. Her arms tired, her thighs began to shake. Both recognized the signs and they flipped over more perfectly in tandem than many a ballroom pair. Jane allowed Morton's penis to slide out of her mouth. It sprang forwards, recoiling from his stomach. She began to suck on his balls, first one, then the other, drawing them deep into her mouth, until a scrotum that had dawn tight was again loose. Only then did she raise a hand and ease his penis gently back towards her mouth. Morton adjusted the position of his rump accordingly and began to moan himself as her tongue ran up and down the underside of his shaft. His head buried deep between her thighs, Morton's mouth pressed against her pussy lips, his tongue darting in and out of her vaginal opening, caressing their walls. Her thighs opened wider, inviting access. Then he'd move out briefly and flick the underside of his tongue across the tip of her clit, causing her to shudder. She felt her orgasm build, then hold, build, hold again, and began to suck on Morton's cock in earnest......... When she'd left the Marlborough Suite that day --- was it only three days ago: it seemed like an eternity? --- Jane had been utterly bewildered. Where was the catch? She'd subconsciously headed for the nearby tube station, but stopped herself. No! Returning, she entered the cab at the head of the line and gave the driver the address of her bank branch. "Please wait," she'd said, in regal tone when they arrived. She'd always wanted to say this to a cab driver! Double yellow lines meant nothing to them. Her hands shook as she filled out the deposit slip. Could you deposit a sum this large at a teller's window? Her heart beating furiously, she approached the counter and slid the slip together with the check into the drawer. They disappeared. The clerk withdrew the slivers of paper and examined them, agonizingly slowly. How often, she wondered, had a customer approached him with a check made out in the amount of one million pounds? How would he react? The clerk appeared to mutter something into an intercom. Jane noticed. "Is there a problem?" she said to the window, amazed that she'd been capable of utterance. "No, madam. No problem." The clerk retrieved the receipt from his machine, stamped it, stamped the check and placed the receipt in his drawer, which slid forwards. Trying to suppress a sense of urgency, Jane retrieved the receipt, glanced at it, consigned it to her purse, which went into her bag. Breathing an internal sigh of relief, she turned and headed for the door --- to find her way barred by a stout gentleman in a pin-stripe suit. "Good day, Madam," said the suit. "I'm the Manager. Would you perhaps care to come this way?" His hand indicated a gap in the counter which had opened up to allow the suit to emerge and was obviously the route he intended she should take. "Is there a problem?" Jane said, trying to keep nervousness from her voice. "Oh No, Madam! Only, so large a sum. I'm sure Madam will not want to keep that amount in a current account." "Ah! Yes! Quite," Jane said. "The bank offers many investment possibilities. So, perhaps?" The arm invited. "Look, can this wait," she said, "I have a cab outside. It's on a double yellow." "Oh certainly," said the suit. "Perhaps Madam would care to make an appointment?" Morton's Island Ch. 02 Author's note: This is the second part of a two-part story. Ch II is essentially self-contained, but there are many references to events described in Ch I, which you will find in the 'Group Sex' collection. To readers who enjoyed Ch I, I hope you will find Ch II a worthy conclusion to the story of Morton and Jane. If you are squeamish, though, it's probably better to give this one a pass. If you decide to try it anyway, remember, this is sheer fantasy. Do not try this stuff at home! Introduction: Jane lay back on their bed, placed her hands behind her head, closed her eyes and relaxed. She'd begun a correspondence course in marketing, made possible because of the fast internet link Morton had set up on the Island. How he'd done it, she knew not. Morton did things. You didn't ask how. By their own account, the 'sirens' had spent half their day online, though, of course, skepticism was always called for where they were concerned. They were all students from one college or another, in some country or another, they said. It seemed so at odds with their roles as ghostly apparitions, night creatures serving Morton's pleasure, and deriving much of their own. Could college students not only do this, but revel in what was, after all, sheer debauchery? Jane sighed. Now there were no sirens. Morton had sent them away. "You're right, Jane," he'd said. "I need a break." She'd been surprised. Usually so sure of himself, Morton seemed dispirited. Of course, it was typical of him to go from having sex all the time to having none at all. He took long walks on the beach. "Let me come with you," she'd said several times. But Morton always refused. He needed to be alone, he said. Life on the Island had changed radically. Except for Morton and herself, only cook remained. Jane exchanged smiles with cook but never a word. They did not share a common language. Morton had not exaggerated, though. The food she prepared was exquisite. The Islanders' diet was meatless, but Jane was amazed at the variety of ways it was possible to prepare fish, crustaceans of every sort, fruits and vegetables. The Islands were not short of spices. 'How long had it been?' Jane wondered. Six months, nine, twelve? She really had not kept track of the time. There were no seasons. Each day was like its predecessor. Well, there was the rainy season, when the heavens truly opened, filling to the brim the huge tanks that kept them supplied with fresh water year around. But even then it was hot, which was no bad thing considering Morton's rule banning clothing of any sort. Barring cook, that is. She wore a long gown of light fabric, tied in a knot above her ample breasts. Jane had wondered about this exception to Morton's rule, but had never asked. She'd adjusted to the climate rapidly, careful at the start, when her body was milk white. Five minutes exposure was as much as she could take at a time. Gradually, her skin grew accustomed to the tropical sun and within a month was a universal deep brown. Jane looked down at her body, admiring the shape of her breasts, which fell sideways just a little but were as firm and succulent as the day she'd walked through the door of that London hotel for her first meeting with Morton. What a life-changer that had been! Below, her naked pubis stood out, shaved and rubbed with natural oils. She'd read somewhere that the finest oil is secreted by a woman's vagina, and she applied this copiously to her vulva, mound of Venus and her breasts when she masturbated. Which was quite often. Just because Morton had gone cold turkey didn't mean she had to! It wasn't the same, of course, but nice anyway. She took great care not to let Morton catch her doing it, though. She thought he would take it personally. She flexed her feet and raised them one by one. Slender, neither too big, nor too small. Yes, Jane thought, she had been blessed with a body 'to die for', from her fine long hair, now bleached white by the sun, to the tip of her elegant toes. When she'd been milk-white the slightest blemish, the tiniest scratch showed. But brown hid all markings, the sun and the salt sea healed all wounds. Jane adjusted to Morton's absence, in mind and body. He was preoccupied with himself. She'd noted he spent much time conversing with cook. Of course, it had not taken Morton long to learn the local dialect so he could do this without effort. Jane could not so she had no idea what the pair of them were talking about. He'd come out of his reverie in his own good time. She knew better than to hurry him, and did not fret, just got on with her correspondence course and masturbated when she was sure Morton was out of hearing. In both respects, she excelled. But it was a bit strange nevertheless. What exactly was Morton talking to cook about? She'd have to ask him. When the time was right. Chapter 1 "This and that," Morton had muttered. Maybe the time was not right. They were eating sautéed conch. Delicious. "And the other," Jane replied, lightly. "What?" "This, that and the other." "Oh!" Pause. "I don't mind if you don't want to tell me," Jane said, at length. "It's a long story," he said. "I don't mind that. We have all the time in the world, after all." Morton sighed. "Oh well. I suppose you'll need to know sooner or later." Jane wondered what he meant by this but decided not to ask directly. Instead, she said, "You've not been very communicative for a while, have you." "No! I suppose not. Forgive me for that. I have been a bit preoccupied." "I'd noticed," Jane said, dryly. "I suppose I didn't think you'd be very interested in my researches." "Into what?" "The culture of the islands, this chain in particular." "It's very special, you know," he continued. "Not at all like some of them, like Tahiti, modernized, catering to western tourists. Unfortunately, this has led to decadence. Why bust a gut out fishing, or building huts when you can live well off tourists without doing anything, and hire foreign companies to do all the work. That's all very well. But what about the local culture? What happens to that?" Morton shook his head sadly. "What's left for young people to do, except get stoned?" "Really? I thought Tahiti is an island paradise." "It was, once. But now! Well I suppose the tourists think it is still an island paradise. But the locals? Once booze and drugs arrived, they didn't look back. Or forwards, to what would happen when the older folk died out and the old customs with them." Morton fell silent. He appeared to be communing with himself. Jane did not want him to revert to his reverie of the previous days, so she prompted him. "You say this island chain is different," she said. "Oh Yes! Very much so. We're so far out of the mainstream here, you see. The locals saw what happened to Tahiti and took measures to make sure it wouldn't happen here. No! Here they live the life of their forbears. No tourists, no electricity even, nothing that will interfere with the way of life they've had for centuries." "I suppose it's because it's matriarchal," Morton continued, in an undertone. "Females, you know, are cautious. Males are impetuous. They don't think ahead." "Really," Jane said, with a wry smile, thinking to herself 'Except for me!' A cautious woman would never be where she now was, would never have taken that giant leap into the dark that joined her at the hip to this weird man. Impetuosity gone riot, that was! But she didn't regret it. Not for an instant. To think what she would have missed out on if she'd obeyed her initial inclination and chickened out. "Yes!" Morton had continued. "The customs in this island chain are what they always have been. Quite strange. Utterly uninfluenced by western culture. Deliberately. They closed themselves off." "Is that why you chose this island?" "In part. I dare say you and I are the only westerners for a thousand miles in any direction --- now that the girls have left," he added in a more muted tone. "Mind you, it was not so easy setting up. We're so used to our way of life, where there is nothing that cannot be bought. This is not true here. Acquiring the island and arranging everything the way I wanted was a delicate business." "Is that why cook is allowed to wear her dress?" Morton looked up at her. Perhaps he was surprised that she had made the connection, or had not known, or asked before. "It is, indeed. It is," he said. "I did attempt to insist, but that was a blank No! 'It's not our custom'. I heard a lot of that." There was a brief silence. Then Morton continued, "And it was all I could do to prevent her from leaving when she caught you and me having oral sex." "What's wrong with that?" "Strictly forbidden on the islands. Well, even that's wrong. They've never heard of it. It's unknown. 'Unnatural', is what cook said. She was most indignant. I had to explain to her that in our culture it's natural. We all do it." "Not so sure about that," Jane said, thinking back to a former life. Morton had fallen silent again, so Jane hastened to continue the conversation. "What about Singapore?" she said. "It's illegal there. They even have signs in hotel rooms warning you about it --- well that's what I've read," she added, weakly, thinking back to the one 'date' she'd had there years before. A native she'd 'seen' in London liked her so much he'd flown her out. She'd stayed for a week, and not even er-hem lip-service had been paid to the law of the land as regards oral sex. "Yes! I know about that," Morton said. "I think they're beginning to relax about it. But here, well, cook said 'You will all die!'. And she meant it. She was amazed when we remained in good health. 'You still will die,' though, she keeps on saying." "Mind you," he continued, pensively, "they do have some customs --- sexual mores, let us say --- that are foreign to London." "Indeed," Jane replied. "Like what?" Morton glanced up at her. The meal was over. Usually, at this point, he muttered something and left her to take off on one of his walks. But this day was different. He sighed, and said, "Well I suppose you'll need to know soon enough." Again, Jane wondered what he meant by this, but she held her peace. "Are you sure you have the time?" Morton said, glancing into the corner of the hut, where Jane's laptop was open, ready. "It will take a while." "No problem," Jane replied. "Take all the time you like. My course can wait." "If you're sure," Morton stressed. "People have been known to fall asleep when I launch into one of my monologues." "If I do, I'll let you know," Jane replied, laconically. Chapter 2 "As you know," Morton began, "this is a matriarchal society. Everything is decided, ultimately, by a 'Council of Elders' composed solely of older women. Now by old ........" Morton droned on for a while. Jane half-listened. Lunch had been as scrumptious as always and she had grown into the habit of taking a brief nap while Morton was out on one of his walks. Well, after she'd brought herself off once or twice. "Now some of these customs, Jane, I have to tell you, we might regard as, well, er, barbaric, so prepare yourself......" Jane's ear caught the word 'barbaric', and pricked up. 'This was where it's going', she thought and listened for a while. But Morton meandered away and she soon found herself having to head off a yawn at the pass. Her attention focused again on Morton's monologue only when that word was repeated. "It's not as barbaric as one might think, though," Morton was saying, "because the social order is not based on the nuclear family. 'That's ridiculous,' cook said, when I explained our customs. 'One man and one woman, for life. How utterly absurd'." He broke off. "Are you listening, Jane? I mean, stop me if this is boring you,." "No! No!" Jane lied. "Fascinating." "Children, you see, are reared in a collective. The birth mother stays with her baby while her breasts are engorged with milk. As soon as the supply tapers off, as it were, she returns to the wider community where her body is trained to recover its youthfulness. The training is quite rigorous, I understand, and includes, if you pardon my bluntness, special exercises to tighten up her cunt walls, to restore their responsiveness. Only when she has undergone training successfully is she allowed to return to the so-called 'Chosen Ones', I suppose would be a rough translation." "Though," he muttered, parenthetically, "a more literal translation would be 'she who is groomed for sex'." "Of course," he hurried on, "Women of all ages can have sex whenever they like. But the 'Chosen Ones' have first pick, as it were. Every young woman wants to be 'chosen', but not all are. "How does a woman become 'chosen'?" Jane asked, absently. She didn't really care, but thought she should say something. "We'll get to that," Morton replied, casually. Jane sensed suddenly that 'getting to that' was the key to where Morton was headed and thought of asking Morton to cut out the sociology and get to the point. But she didn't. She held her peace. "Interesting customs, don't you think," Morton continued. "Children raised in a collective, no child knowing who is its mother or father." "But that's awful," Jane said, suddenly. "A child needs a father, and a mother. What a strange way of rearing children." "Well you may think so, Jane," Morton continued, in his matter-of-fact manner, "but is our way better? A child does not get to choose its parents. Some are lucky, some are not. In the islands, every man is the father of every child, every woman its mother. Think about it. It's different, surely, but is it worse? I mean, child molestation, abuse is unheard of in the islands. From what I glean off the web, it's practically an epidemic in England." Recalling her own father's feeble attempts to 'feel her up' even in her early years, Jane pondered on this one. Her father was a weak man, in every respect. His attempts to manipulate her were transparent and easily countered. Not every young girl was so fortunate. "And there are other advantages," Morton had continued. "In our society children are sired by husbands who help rear them --- well, they used to be. Things seem to be changing, but that is the way it was for a long time. A woman must choose a husband who is good at both --- siring and rearing. Now relax the second criterion. Take away the 'husband'. What do you get?" He was looking at Jane intensely now, but did not wait for her to answer. "The fittest and the best, that's what. In fact, I've done some research on this and it's not awfully uncommon in England for a woman to marry a man who will be good at rearing children, but to have them sired by other men. They separate the siring part from the rearing part. It makes sense, you know, because a man with the genes a woman wants passed on to her child is not necessarily, or even likely, to hang around for the long haul." Jane had discovered early in life that she could not have children, so she'd never wondered about such things. She didn't now. "On the islands, women do not have this problem. They choose their mates for the sole purpose of, well, to be blunt, sexual performance. And being matriarchal, of course, it's the females who choose the males, never the other way around. I mean, think what would happen if this were introduced suddenly in England. MiGod! There'd be no procreation at all. Well, probably after a while, females would discover their natural capacity for sex and things would change. On the islands, though, it's always been that way. Females have sex all the time. A male must never refuse the request of a female, and their problem is not to find a willing female, but to keep up with them, fulfill their obligations, as it were. And it's carefully regulated, too. All sexual encounters are recorded and clerks enter the mark the female assigns to the male according to the degree with which he pleased her. Any male receiving poor marks must undergo re-training to improve his performance." "Training? What kind of training?" Jane asked, suddenly, honing in. This is where Morton was headed. She knew it. "Oh! We'll get to that," Morton replied, maddeningly. "A male who is unable to perform even after repeated bouts of training must wear a collar. This indicates to females that he is not available for sex. I suppose you would say in our culture he has become impotent. However, on the islands this is not a stigma. It is accepted as natural that some males will suffer this fate, just as some females are destined to remain barren. People get sick, some die prematurely. It is accepted that life is not fair." "Quite unlike our culture," Morton continued, pensively. Then in a sense of wonderment, "D'you know, we actively encourage impotent men to drug themselves so they can perform." Jane smiled to herself. Morton had probably learned this where he learned almost everything he knew --- from the web. And his tone implied she may not know. As if every client she'd 'entertained' had not pumped himself full of the stuff! Morton glanced at her. "I see you know that," he said. "Personally I think a man should accept his fate, like a man." "Except you!" Jane had blurted out before her mouth consulted her brain. "What d'you mean by that?" Morton replied, sharply. Jane gulped. Oh well. She was in it now. "First me, then, when I was not enough Neda and Nina, then, when they and me weren't enough, the island and six bloody sirens --- and now it appears even that is not enough and you're looking for something else to enhance your performance." That stopped Morton cold. For a moment he was silent. He appeared to be communing with himself. Eventually, he said, "D'you know, I'd never thought of it that way. But now you mention it, I have to say I see a difference between attempting to maintain, enhance if you will, desire by natural means, and stuffing pills into your head to fool the body into simulating desire where there is none." "But Morton, think back. What was the first thing you asked from me, way back then, when we first met. Wasn't it to connect the desire in your head to the reaction of your ... er ... your dick? That's what the pills do. They don't create desire, merely translate desire into the ability to fulfill it." Morton did think back, and appeared taken aback. After a long pause, he said, "I'd forgotten that," he said. "You're quite right. I have read that this is what the pills do. And you're right about me, too. That was indeed my problem. Oh dearie me, now I recall my horrible embarrassment that night in Budapest....." He fell silent. "Go on," Jane said, now fully into the conversation. "I know we agreed not to talk about past life. But do, if you want to." After cogitating briefly with himself, Morton did. "It was a sex club," he said. "Esterhazy tricked me into it. I was not prepared. There was this girl ...." While he was searching for the name, Jane said, "Club Venus?" "Yes! Of course. You met Madam Sharapova. I'd forgotten." "A true 'Romanov'," Jane said. "Who could forget?" "Is that what she said?" Morton laughed, lightly. "Well, maybe it's true. I didn't check on her before her time as an upmarket whore in Moscow. Well, actually, she is a woman of many talents and of some interest. But we'll get to that. Where was I?" "You were being disparaging about men who take pills to help connect the desire in their brains to their ... er ... dicks," Jane said, tartly. "Ah! Yes! Well I admit there may be a parallel...... Hah! Now it comes to me. Elektra, that was the girl's name. Exquisite girl. Made me perform oral sex on her." "Made you!!?" "Well, not exactly. Enticed me with feminine wiles, maybe. D'you know it was the first time I'd ever seen a live cunt. And there I was lapping away on one, a most delectable one, I may say, almost as juicy and succulent as your own.... And Oh dearie me....." Morton's Island Ch. 02 "What?" "It's so embarrassing. When she came, or simulated orgasm, I could not at that time tell the difference, she wanted to 'do something nice for me'...." Jane understood, suddenly. This was the source of Morton's transformation --- from financial guru to sex fanatic. He'd never told her, she'd never asked. "And you ran away, Morton, didn't you?" she said, softly. "How did you guess," Morton said morosely. "Yes! To my shame, I ran away. The desire, Oh the desire, but firmly locked in my brain. I was ashamed, you see, that Elektra would find beneath my clothing an organ that refused to respond to her ministrations. It was as though my brain was about to explode. I'd never experienced anything like it." "A life-changing experience?" "Indeed!" "Like mine, when I responded to your ad." "But you were well-versed in matters sexual, Jane. Indeed, that was the point, wasn't it. Nothing new for you, surely." "Sure. I was not innocent," Jane said in massive understatement. "But sex like I've had since, with you, well, I truly did not know this was possible. So Yes! Life changing for me, too." "I hope in a positive sense?" "You have to ask?" "I suppose not. You adapted to this lifestyle even better than me." Morton sighed. "I know you've been masturbating on the sly," he said. "I don't mind. I've decided on a period of self-denial but it would not be fair if I were to require the same of you." There was a long silence. "Would you like me to masturbate for you?" Jane found herself saying. "Oh No!" Morton replied. "That might turn me on. I made a promise to myself and, as you know, I keep my promises." "But Morton," Jane said, in a firm tone. "This is a matriarchal society. 'A male must never refuse the request of a female.' You said it yourself. Now sit in that chair and watch. I'm going to take my time, but I'm going all the way, and, as you well know, one is never enough ......" 'Oh dearie me,' Morton thought. But he did what Jane asked. Chapter 3 "Keep your eyes on my fingers," Jane said. "And your hands off your cock. Y'hear?" She half-lay, half-sat on their bed, her legs spread wide, her full, ripe cunt lips, enlarged by the ministrations of Morton's fingers, his tongue, his lips, his teeth, his cock, now not a yard from his eyes as he sat in the chair Jane had placed at the foot of the bed. Morton struggled to keep his gaze high, though the way Jane was stroking her breasts, brushing casually across a nipple, reminded him that these orbs were, of themselves, well worthy of contemplation. Jane seemed to think so, too, because her eyes were down, watching her breasts vibrate as an absent hand pushed upwards slightly, then released. She did this several times with one breast, then switched to the other, then back again. She kept this up for quite a while before switching to a circular stroking motion with her finger tips, starting at the outer edge of her breasts and moving in towards the nipple, which stood out in an areola bed that had begun already to swell and spread. Morton's eyes followed Jane's fingers as they explored towards the nipple, then switched to her other breast, stroking, caressing. The areolas puffed up rather nicely, highlighting their focal points. Jane's breasts were truly a wonder of nature at any time, and when she was aroused, they acquired a beauty that would take away the breath of any male, that would arouse desire in all --- even one who had committed to a period of self-denial! Morton's brain was struggling mightily to deny nature. Jane placed a fingertip in her mouth, covering it with saliva which she then transferred to a nipple and rubbed in, squeezing gently. The stiffening nipple now gleamed up at Morton in the dim light of the hut. Soon there were two. 'Oh dearie me!' he thought. He kept his promises, he repeated to himself. No harm in looking on, though, even if danger signals in his brain had begun to register alarm. Jane squeezed harder, trapping each nipple between forefinger and thumb and moving one against the other. No less than her cunt lips, Jane's nipples filled out quickly, stood out ever more prominently. They seemed to just grow and grow. She removed her fingers and began to flick the stems of her nipples with her middle finger, quite hard. Moving always with deliberation, she repeated, squeezing and flicking until both nipples along with the areolas in which they were embedded were engorged, a bright pink ambience setting off dark stems. Admiringly, Jane's glance remained focused as her fingers massaged the tip of each nipple, then its stem, then tip, then stem.... Morton could not resist a glance down, registering the hint of moisture along the line between Jane's cunt lips. He knew so well, how her body reacted ... How many hours had he spent teasing that cunt, parting its lips with his tongue, then sliding it up and down the outer walls. Strange, though, he'd never thought to begin by teasing her nipples. That came later, when she was on top and he'd take them one at a time into his mouth, sucking, then biting down gently and pulling as her groin gyrated over his, each soaked in the juice that flowed out of her..... What a cunt! What nipples! What a gorgeous torso! Morton registered stirrings. 'Oh my Lord!' Jane's voice, soft and sultry, reached his ears. "I'm going to play with my cunt, now," it said. "You like my cunt, don't you." A hand strayed down. A fingertip brushed gently across the tips of lips whose coloration already indicated significant arousal. "So do I," she sighed. "I'm going to use both hands. You can choose which fingers to watch." The hand that hadn't gone down to her cunt went to her breasts, stroking and squeezing nipples that seemed fully erect, yet stiffened and lengthened even further as Jane squeezed harder, massaged more firmly. But this Morton noticed only via a casual glance. His eyes were riveted on the other fingers, the ones that stroked swollen cunt lips, parted them briefly --- a hint of luscious pink --- slid up and down their insides, then spread the accumulated moisture over their outer walls. "I hope you're sitting comfortably," she said in that sultry tone. "I can do this for hours." Morton groaned inwardly. The pollen had risen. A promise is a promise, he repeated to himself. But his resolve was beginning to weaken. Only with firm restraint could he resist the temptation to lunge forward, press his mouth over that luscious cunt, caress every part of it, tease its lips, flick the stem of its clit with the tip of his tongue. Two fingers now spread Jane's cunt lips, caressing their inner walls, before squeezing them tight and teasing them, spreading more juice. Her cunt now gleamed in the dim light in the hut; as her nipples still did, Morton's eye registered via an occasional, brief glance. A millimeter at a time, Jane's cunt lips parted again, her fingers exploring deeper, into the lighter pink that led the way towards the tunnel, dark, but glimmering in the flickering light from the lamp. Gradually, those succulent lips filled out, engorged with the red cells of arousal, like thick petals on a flower, though no flower compared with this, in sight, taste or scent. Morton squirmed in his chair. Memory of the taste of those gorgeous petals that spread out so awfully slowly, teased his tongue, his nostrils. 'Hours? OhMiGod!' It seemed Jane was not exaggerating. A third finger joined the other two, darting in and out now of the dark opening, the petals pressed back. The finger left vaginal walls and moved up to tease the sensitive membrane beneath a clit-tip that peeped out from beneath its hood. She'd seemed engrossed in herself, as Morton was, and it came as a surprise to him when she stilled her hand for a moment, looked up and said, "Are you enjoying this?" "Well are you?" she repeated interrogatively, over his silence. "Er... Yes! I am. Very much, in fact." "I bet you'd rather be doing this to me than watching me do it to myself, though" Jane continued, casually. Her hand had resumed action, but her eyes now fixed Morton's. "Er..." he began. "Well you can't, can you," Jane interrupted, in a gruff tone of finality. "You made a promise. And you always keep your promises. Anyway, you have to do it my way, don't you. The rule of the islands." She was looking at him so wickedly it was as much as he could do to restrain himself from falling on her, plunging his now erect cock into her vagina and fucking her senseless. "You'd like to fuck me, wouldn't you," she said. "I can tell. I can't see your cock, but I bet its straining at the leashes." Another wicked look. "Well you can't," she continued, firmly. "Not until I ask you to. Remember? Matriarchal. The female decides." Jane's voice was low, calm, seductive but controlled. Inside herself, though, she felt neither calm nor control. She'd never masturbated for a man before --- well, not like this --- and found it now delightfully arousing. Even as she said again, "And that could take a while," her brain was instructing her hand to get on with it. An orgasm was beginning to build and it would not be long before it took control of her limbs, her thighs would spread wider, her hand would no longer tease. Two fingers would penetrate her vagina, out and in, faster and faster, while the other hand would leave her breast, go down to massage her clit hood. Jane was determined to hang on for as long as she could, to string Morton out, so that when she came and called out for his thrust, he'd come immediately himself. This would prompt her second orgasm, and it would surely not stop there. As it turned out, 'as long as she could' was not very long. Her breathing became erratic, two fingers went in, then out, then up, then in, then out again and up. Her body began to shake, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck Oh Fuck!" her lips mouthed involuntarily. Her head went back. The orgasm broke. "Shit! Ohshit! Fuck. OHSHIT!" Her eyes were closed, her cunt was still vibrating from the aftershocks when a familiar cock entered her and began immediately to thrust. Her hands went up, her legs; she clung to him as he fucked her like a dervish, their bodies driving into the bed of leaves, until a second orgasm wracked her body, and his, the pair of them writhing in mutual ecstasy...... When she could, she panted, "But I didn't give permission." Morton's cock, which had spewed the massive load that days of self-denial had stored within him, remained rigid. It was sliding in and out of her, picking up steam. "Can I fuck you, please," Morton pretended to beg. "Oh Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Fuck, fuck, fuck.... OhMyJesus..... Don't you dare stop!" Morton didn't. It was quite like the old days, in the lavish suite in the London hotel. Just the two of them, locked in interminable union --- the hidden signals rolled them over effortless so Jane could take her turn on top, then rolled them back when her muscles began to give. Jane's world evolved into the celebration of orgasm, one following the other in more and more rapid succession until they became practically continuous, her cunt walls vibrating to every thrust. Cries, muted, not so muted, presaged, then joined the night chorus and the occasional screech of a sea-bird......... They lay side by side, Jane laid out, still out of breath, Morton's hand stroking her breast gently. Eventually, she said, "What the hell was wrong with that?" "Nothing. Nothing at all. It was splendid." "Splendid!?" Jane said, more forcefully, still from the prone position. "Splendid? Is that the best you can come up with? It was fucking fantastic, fucking splendiferous!" "Yes! I suppose it was," Morton said, a shade pensively. Jane was too exhausted to commit to further utterance. Some time later, Jane disobeyed the signals from her brain, ignored the ache in every muscle in her body, and edged into a half sitting position. Morton joined her, at her side. "You broke your promise," she said. "Promises, they say, are made to be broken." "I hope it was worth it." "Oh Yes! It was worth it all right." "Is that all you can say, after the best fuck of my life?" "You say that all the time." "It's true all the time. That's why I say it. I dare you to say it wasn't the best fuck you've ever had either." "It was, indeed, right up there. Along with the best. There've been so many." "There, you see. And why not more?" Jane edged further into the sitting position. "Morton, I don't understand what's bothering you. I mean, what do you want? All night with six sirens, all day with me. No other man on earth could do anything like as much. It's no wonder you went into overload. It had to be." There was a brief pause. "Look, Morton. What's wrong with a life together, on this island. You and I, and cook. No sirens, no --- whatever crazy notions are going through your head now. Just me." Morton maintained a pensive silence. "D'you know how long we've been fucking?" Jane continued in a demanding tone. "Er... No! Tell me." "I can't. I don't know. A fucking long time. I lost count of my orgasms. At the end it's all orgasm, continuous, until my cunt gives out on me. You came, what, at least three times, and you stayed hard the whole time. Tell me, I dare you, that any siren ever gave you a better fuck than that?" Morton didn't answer immediately. When he did, it was in measured tones. He wanted to be considerate of her, he tried to be. But he wanted also to explain. He was not like other men, this Morton Henry Stanley. There was for him no plateau on which he could comfortably remain. It had always to be forwards, upwards, striving for something that may not be there, but then again may be. How would he know if he hadn't tried? "You're quite right, Jane," he said, somewhat morosely. "I'm sure there is no woman alive who can fuck like you can. You told me you were no nymphomaniac, but you are always ready. I'm sure our sex life together is as good as it can ever get between a man and a woman." "There, you see. You've admitted it." "But," Morton continued, firmly, "if you boil it down, sex is about sensation, isn't it. Sensations you create for me, and I for you. Surely, you and I create for each other sensations that are as good as a man and a woman can ever achieve." "Well I'm glad you finally admitted it." "If I've been negligent in this regard, I apologize. I thought you knew, that it was obvious." "Even the obvious needs to be spoken out from time to time, between a man and a woman," Jane said, in a slightly irritated tone. "I accept that," Morton said, flatly. "And I apologize if it has seemed otherwise. Now you mentioned the sirens, and you are quite right that no fuck I had with any of them even approaches you and me." "It's good to hear you say it." "I thought it would be obvious to you --- that the sirens had nothing to do with getting a better fuck. No more were Neda and Nina. It's not about getting a better fuck. It's about sensation, Jane. Sensation." "Think about it from a man's perspective. The sight of six svelte sirens lined up, their white bodies glistening in the moonlight. One woman, however gorgeous and desirable she may be, cannot give this sensation to a man. Neither can she give him the delight of stimulating six different cunts, each with its individual dynamic, different vibrations: each siren approaching and achieving orgasm differently. This did not interfere with you and me. We continued as before. The sirens served as stimulants, of my desire. They enhanced my ability to please you, and myself, of course. I truly thought you understood." Jane was silent for a moment. Of course, she did understand this. What she did not understand was Morton's desire always to be reaching out, always moving forward. Even when he'd reached his goal, 12 hours of sex per day, day in, day out --- a goal she had stated bluntly was not attainable --- it was not enough. He had to go further, until there was no hour of day or night when he was not having sex in one form or another, pausing only for a brief meal, or to catch a few hours sleep. What she had said was true enough. He'd kept this pace going for an amazingly long period of time. But it had to end. No man could perform like that indefinitely. He'd over-reached, gone into overload. Why not scale back, to a goal that was not only reachable, but comfortable? Even that would be far beyond the capability of any other man --- even if he stuffed himself stupid with daily doses of Viagra! Eventually, Jane said, in a tone that was remarkably even, given her internal state of frustration, "I do understand this, Morton. What I don't understand is your inability to accept limitations. I think we could be truly happy here. It's not natural to have sex all the time. It's obsessive. Find something else to do, like I found my marketing course. Something you enjoy. And you can still have as much sex as you want and can handle. You know I willingly, gladly, match your appetite. Scale back, and I'll scale back. Dial it up, and I'm with you there too." "But we tried that, Jane. In London. It wasn't enough. That's why we went on to Neda and Nena....." "And when they weren't enough, to this island and the fucking sirens," Jane said, losing patience. "We did this only because of your goddamn obsession. 12 hours a day, day in, day out. You and I can't do this, not on an ongoing basis. This we did establish in London. But only the 12 hours a day bit. 8 hours a day we managed, and that's a damn sight more than any other man could achieve. We did not try then to be happy and content with what nature allows us to enjoy, comfortably. Why not try now?" Her voice tailed off. It was no use. She was wasting her breath. After a pause, she said, "Ok, Morton. I can see you're not persuaded. You've got something in mind, some new 'sensation', I suppose. What is it?" "You're right Jane," Morton responded, after a pause of his own. "I do have something in mind. It would be an experiment. To explain it to you, though, I think it's best if I complete my monologue about the culture of the islands." "Oh pu-lease," Jane said, crossly. "Tomorrow. I can't take it tonight. After a session like that one my cunt is not the only part of me that's gone dead." Chapter 4 "Boys assist the elder males in performing their duties, but of course do not participate in sex. Likewise girls. They assist with the young children. Boys and girls are raised together but sleep in separate dormitories. No form of sexual interaction besides the visible is allowed. It seems there is a belief that teenage celibacy stores latent desire, which is expressed by enhanced performance when they come of age. Now comes the really interesting bit." 'Really interesting?', Jane thought, only half listening. She'd been quite surprised to wake and find Morton's head was not between her legs. For some reason this upset her more than was reasonable. He'd been out for an early walk and returned only for lunch, over which he resumed his monologue. "When a boy reaches the age of 17, he begins his training. This consists initially in tasks which require speed, strength -- manly attributes. Likewise, when a girl reaches 17, she begins her training. All training is supervised by females over 40....." "Morton," Jane interrupted, in a tired voice. "I'm not really following this. Why don't you cut to the chase. What you have in mind. It has to do with the training, doesn't it. You've been putting it off, but I'd really appreciate it if you would get to the point." Morton looked a bit startled. But he got the message, and moved swiftly to the point. "If you insist, Jane. It's this. An essential part of training involves the ..er .. cock, and the cunt." Morton's Island Ch. 02 He glanced at Jane seeking her reaction, which was of mild curiosity. "Before he can join the elite group of 'Cavaliers' --- I was about to explain who these are, but, well, later, if you want --- a young man's cock must withstand a proscribed test. This involves, amongst other things, whipping, flogging, call it what you will." Jane, suddenly alert, blurted out, "What!? Whip a man's penis? But surely...." "Yes, it hurts. It's supposed to. And initially a young man loses his erection immediately. That's where the training comes in. A young man's penis must gradually be brought to the point where it remains erect throughout the test, and he can withstand the pain. There, now. I can't be more explicit than this." "But that's nuts," Jane said, appalled. "Bizarre. What good does that do?" "Well it sorts out the men from the boys, for starters. And if a man can withstand a full hour's training and remain erect, it is presumed he can last a full night with a 'Chosen One'." "What? A full hour? That's absurd. Why even you couldn't...." She stopped herself, but too late. It was out. "Well there you have it, you see. Tell you the truth, I have been trying it out. Cook, you know. She has some experience. Well, considerable experience, I would have to say. She arranged for the equipment to be brought over." Misinterpeting Jane's silence --- she was speechless --- Morton ploughed ahead. "Of course, I wanted to go over to main island, but I knew it would be difficult. Turned out to be impossible. So many islanders in other chains have succumbed to viruses and bacteria brought by westerners. These are foreign to the island chain, and great care is taken.... What?" This in response to the look on Jane's face. She found her voice. "You mean all this time, when you've been taking 'walks', cook has been flogging your dick?" "Well, not all the time. There are other aspects of the test, like oils. My goodness, they have some peppers on these islands that sting like the bejesus." "Whips, hot peppers? Morton! Are you quite mad. My God! No wonder you've lost interest....." She was about to add 'in fucking me' but remembered in time the previous evening. No, that would not be fair. Even if the cock inside her had been flogged, drenched in hot oil, whatever unspeakable things had been done to it, she could not accuse Morton of lack of interest, or a fall-off in performance. "Yes! Well, it is a bit difficult," he said, "when your cock is stinging like hell. Mind you...." "Was it stinging last evening? When I masturbated for you?" "Um. Er... Yes, actually! Cook gave it a real going over. I have to say, the fluid from your cunt was the most wondrous balm." Jane said nothing. What could she say? "I suppose that's the point," Morton continued. "When the Cavaliers gather for the evening round, they're only too anxious to find a juicy cunt to take away the sting. And ... er.. well you did notice. The effect is not entirely negative for the female....." "Though of course," Morton continued, eyeing the still speechless Jane, "is enhanced even more when the Chosen One's cunt has been subject to ... er ... analogous treatment." "What!!? They flog girl's cunts too," Jane said, now seriously disturbed. "Certainly. Any woman of the Chosen has undergone a rigorous training, as has her potential mates." 'Holy mother,' Jane was thinking. 'He has gone nuts now. Get me out of here.' "Of course, I would not dream of asking you to submit to such indignity," Morton continued, smoothly. "Even though I'm quite convinced it would enhance the sensation of sex substantially, for both of us." "That may be so, Morton," Jane said, her voice suddenly adamant. "But if you think in your wildest dreams that anyone is getting near my cunt with a fucking whip, you're seriously deluded." "Yes! I was afraid you'd see it that way, Jane." "Well I do. And don't even think of trying to change my mind. Pain, well, that kind --- even the thought of it, turns me off, not on." "Yes! I was afraid that would be the case." There was a long silence. Then Jane said, "How far are you along with this 'training' then? Have you passed the test already?" "Oh dearie me No! I'm just beginning. To be honest, I don't know whether I'll ever get that far. Cook thinks not. She says I'm too old to start now. I'm missing more than twenty years of cock training, and there's no way that can be compensated. That's what she says, at least." "Don't tell me, let me guess," Jane said, sarcastically. "That's not going to stop you, is it." "Er....." Morton sighed. "You know me so well, Jane. Once I focus on a goal...." "Yes, yes! I do know all about that." "Yes," Morton muttered, pensively. There was now a very long silence indeed as both parties contemplated the inevitable. Jane could not believe it. Morton did not want to believe it. They had come so far together, traveled such a long and strange path, scaled the pinnacles of sexual ecstasy. 'It can't end like this,' Jane was thinking. 'Because he thinks there is a pinnacle yet higher than he's already reached, one that can be surmounted only via physical pain?' "It does seem to work, you know," Morton said weakly. "When a Cavalier and a Chosen One retire to her hut they rarely emerge for 24 hours. A week is not uncommon. No food, water only. Sex and sleep. That's it..... Well, of course," he added, "they do have the appropriate implements available....." "What? You mean they flog each other!?" Jane said incredulously. "No! Not necessarily. I mean, nobody knows. Only the two of them. Maybe, maybe not. It's up to them, well, it's up to her --- to flog or not to flog, as it were." "And when they emerge, the Chosen One reports to the clerk," Morton continued blithely over Jane's shocked silence. "If she is pleasured according to her expectations, it's neutral. Above expectations, a star. Below a cross. After his first year, a Cavalier is allowed to display his star rating via a necklace. The number of beads on his necklace equals the number of stars minus the number of crosses. Obviously, a Chosen One is influenced by this when she chooses her next mate." "She is allowed a days rest after every encounter," he continued, as though this would have a mollifying effect on Jane. "Though a Cavalier is not." Jane maintained her silence, even though inside herself she was seething. "And I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happens to a Cavalier with a net negative rating." "Returned to the ranks, I suppose," Jane said, sarcastically. "To resume 'training'." "Yep! You're getting the hang of it. But," Morton hastened on, "there is no stigma attached to it." "Oh! I'm sure there isn't," Jane responded with even heavier sarcasm. "Manly pride has been abolished from the islands, I suppose." "You're probably right. I'm sure the Cavaliers are proud of their star rating, though this is known only to the Chosen Ones and the Cavaliers, and the Clerks of course. And no-one goes without a fuck for the night, if you think that. The would-be Cavaliers --- they call them Warriors, a sop perhaps to maintain dignity --- form a second pool available to young women seeking to gain or re-gain Chosen One status. Or to older women if a Warrior, or a Cavalier for that matter, remains free once the young have made their picks. It's all very organized." There was another long silence. Gradually, the chasm that separated Jane from Morton opened up further. "You realize, Morton, that this is quite ridiculous. It's barbarous!" "That may well be so, Jane. But, you know, it does seem to work quite well. I assure you, every Cavalier performs at a level I certainly have not yet attained, and every Chosen One ....." He stopped himself in time, and eyed Jane. "Are you sure....?" he continued, breaking off as Jane butted in, "Don't even go there!" Her tone was dark. "You've been so far with me along the road, Jane, it seems, almost, well, destiny." "To you, perhaps. But if the next twist in the road requires me to lie back while some female ape from the stone age whips the hell out of my cunt, then it's a road you must travel alone." "Well," Morton began, "not entirely alone," he added, his voice barely audible. "If you mean cook, then good luck to you. MiGod. You reject me in favor of a woman who weighs 300 pounds, with monstrous sagging tits and a hanging belly....." Jane laughed, cruelly. "Just because she flogs your dick. Do you flog her cunt perhaps?" Jane's voice had gained in volume. Bitterness was not far beneath the surface. "Of course not," Morton said, scornfully. "Only women may administer treatment, whether to males or females. Good Lord, the idea!" "No-one is rejecting you, Jane," he continued, as she seethed in silence. "I would of course prefer it if you were to accompany me on this next step of the way. But if you decide not, it does not mean you must leave the island." "And what shall I do? What will be my role? To watch, while that woman flogs the shit out of your cock? No thank you." "It would not only be cook," Morton muttered in an undertone. "Who then? Some other matron from the islands," Jane said, her tone now openly bitter. "No! That is not possible. Nor desirable. You know, Jane, my taste in women. It does not extend to the islanders, however nubile and insatiable they may be. Besides, this is my island, not theirs. The rules here are set by me, not by the Council. The young women of the island would never accept that I, not they, exert control." "So who, then? If not the Islanders, which women did you have in mind?" "I believe I did mention to you," Morton said, in a subdued tone, "that Madam Sharapova is a lady with much experience, and many talents. There is, I'm sure you are aware, a thriving S&M scene over there. I've already put out feelers. It should not be difficult." Over her silence --- Jane still was unwilling to accept the finality of it --- Morton said, again, "Are you sure...?" "I told you not to go there." "No! I mean, not active, but passive. We'd keep our hut. Just you and me. We'll still have sex....." his voice tailed off. It was the expression on Jane's face. "If you think I'd be content to wait around until a bunch of Dominas get done flogging your dick, and a gaggle of Subs having you fuck their ravaged cunts, Morton --- assuming this is what you have in mind --- you really have not understood much about the female psyche." "No! I suppose not," Morton sighed. "Though, in fairness to myself, I did suspect you'd see it this way. It's just that I don't want to lose you." "Nor I you, Morton. But this? If this is the route you're taking, it will have to be a parting of the ways." "I'd hate that," Morton muttered. "I really would." "Don't think it's easy for me either," Jane replied, her voice now calm. "I've followed you along the way and enjoyed every minute of it, up to now. But the world you are determined to enter is not for me. I don't need to try it to know that." Morton just shrugged helplessly. He couldn't think of anything to say. Jane stood at the rear of the boat as the oarswomen prepared for departure, Morton on the makeshift jetty. He waved weakly, then looked away. It was not manly for tears to run down a man's cheeks. Both had kept their emotions in check. Only now, as the island gradually receded did Jane lose control. Her eyes welled up and erupted, drenching her cheeks. 'Goddamn the man,' she said to herself, repeating it until the tears stopped flowing, her emotions had stilled to the point where she felt able to turn and sit, watching, as, slowly, but inexorably, Morton's Island slid beneath the horizon. Chapter 5 A huge half-sun peered reluctantly upon the island. There were no clouds, no back-lighting. The light began to fade as the sun sank slowly into the sea. From the fringe of the jungle emerged a man, barrel-chested, flaxen-haired, sturdy thighs, his penis proudly erect. The man halted on the beach and stood in front of a wicker table bestrewn with implements of various sorts and bowls whose contents were hidden by their rims. His back lit by the final embers of the waning sun, the man stood to attention, hands at his sides. Two females emerged from a different part of the jungle fringe and walked imperiously towards the man. They were naked, bronzed. Long, flaxen hair flowed down their long, elegant backs, breasts bobbled with each step, mounds of Venus, oiled and shining in the dim light, stood out prominently. The females stood before the male and looked him up and down. One hand grasped his penis, squeezing hard. A second hand followed suit. The females circled the man slowly, then took up position, standing motionless by his side. The sun was now gone, the moon not yet up. In the twilight that remained, four bodies appeared, walking in single file along the jungle fringe. They stood out white against the darkness of the thick foliage. They were frail, wraith-like. Around each neck studded collars were attached to leashes. Two further females entered view. They were also naked, but burned so dark their bodies were almost invisible against the backdrop. Mistresses to the Slaves, these woman carried in one hand the end of two leashes which they used to jostle the Slaves into line. They stood, one on each side of the line, opposite the three silhouettes. In their other hands, the Mistresses carried implements with handles, and tails that were very thin and tapered almost to a point. The man barked a brief command, prompting the first Slave, prodded by her Mistress to step up a yard and take a stance in front of him, her eyes down. Her Mistress allowed the leash to fall to the ground and stood by the side of her Slave, perhaps a yard away. Another command. The Slave arched her back and thrust out her breasts, which were diminutive, firm, pear-shaped, yet succulent enough to bob just slightly as she moved into position. Prominent nipples, disproportionate, pointed towards the man, whose eyes fixed on them. The Slave's eyes remained down, but her head was raised. A nod from the man, and the session began. The Doms to his left and right drew from the table whips with handles round and short, and tails flat, about an inch long, perhaps a quarter thick. Embedded in the tails were studs that protruded slightly on both sides. Standing by the man, one on each side, one Dom laid her lash on the tip of the man's penis, pressing down slightly so that this attained the horizontal. The Dom on his right side swung her lash a few times in the air, then landed a firm blow expertly on the shaft of the man's penis. His intake of breath coincided with that of the Slave, as the thin tip of her Mistress' whip-tail landed on her left nipple. A second blow from the lash, a second from the whip-tail followed: a third, then a fourth, each aimed with great precision. The night chorus was interrupted by the thwack of the lash on the man's cock-shaft, the whistle of the thin whip tail, the occasional cry as a particularly vicious blow cut into the flesh of a nipple, a grunt as the lash landed ever more firmly on a penis. The pace was measured, steady, but, gradually, the force of the strokes increased, eliciting more audible grunts from the man, less muted cries from the slave. No other utterance disturbed the night chorus of the dark jungle behind. The lash explored the shaft of the man's penis, moving from base to tip, and the whip-tail followed suit, moving in the opposite direction, from outer edge of the slave's nipple inwards to where the dark skin entered its pink areola. The nipple swelled with each stroke, growing even more out of proportion to the young Slave's breast. After perhaps ten minutes, perhaps twenty, the slave's legs began to buckle as the whip-tail cut into her now engorged and inflamed nipple. Even as lash after lash tortured the shaft of his penis, the man's eyes remained fixed on the Slave's ghostly shape. The Slave's Mistress paused from time to time, and began to tweak her Slave's nipple causing her to cry out in agony. During such pauses, the Dom's ceased swinging their lashes, allowing the man's penis to bob free. Their hands reached into bowls set on the table and withdrew. Taking turns, they grasped the man's penis, squeezing hard so the hot fire from the peppers penetrated through the welts created by the studs in the whip tails. The man's head went back. His teeth were set. His penis was aflame, to a point, almost, beyond endurance. But the man endured, as did the slave. The whip whistled again, its tail biting into a tortured nipple. Lash descended on cock, the fire from the peppers increasing the agony of each blow. The man gritted his teeth, summoned reserves of resolve. The Slave's cries were constant now. Her legs buckled. A command from her Mistress: "Present!" brought her pain-wracked body upright. The Slave arched her back, thrust out her breasts, awaiting the next blow. They fell now in rapid succession, as the lash descended faster and faster on the man's penis. His head went back. Suddenly, the torture ceased. Her Mistress had decided. It was enough. She moved regally to stand beside her ward, give her nipple one last vicious tweak, then strolled regally behind her to take up stance on the other side. During the pause, fresh peppers were crushed into the shaft of the man's penis. Rough hands squeezed, massaged the shaft cruelly, as though restoration of erection were necessary. "Present!" The Slave struggled to comply. Her breasts thrust out to receive the lash. The whip swung through the air and struck the first blow on her second nipple. Concurrent with this came the first blow of the lash on the underside of the man's penis. The female to his right had placed her lash on the tip of the penis as the one to his left thrashed the underside of its shaft, using an underarm motion, at which she was clearly expert. The whistle of the whip-tail and the thwack of the lash joined again the night chorus as whip-tail tortured nipple, lash cock. Another ten minutes went by, maybe twenty. Thwack, whistle: cries were now coming with every blow of the whip-tail, grunts accompanied every ascent of the lash, which explored the underside of the cock from stem to tip. The man's head went up, teeth were tightly clenched. Yet his eye watched in fascination as the slave's body gradually lost its composure, her rib-cage, standing out, began to heave. "Present!" The Slave re-gained her stance, but slowly now. A flurry of blows from the whip drove her to her knees, though even there, her breasts were thrust forward, ready to receive. Twenty blows in rapid succession struck the kneeling Slave's nipple. Then her Mistress crossed over and laid another twenty on her other nipple, eliciting unmuted screams of agony from the Slave, which echoed from the dark fringe of the jungle. The whip ceased falling, the lash was still. The Slave fell forward, supporting herself with her arms, her body shaking. She rolled onto her back and lay flat, her ribcage heaving, bright red nipples beaming out in the moonlight like torches. Her Mistress stood over her with arms folded. She retreated to the edge of the jungle and returned dragging something behind her. During the pause, fire was massaged cruelly into the man's penis, miraculously still proudly erect. With deliberation, the Mistress hauled into place a frame, three lengths of bamboo forming a rectangle, their uprights embedded in the sand. She dragged her Slave by her arms into position, affixed to each ankle a rope woven from fronds that hung in two strands from the horizontal beam of the frame. Carefully, she pulled on the ropes so that the Slave's body gradually attained the vertical. Her thighs were spread wide apart, her shoulders rested on the sand. At the fulcrum of the flat 'V' formed by her stretched out legs, cunt lips glistened in the moonlight. Large, luscious lips, contrasting incongruously with the Slave's slight, milk-white thighs. Her Mistress stroked gently the soft flesh of those thighs, causing the Slave's body to shiver. Anticipation.