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The Phantom

By: PrincessErin



I hated Halloween with a passion. It was such an overdone holiday and every year the candies and decorations arrived on door shelves earlier and earlier. This year I was in the local Target at the end of August and there was the display of orange and black crap. It's ridiculous.

What I hate the most, of course, is that what is supposed to be a fun evening for children to dress up and ask for candy has turned into an adult oriented evening of dressing up in slutty clothes and making excuses as to why you can't go to work the next day. Once again complete idiocy.

So why was I standing in the middle of a house party, dressed up like a slut? I really have no idea but part of me was mad at my boyfriend, well ex boyfriend, for a long and complicated reason. The other part of me just wanted to have fun. If that meant picking up a random guy and having wild intense sex then I could handle that.

I'm not really a slut. I enjoy sex and love my body. I'm short, 5'1 with shoulder length blonde hair and brown eyes. My boobs are pretty big and I know that I've used them to get what I want, a lot.

"You looking fucking amazing!"

I glanced up from my daze to see my best friend Angela walking over. She was wearing this tight black outfit and I have no idea what she was supposed to be. Her red hair was in curls and her dark eye makeup made her look more Goth then sexy.

"Thanks Angela," I said, opening my arms for her routine hug. As I pulled away I saw a figure move just out of my line of vision. I was intrigued and glanced back at Angela.

"This is a great party. Thankfully Doug isn't here." I rolled my eyes, smirking as I made fun of ex. He was a great guy but he just didn't get women.

"Gotta go."

I laughed. I had lost Angela's attention about a minute before when a sexy guy dressed up like Jacob from the Twilight series walked past her. She had a thing for tall sexy guys and this guy was tall, sexy, dark, handsome, and wearing only cut off jeans. Angela had always been assertive and always got what she wanted.

I grabbed a drink from the kitchen and decided to explore the house. Marianne, the host, had just bought this house with her new husband. He was almost twenty years older then she and clearly money was not an issue for her now. The house was three stories and there were two staircases up to the second floor. I found the back staircase and slowly walked up to the second floor.

The vibrations from the music downstairs filled the second floor and soon I was intrigued with the room at the end of the hallway.

At no point did I think I was being rude. I figured if she was going to host a Halloween party with lots of alcohol she should assume people are going to go snooping around. The door of the room was dark mahogany and the doorknob was a bright red. It didn't match the rest of the décor but I wasn't one to ask about decorating choices.

I was just about to reach for the doorknob when I stopped. It felt like a chill ran up my spine. I was scared. Suddenly my mind raced with images and thoughts. Sinister thoughts. I had no idea what was wrong but stepping back away from the door didn't help anything.

"Hey cutie."

I turned around and was face to face with him. His voice sounded like velvet. My brown eyes shifted from his shielded eyes to his mouth, down his torso and back up again. I was transfixed on his costume. He had on an elegant three-piece suit, all in black. His face was covered in a white mask. He was clearly dressed like the phantom from "Phantom of the Opera." He obviously didn't get the memo that this costume was old news but he still look sexy in it.

"Hi." My voice was quiet and timid. I was never this weak around guys but clearly the feeling I had near the door was still resonating within me. I couldn't even think.

"This is such a beautiful house. I am very intrigued with the third floor of course. You do know the history of this place right?"

I shook my head, tucking my blonde hair behind my ear. I suddenly realized how this muscular stranger was staring at my costume. As a competitive swimmer I thought dressing up as a sexy mermaid was appropriate. My skirt was shimmery blue-green and tight to my curves. The slit down the side left a one-inch section to hold the skirt together. My top was low cut with spaghetti straps. My C cup breasts pushed against the top, lifting up enough to show off my tanned flat stomach.

"No I don't." I started to suck on my bottom lip and saw him react slightly. He took a deep breath.

"Family was murdered here a few years ago. Murderer was never found. The bodies were left here for days as no one noticed anything wrong. It was creepy really. The lights went on and off as normal. The mail was picked up. It was only when the children did not attend school for five days that someone began to ask questions."

I shivered from both the creepiness of the story and the fact that the dark stranger had taken a few steps towards me each time he spoke a word. He was now pressed up against me as my back pushed against the dark wood panelling of the hallway. My fingers moved up to play with his hair and I smiled as he moaned.

"You are a very cute mermaid. I bet you are all innocent and naïve. You wouldn't dare go into that room with me. You don't want me bad enough."

I pouted. He was right. After the reaction I got as I went close to the door there was no way I was going into that room. He pointed at the door with a smirk and part of me hated how badly I wanted him but the other part of me was up for the challenge.

"I do. I want you very badly." I leaned up on my tiptoes and did my signature move. I ran the tip of my tongue around his left ear, flicking gently before sucking the lobe into my mouth. I felt him tense up and I knew it was having the desired effect.

"Then come with me my little kitty cat."

I nodded and let him lead me into the room. I was so mesmerized that I didn't even notice he called me my pet name. A pet name that a stranger should not know.

The room was small but decorated in gorgeous burgundies and reds. The bed was a double with pillows all around. The window was large and the moonlight shone into the room. It was cold in the room even though there was candles lit everywhere. I glanced around, trying to take in all that I was seeing, smelling, and feeling.

I knew I was going to get fucked. He looked the type that would fuck me senseless and right now that was what I wanted. I stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed. He stood in front of me and smirked, again.

"Good little kitty. Now show me how dirty your mouth can get."

He unzipped and pulled out his thick throbbing cock. Without giving me a chance to react he pushed it complete into my mouth and held it there. One of his hands held the base of his cock while the other gripped the back of my head. I was gagging and squirming but he didn't let up. Just as I reached up to pinch his skin to make him stop he pulled out.

"You can do better then that."

I nodded and began to suck his cock. I worked my lips up and down his shaft, tasting his precum. His cock throbbed and I sucked so hard I could feel the veins against my tongue. He was thick and he was long. I loved how his foreskin retracted to reveal a deep purple head. I didn't want to stop. All I wanted was to please him.

He pulled away suddenly and slapped his cock against my face. I looked up in embarrassment. I was being treated like a complete slut and I was ashamed at how wet I was feeling. I was so turned on but I wasn't going to admit it.

"Good girl. On your hands and knees and flip up your skirt. I want to see how good your little pussy really is."

I did exactly as he asked. I knew he'd be staring at my perfectly waxed pussy. I knew he could see my swollen clit poking out from my tight lips. My juices were running down my inner thighs and he probably could smell my arousal. I stayed still, waiting for his next move.

He leaned over and nipped at my earlobe. It hurt a bit but my body reacted to the pain in a very good way.

"Don't cum before me," he hissed.

I didn't even have a chance to answer when he slammed into me. His cock felt even bigger then before. Maybe it was the fact that I haven't been fucked in a few weeks but he felt so thick that it almost hurt. He didn't just slam in once. He pulled back almost all the way and slammed in again. I couldn't handle the speed nor the intensity. I know I was begging for him to stop but my words were muffled by his grunts and groans. Harder and faster he went, each time his fingers dug deeper into my hips. He was holding me up against his cock as he just banged away. His cock swelled and I knew he was close to cumming. It had only been a few minutes of thrusting but my legs were shaking and had he not been holding onto me so tight I would have collapsed on the bed.

"Good little kitty. Good little fucktoy. You never let me fuck you like this when we were together."

In that moment I realized who this masked stranger was. I tried to pull away but he wouldn't let me. He exploded deep into my unprotected pussy, filling my love tunnel with hot fertile cum. He pushed against me harder, moaning each time a thick rope of cum entered me. 

"Fuck you Jared," was all I could say.

He pulled away and I turned around to face him. He had removed his mask and was tucking his deflated cock back into his dress pants.

"Maybe if you didn't go fucking anything with a cock you would have known it was me. You didn't even try to hide your relationship with Doug. You really think I wasn't going to find out?"

I opened my mouth to speak but then shut it. He was right. I was a shitty wife and he had finally gotten his revenge. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling his cum ooze out of me. I wasn't thinking clearly and thankfully so as I would have been freaking out about getting pregnant. The room smelled like our juices and the scented candles. It was a strange combination that at this moment was both arousing and revolting.

"I'm sorry," was all I could say.

"You are not. You dressed up like a slutty little mermaid so you could hook up with someone tonight. All I had to do was tell you some spooky horror story and you were willing to do anything for me. You're so not worth it Katie. Here."

I watched as he opened his suit jacket and handed me a thick white envelope. I saw the logo on the top left hand corner. It was from his law office. Divorce papers.

He left the room, leaving me in a puddle of our juices. I watched him exit the room. I didn't want to follow him. I didn't want to do anything but go home and curl up in my own bed. I hated Halloween and now this was just another reason to despise this holiday.

The Phantom Beauty Contest



Chapter 1

Sherry was busy with her Saturday housecleaning. It was summer and she was dressed in penny loafers, short shorts, and a loose t-shirt. She was comfortable as she negotiated the upstairs hallway and entered her son's bedroom.

Philip, or Phil as she called him, was her pride and joy, and understanding his role as the man of the house, he kept his room as tidy as he could to give his mom a break from picking up after him.

As she moved the cleaner across the rug, she bent down to pick up a sheet of paper peeking our from under the bed. She stopped in shock, and turned off the vacuum cleaner. Sitting on the bed she stared at the full size photo of herself. She couldn't believe it. She was standing provocatively with her hands behind her head, one knee demurely in front of the other, her long legs accentuated by high heels. Beyond that she was looking at a completely nude picture of herself, complete with erect nipples, and a very prominent mound accentuated by some abundant pubic hair, and distinctly red. 

The caption simply said, "This year's Winner. TMFM."

While the picture was a very good likeness, and was very flattering, she was confused by the fact that she had never ever posed for anything like this, yet here it was. Jim, her husband loved to take sexy pictures of her, but she didn't recall this one, and she had all the pictures he had ever taken safely put away. 

She studied the picture again. There were minor inconsistencies that she started to notice. She didn't have that much pubic hair, and her nipples were actually a little more prominent than the picture, but beyond that it was reasonably accurate. 

Sherry prided herself on her appearance and worked out on a regular basis to keep herself in shape. As she looked at the picture she wondered what it meant by, this year's winner. What did TMFM mean? And she wondered how, or if, she was going to talk to Phil about it. She had never pried into his belongings, and didn't want him to know she found it, but she knew she couldn't let it drop. 

She carefully put the picture back under the bed and finished her cleaning.

The housework done, she showered and changed into another pair of shorts and a blouse that flattered her figure.

Sherry was a woman who could make almost any garment look great. 40 years old, she still turned heads, and was aware that she was still very attractive to men. After the death of her husband in Iraq, she and Philip had made a good life for themselves. He had really been a rock after the death of his father, and while she thought she really knew him, her discovery made her realize that she didn't know him as well as she thought.

One of her first thoughts had been, "How many pictures like that are there around?" and "Who might have one?"

She was never going to find out if she didn't come up with a way to get Phil to tell her. It would require a great deal of tact, and she still hadn't come up with the answer to her dilemma. Sometimes the direct approach was the only way. She decided that was what she would do.

Phil was a recently graduated high school senior, and on Saturday could be found at Jenkins Lumber, where he had a summer part time job. While he had a few dates, there had never been a steady girl, as he took his part very seriously about helping and supporting his mom, and never finding anyone that he enjoyed being with more than his mother. They had become very close and were even best friends in many ways. For his part he thought she was more beautiful than any girl, or woman, he knew. For Sherry, he was the light of her life and she was dreading the fact that he would be off to the university in September. Easing their financial burden, Phil had earned a basketball scholarship which would completely cover his education. She had gone to all of his games and enjoyed his graceful way of moving around the court. He was a beautiful boy with a perfectly handsome body. An all star, all state point guard, at six three, he wasn't the tallest athlete on the team, but he was very athletic, very fast, and a deadly shooter. He had had several scholarship offers, but had chosen State so he could be closer to home.

After Jim's passing, Sherry had gone to the community college and got an associate degree in paralegal work, and she had no trouble finding a job. That had been five years ago, and while not getting rich, she managed to stay financially comfortable making a good home for Phil and herself. Phil had worked since he was a freshman and turned his paychecks over to Sherry, while in turn she made sure he had an allowance that kept him independent. He never asked for anything from her beyond that.

Chapter Two

As Phil drove home from the lumber yard, his thoughts, as usual were about his mom. He was looking forward to going off to college, but he knew he would miss her and their life together. Not only that, he was in love with her, far beyond a boy's love for his mother. He knew that her casual attitude about her dress around the house was innocent, but she had no idea how much she turned him on when she wandered around in various stages of undress. If only she wasn't so gorgeous. There were many nights when he fantasized about her as he masturbated in the quietness of his room. He had been looking for his birth certificate one day while Sherry was at work, and he knew she kept some family papers in her closet. He pulled down a heavy box and opened it up to find two quite large photo albums he had never seen before. Sitting on her bed he turned back the leather cover and discovered he was looking at some very provocative photos of his mother. She was obviously into it, smiling and enjoying herself. As he turned the pages he discovered that his mom and dad had quite a sex life. While there were no actual shots of them together, it was obvious to anyone that his mother loved posing for his dad, and as he turned the pages he saw how she and his dad had become very good at capturing her on film. She had a beautiful body. There were lots of frontal shots, cheesecake shots, and lots of nude poses. Pictures of her saucily parting her legs as she reclined on couches, rugs, her bed and even once on the kitchen island.

Terry spent an hour or more looking at the photos, and when he was putting them carefully back where he had found them, he knew he would never think about his mother quite the same again. He had seen a woman in those photos who had desires, a woman who had a great sex life, and a woman who knew how to please her husband as well as herself. Mostly he was struck by her beauty. Her lovely face was framed by lovely, long red hair that fell softly down her back and to her breasts, she had a perfectly proportioned body, with firm breasts, prominent erect nipples, a softly protruding mound, accentuated by a full vulva, with lovely labial lips guarding her vagina, and capped with an erect, shining clitoris revealing that she was very aroused by the photo sessions. Standing, her long shapely legs accented the round fullness of her bottom in many pictures that Jim had taken of his wife from behind.

Phil was shaken by his new knowledge. He quickly went to his own room and relieved his sudden desire for his mom.

Whenever he had the chance he would get those albums and look at them, and he never tired of looking at Sherry with new eyes. She wasn't his mother in those pictures, she was a very desirable, sexy woman whom he wanted to do all sorts of things to.

So he was tortured by the daily closeness to his mother, who could be seen, but never touched. He knew every picture in the two albums, and had even scanned his favorites, which gave him motivation to risk doing more. Sometimes he would hug her and hold her close a little longer than he should have, but she never seemed to give it a second thought, even when his hand would brush her bottom, or 'accidentally' touch her breast. Now in a few weeks he would be off to school, and another life, and he really wasn't ready for it. 

"Hi Mom, I'm home."

Phil cheerfully called as he came in the house. Hearing no response, he wandered around until he saw her in the back yard. She was bending over clipping a rose bush. Her shorts were riding up her bottom showing the panties beneath, and her shorts were digging into her crotch emphasizing the separation of her labia. Much of her bottom was exposed to his hungry eyes. She stood and became aware of him as she turned to face him.

Smiling she said, "Oh, I didn't hear you come in darling, let me get you a glass of lemonade."

Phil plopped down into a chaise and waited for his mom to come back out on the porch. Handing him a glass she sat down opposite him and pulled her knees up as she sipped her drink. He tried to keep his eyes off the sight of her shorts tight between her legs displaying her crotch and making that lovely oval between her thighs. He could see the edge of her panties as her shorts were too brief to fully cover her, he even thought he saw a shadow of pubic hair, at the edge of her panty leg, but managed to tear his eyes away and look at her face. He was erect and tried to hide it by putting his ankle on his opposite leg.

"You OK Phil?" she asked. "You were somewhere else for a minute weren't you?"

"Oh I was just thinking about work, and glad it's Saturday."

"There is something I desperately need to talk to you about darling, and it isn't easy for me to bring this up."

"Sounds serious Mom, but you know we can talk about anything."

Sherry paused, "You know I have never, and don't ever intend to pry into your things, or your room, or your life. But something happened today, by accident, and I just have to know something."

"Mom, what is it, what's the matter?"

"When I was sweeping your room this morning I picked up a piece of paper laying by your bed. It was a picture of me, a nude picture. . . and it said, this years winner, then the letters TMFM." 

Phil paused a long time before he answered. 

"Oh Mom, I am so sorry. It was never intended for anyone to see, and no one is ever supposed to be hurt. There is an explanation, although I don't think you will like it."

"Please Phil, I think I am a fairly modern mom, and I also think I can handle it."

"Well for a bunch of years now, actually it started before I was in high school, the athletes voted secretly every year to find out whose mom was the sexiest. They would get a picture of the candidates, and then the photo nerds would create a nude picture of each mom, staying as close to the real shape as possible, and there would be a private meeting of the athletes. The pictures would be projected on a huge screen and we voted down until there were five finalists and then one was chosen as the years winner. The winner's mom is given the photograph and all the other pictures are supposedly destroyed, although I sometimes wonder about that. Anyway, you won this year, and you won last year too. That's how come you found a picture of you by my bed. I put it under the bed until I decided what to do with it and maybe the vacuum pulled it out."

Sherry struggled with the thought of about 100 high school boys all staring at her in the nude.

"What do the letters mean, the TMFM, letters?"

"Well," Phil was slowly picking his words carefully, "the contest winner is the, uh, TMFM."

"But what is that?" Sherry innocently asked.

Phil paused again . . . "It, uh, stands for, uh The Most . . ." and he stopped, not wishing to go on.

"The most what?" she asked again.

Phil let out a big sigh, "The Most. . . Ef-able Mom."

Sherry gasped and sat back in the recliner. All this time Phil had been dividing his glances between his mother's shapely thighs and her face. Her legs were still drawn up and she seemed oblivious of the effect this pose had on her son. Her questions had completely thrown him, and his erection was long gone.

"Do all those boys actually want to do that to me?"

"Mom, any guy in his right mind who isn't gay, would love to get you into bed. You are really hot, and I don't think you have any idea how hot everyone thinks you are."

There was a considerable pause while they both sipped on their lemonade. Finally Phil said,

"Do you want me to destroy the picture, it's supposed to be the only one."

Sherry smiled. "Do you like having a picture of your mother totally nude?"

At her smile Phil had relaxed a little realizing that his mother was taking it in stride, or appearing to.

"I love the picture mom, but I can understand if it is a problem for you. Is it much like you?"

"Well, it's close enough and you might as well keep it. It is nice being the object of desire, even though my potential lovers are about 100 high school boys. Do I get to wear a big ribbon that says TMFM and goes over my shoulder on my bathing suit?"

Terry laughed with relief, loving his mother's humor in what must have been a shock for her. 

"Sorry mom, no budget for big ribbons."

Then Sherry asked Phil a serious question. 

"Phil, there is one thing I must know, and I am counting on you to be truthful with me."

"Anything mom, anything, I have never lied to you."

"Would you want to fuck the most fuckable mother?"

Phil gulped. He couldn't believe she had asked him this, and she even used the 'F' word. This was the last question he expected.

Finally he quietly looked at Sherry and said, "Yes, yes I would. I love you in every way Mom."

His answer took Sherry's breath away. She put down her glass and stood up and quietly walked into the house. 

Chapter 3

Sherry went into her bedroom, and took down the heavy box from the shelf. Opening it she took the two leather covered albums and laid them on the bed. Then she got a piece of paper and wrote. 'You have already seen me naked, so perhaps you should see these also.'

Then she walked to Phil's room, put the albums on his bed and placed her message on the top album.

She dearly loved her darling boy, and if he wanted to have her, then he could. And she would give herself freely and just let him know how eminently 'fuckable' she really could be. 

As she showered she gently ran her hands over her body, feeling the curves and contours, and wanting someone's hands to make her come sexually alive again. She had a gorgeous son who made no bones about the fact that he wanted her in every way. He even proclaimed his love for her in that way. She wasn't sure why she had put the photo albums on his bed but then again, she knew why, and she knew that on her part it was a surrender to something she didn't want to think about. She would always be grateful to Phil for being there for her in every way since his dad had died. It may be wrong, but she didn't care. Her son wanted her, and she knew she wanted him. and she couldn't deny the desire in her son's eyes, nor could she deny the lust that was building in her own body.

She made an emotional decision born of her long absence from her love for sex. If she was going to take her son to her bed, she would make it the best experience for him that she could.

She took her time dressing. She wore what her husband Jim would like her to wear. Filmy panties, a black garter belt, sheer nylon stockings, a bright red dress of form fitting slinky fabric that tried to cling to every part of her, stopping about three inches above her knees, and just below her exposed thighs above her stocking tops. There was no bra, but a plunging neckline allowing her breasts to move freely against the fabric, accented by her nipples thrusting against the dress. Finally the 6 inch, red patent leather spike heels that her husband used to call 'fuck me pumps'.

She walked slowly down the stairs and headed for the kitchen to fix dinner. Tying a little lace apron around her waist she fixed a simple meal, a tuna fish salad with iced tea, which would be followed by fruit and coffee, and when she had laid the table she called for Phil to come to dinner.

After Sherry had left the patio, Phil had sat there contemplating the events of the last 30 minutes, and his final answer to his mother's question. He had no idea where he stood, but he hoped that everything wasn't ruined. Slowly he finally got up and went up the stairs to his room. The first thing he saw was the two albums with the short note. He couldn't believe his eyes. Was Sherry saying yes? Was she saying everything was OK? He could only hope. He pored over the albums again, although it was probably the 100th time, and they still turned him on, perhaps now even more so. After all he had confessed to his mother that he wanted to fuck her.

He heard her call and started down the stairs. She was sitting in the living room. Her arm was seductively hanging over the back of the chair. Her legs were crossed revealing a lot of leg and just a little bit of thigh above her stockings. As he approached her wide eyed, she stood up.

"Dinner is ready, but I want a kiss first."

She walked to him, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor, then she stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck and opening her mouth to him, she kissed him and felt for his tongue with hers. This was no mother kiss. Phil pressed her to him, and she took his hands and placed them on her bottom, and pressed against him, feel ing his erection as it quickly grew He reached between them and adjusted himself so that he could feel her belly against him as he pressed against her. Sherry moved against him as her tongue explored his mouth. Then she gently pushed him away. 

"Let's have dinner."

Chapter 4

During dinner Phil got the full effect of his mother's carefully thought big tease. Her breasts moved tantalizingly beneath her dress, the fabric rubbing her nipples and keeping them erect and very visible.

"If you are wondering what might happen if you put your hand under my skirt, try it and see".

As she came by his chair he put his hand under her dress, a little hesitantly, and felt the soft satin of her thigh above her nylon stocking. She smiled at him before moving away. She served him their meal, giving him ample opportunity to slide his hand under her dress again, and her smile told him he need not hesitate. He grew bolder and when she came near he quickly put his hand under her skirt and felt her silky thighs above her stocking tops before she moved away again, only this time she stood by him a little longer. On her next pass near him he found his way up to the top of her thighs and felt the soft yielding warm flesh of her vulva against his hand, and then she moved away again. She was teasing him unmercifully throughout the meal. Finally as she poured him coffee, his hand ran up the back of her legs and he felt that magnificent ass, fondling her through her flimsy panties and then letting his fingers wander down between her legs and finding her warm soft vagina. He pushed his fingers into her panties and into her soaking pussy and then she twirled around flying her skirt, showing her legs, and walked away again.

They had spoken very few words, but the lust in the dining room was rampant between them as the meal came to a close. 

"It took you long enough to come down darling, were you enjoying the pictures?"

"You are beautiful mom, I love the pictures."

"Then it's time for you to judge for yourself if my winning photo is close to the real me or not." she said with a seductive smile.

With that, Sherry stood up and started walking for the stairs. She beckoned Phil to follow her. He watched her climbing the stairs, looking up her skirt he could see the soft white flesh of her thighs above her stocking top. When she was almost at the top she turned, and half facing him she reached down and pulled up her skirt until he could see all of her legs, and her panties, and the glorious mound with the dark shadow of her pubic hair showing through.

"If you told me the truth, then you do want me, and I want you too, my darling boy." With that she dropped her skirt and walked to her bedroom with Phil close behind.




The Phantom Beauty Contest



She giggled and laughed as Phil, totally helpless with desire, tore at her clothes and stripped her, throwing her on the bed and mounting her quickly, he thrust his fully erect cock into her hot and very wet pussy, and within seconds he had a massive orgasm and lay back gasping on the pillow. 

Sherry breathlessly looked at him.

"My, you were ready weren't you, well you are not getting away so easily."

She climbed on him, took him in both her hands and quickly brought his erection back as she guided him into her. Then she fucked him, writhing deliciously on him, bouncing on him and bringing herself to orgasm again and again. Finally he grew limp and slipped out of her as she fell back on the bed. 

"Oh it has been so long, and that was so good." she gasped. 

She looked at him and smiled. "Did I earn my title of 'The Most Fuckable Mom'?"

So their very first time together wasn't exactly romantic, but it is what it was. But things got much better after that.

Between Saturday night and Monday morning, Sherry and Phil made up for a lot of Sherry's lost times. They spent the entire time in bed exploring each other, and Sherry gave her son lots of lessons about how to please a woman. She was insatiable, and he was young.

She let him keep the albums.

As the years passed, Phil got a wife, and Sherry got a husband. 

Neither of their spouses ever knew that Phil and Sherry got together frequently.

After all, she wanted to keep her title.

The End



The Phantom Foot



The Phantom Foot:

A Sister Sherlock Mystery

Turkey is supposed to make you sleepy, but it nearly killed me. No, it was not poisoned--or booby-trapped, and while I am at it, how is it that the word booby can be associated with anything bad? 

Anyway, I had just taken a big bite of dark meat, when suddenly I felt a foot on my crotch. It felt good--very good, in fact. The only problem was that I nearly choked to death.

When I had sufficiently recovered myself, I tried to figure out who the perp was.

The way I figured it, there were three main suspects: my mother, sitting directly across from me; to her right, my cousin; and, to my mother's left, my aunt. A frontal attack seemed most likely, but a diagonal one was certainly not out of the question. My father's family was tall and lithe, after all.

My beautiful mother was sitting opposite me. Blond and in her early forties, she had aged well--incredibly well, considering she was the mother of two. She was dressed well too, in a green, silky number that showed her double D breasts--not only their size but, also, a lot of cleavage, not to mention the barest hint of her nipples. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced down the table at my father. He was sitting near the end, between his parents--my grandparents, carousing with his older brother--my uncle. 

My parents were not estranged or anything. In fact it was by mutual consent that they spaced themselves out at holiday gatherings. Partly, it was so that they could fraternize with relatives they did not get to see often. Another reason was that my mother disliked my grandma. I guess even women dislike their mothers.

I looked back at my dear mother--at her tits. Logically, they were more mine than fathers. I had suckled on them--teethed on them too. They were the source of my first food; I had been nourished on them. My mother had even cradled me in her arms while I bit her nips--certainly my father could not claim that.

I felt the foot again fleetingly.

Okay, so I had an Oedipus complex--well, at least half of one. I did not want to kill my father, except occasionally when he had the Sports Illustrated or was eating last pork chop, but those were only fleeting thoughts. On the whole, I respected him--he was a good provider and role model. 

Yet somehow, I did not feel bad about the idea of fucking his wife--my mother. Why? Well, firstly I would just be following his example. Secondly, I had come out of my mother's vagina, so I felt by natural rights I had a sort of passkey. 

There were other mitigating factors too. I would not even be going fully back into it, just part of me--parts of me, I mean. For starters, I would say my cock, fingers and tongue, although if you included her mouth, my balls would make the list as well. 

Honestly, I had never been in her mouth before, but she had kissed me a couple of hundred times. Whether I was wrong or right, I don't know, but it seemed proper justification for her to lick my balls. Similarly, I had once drank her milk, now I felt it would only be polite for me to offer her mine.

In the womb, there had been an umbilical cord connecting us. Technically, it was not part of her, or, for that matter, me. I seized on that precedent. Granted, I'm no legal expert, but I figured it opened a loophole. Theoretically, one could exploit it to insert objects. Battery-operated dildos, for instance.

I groaned because the foot-rubbing had suddenly become more vigorous. My pants were already unbuttoned when I sat down. I had done it in order to eat as much as I could. But now the toes put pressure on the material, and the zipper was giving. In fact, before long, it was all the way down.

My mother was chatting amiably with my cousin, and the back and forth was pretty quick. It seemed extraordinary that either of them could be massaging my cock with her foot. 

Out of a sudden suspicion, I looked to my right, to my sexy sister, who had come on to me last winter break, when she had discovered how perverted I was. We had lost our virginity together. (See "Sister Sherlock: Case of the Perverted Brother.") But, her hands were visible and though she was certainly flexible, I knew it was impossible for her to align her foot from that angle.

My sister noticed my look and smiled at me shyly. Of course, she had a legitimate claim on my mother's jugs too--in some legal systems, at least. But, by the rules of primogeniture, our mother's hooters were rightfully mine. I was the son, and my sister was the daughter--she had her own boobs. 

Don't get me wrong. My sister was a good kid. I would be willing to provide for her--to share my mother's boobs with her. There were two of them, and we got along together well, after all. Besides, they were big.

We could even come to a legal agreement. I would be generous and take the lesser terms: alternating weekends and the summer. Why? My college was far away. Also, I felt the whole thing would be just a formality, anyway. Much of the time the three of us would be together--really closely together.

I looked across the table from my golden-haired sister--to my mother's right. 

My cousin was a high school senior and brunette. Though she was an "A" student, she had B-cups. Unfortunately, she was wearing a bra--unlike my mother or sister, both currently pointing. Probably, her mother--my non-blood aunt--had made her shackle her twins. The nerve of that woman! This was a day set aside to eat breasts! A national holiday--no less!

Well, I suppose there was one thing I could thank my uncle's wife for: giving birth to a hot blood relative--my sexy cousin. 

Although she was Caucasian and roughly of the same mix of nationalities her looks were somehow exotic. They were not as familiar as my sister's. Perhaps, it was the dilution of the family blood, or, perhaps, it was just that I did not get a chance to see her as often.

Her face was pretty, but her expression was wooden--frigid, even. It could not have been her!

I groaned again. The boxers I was wearing were designed without a button. Sometimes, when I slept in them I woke up with my cock sticking out. Now it had come out again, and I felt the toes drawing back my foreskin, titillating the nerves of my engorged head.

"Good, huh?" asked my sister.

"I'm certainly enjoying it."

"Sort of on the dry side." said my mother.

"No, mine is very moist." said my aunt.

Ah, ha! That was a double entendre, if I ever heard one. 

I focused by attention on my aunt. She was a red-haired dynamo with perky C-cups, surprisingly young for an aunt--only thirty, in fact. She taught English at the local high school, and, from what I understood, all the guys wanted to fuck her, but, though she was not married, she was definitely too professional and straight-laced too do that. Heck, her dress was even more conservative than my grandma's.

She noticed me admiring her and smiled at me. 

Suddenly, I became entranced with her, even more so than I was with my mother or sister Perhaps, it was because she had red-hair like me, or, perhaps, it was because she dressed conservatively. I would have said that it was because she was not married to my father, but, then gain, like I explained earlier, I did not see that as much of an objection.

My aunt and I continued to stare at each other. I venerated her flaming red bangs, the subtle curve of her light eyebrows--they were almost blond. I drank in the lovelight of her grey eyes. Between us was the cornucopia centerpiece and its mouth was wide open to me.

The Freudian imagery was too much for me. Suddenly, I came. 

"Oopsie!"

My aunt smiled at me and then reached below the level of the table with her monogrammed napkin. While she wiped, she continued to smile at me, and I smiled back at her knowingly. Obviously, she was wiping the cum off her foot--my cum.

I decided to follow her example, taking my own monogrammed napkin below the table. Fortunately, my pants were stain-proof, and my crotch was not very wet. My excitement had been so high that I had really sprayed far.

My orgasm had been really good, and I wanted to give back. But there were currently too many eyes for me to slip under the table and service my aunt, so I waited patiently for the opportunity I knew was coming.

One by one, the men started leaving to watch football. I would be expected to go to, but probably they would be so immersed in the game that they would not notice if I were missing. The women, on the other hand, were staying to chat and play cards.

I turned to my sister and quietly whispered my desires. I was even so forward as to be specific about my aunt: my sister liked fucking me but was not that possessive. In fact, as if to illustrate the fact, she squeezed my hand under the table and nodded her agreement with a big smile; I knew I could count on her.

My sister had an IQ of 160, but she settled for a time-tested expression:

"Look at me!"

For a distraction, she chose to do cartwheels. It worked pretty well. All the women's eyes were upon her. Heck, I was so interested, I even stayed to see if her skirt would fall down; in fact, she had to make a second pass doing flips. I didn't know what she could do for the third act, so I quickly slipped under the table. 

The vibrations in the floor ended. My sister started breathing heavily, and soon there was applause. 

When things quieted down, I became very tense, however, the seconds went by and no one said anything. Still, I continued to hold my breath, that is until my sister slipped back into my seat and began gently rubbing her nylon-encased foot against my face. She had done a good job; I licked the sole in appreciation. 

When her old seat was filled by my grandma, I felt home free.

I turned around. My first thought was to look up my mother's dress. She was the closest, after all, and I saw her the most of the three, so it stood to reason that I had the most opportunity to desire her. The hemline was pretty high, but, as luck would have it, her legs were tightly crossed. Oh, well, I guess I could still eat out her sister, my own blood-aunt. Pretty good consolation prize, eh? 

Not to mention the fact that I could get a free cousin up-skirt. You did not think I would pass that opportunity up, did you?

I blinked in preparation to stare, but turning my head, I noticed her nubile legs were also crossed--too bad.

My aunt's legs, on the other hand, were wide open. But was she the one?

The dangers were great, but so were the rewards. Besides, I felt pretty safe. The proof was nearly incontrovertible. What's more, I considered myself an expert at reading body language: she definitely wanted me. Anyway, I was just too perverted to turn back now; I needed to give it the old college try.

I began to creep closer.

Suddenly, my mother uncrossed her legs. I had to lean back quickly. Otherwise she would have hit me. 

My mother's crotch was open now, and I decided to take a quick look, however the light was not so good close in. The best parts were in shadow; it made me wish I had brought a flashlight. 

They say that mother is the necessity of all inventions--well, I wanted to sneak a look at my mother panties, so I had to think of something. Not having the materials to create a MacGyverism on hand, I decided to use the nighttime feature of my wristwatch. With the press of a tiny button, a dim blue light came to my aid. It was enough; now I was able to voyeur my mother.

The view was pretty good. She was wearing a Thanksgiving-themed thong--on top of her tights. Probably it was meant for my father's eyes only, but I enjoyed it too. For a moment, I forgot about my aunt and was sucked back into mother-loyalism. More than anything else on the menu today, I specifically wanted to eat out her gibblets.

The light died, and I pressed the button again.

This time, to my horror, I noticed something glistening on her dark tights. The light was not good, but I knew immediately that it was my cum, from the footjob my aunt had given me. I nearly had a heart attack--if she got up, I was doomed. In fact, I was surprised that she had not noticed it already. Perhaps, she thought it was the grease from some tidbit that had dropped from her plate. 

Right now the tablecloth was protecting me, but I knew if she got up, my jism would not stand close scrutiny. Someone would say something, even if she did not personally take notice. She might reach down and swab her finger over it--put it in her mouth, just to be sure.

When she tasted my cum, surely, she would not forget that her only son had been sitting directly opposite her. Sure, I could lie to her; after all, loving mothers can gullible. But my mother was almost as smart as my sister--a doctor, in fact. Likely she would remember there had been no other males in range, and that left only me. 

Heck, knowing my uncle, he probably would be able to offer the latest version of "Guinness Book of World Records" to prove the fact beyond any shadow of doubt.

I might be disowned in front of half my relatives--with proof--and my mother was my connection to the other half of my relatives. I would become a black sheep, an orphan. Would my sister still stick by me then? Better yet, would she still let me stick her?

I could not reach up and get a napkin--someone would notice my disembodied hand. For a moment, I considered pulling off my sister's panties--I knew she would not mind. But then I remembered she was not wearing any, just fall themed tights--the color yellow.

I could take them off, but they would just spread the cum around, and, likewise, I thought my own sleeves. I was in deep, deep trouble--or soon would be.

But I had a few minutes, and I might as well live them up--by eating my aunt's pussy.

My eye's fixed on my aunt's amazingly feminine toes and rose up her incredibly smooth ankles. Her dress was long, but it had a slit in it. 

This was the moment of truth: now I would discover if I was right about my aunt--if she had given me the footjob. Or, perhaps, she would stab my eye with a fork. You know, before, she realized it was her devoted nephew and not some escaped criminal nibbling on her clit. 

I licked her big toe. She squirmed very slightly but basically stayed still. She had passed the first test, but she may have thought that I was the dog, so I decided to subject her to the second. I stuck the toe in my mouth and sucked on it. Again, she squirmed a little but did not move very much--less than the first time, in fact. I was confident now, but that did not stop me from licking her calf, just for fun. And this time she did not so much as flinch.

Now it was time for the best part.

I reached up and grabbed my aunt's thighs. Then I slowly but forcibly pushed the material of her skirt backwards, revealing more and more leg. Eventually, I uncovered her crotch and made a startling discovery. She was wearing a white thong--my favorite combination: the color of innocence, the panties of a slut. Well, I suppose she had planned ahead; my grandparents did like to turn the heat up pretty high.

I pushed the tiny material of the crotch aside and began licking--my aunt tasted surprisingly good, sort of like sour apple. I stuck my tongue in further and was met with more wetness. The taste became slightly more salty.

"Oooh!" came the sound from above me.

Suddenly, despite the cum on my mom's legs, I achieved a nirvana like state of calmness. I'm not sure if it was my aunt's exclamation or her pussy-pheromones. 

I kept licking, and my aunt got wetter and wetter. Eventually, I decided it was wet enough to stick my finger in. Unfortunately, my aunt was wearing tights, under her panties. Fortunately, I brought along my knife--part of the silverware. I was afraid the ripping noise would be heard, but the sound of the ladies conversation covered it up.

I stuck my finger in and drew it up and down slowly, hoping the sound of the ladies' conversation would cover the slurping sound. No worries--it did. There was a reason why the men had left. Eventually, I stuck two fingers in.

"Oh, yes!" my aunt exclaimed.

"Someone must have a good hand." said my sister, and I began to think that she had a sixth-sense.

"I could use another card." said my aunt. 

She was using code, and I got the message. Now it was time for three fingers. It was sort of tight but very wet. 

My head nearly hit the table--suddenly, I felt a foot gently caressing my back. I ignored it. It was my sister, I knew. I could hear her speaking--there was just the slightest idiosyncrasy in tone, certain words seemed to be emphasized, as if she wanted to get my attention, very badly. Yet still, I ignored her, and continued to lick my aunt's tasty pussy. 

My sister was insistent. She started using both feet, pinching the back of my shirt. Surprisingly, after just a few tries, she managed to pull it out of the back of my pants. After that was done, I waited, but nothing happened. I guess she was only being playful.

Without warning, I felt a woolen sock on my back. First, it rubbed against me--caressed me. For one horrible moment I thought it was a man, but then, it tapped me on the side--the right side--repeatedly. 

I looked back: my sister was wearing a woolen sock over her tights--on her right foot--and she was pointing with the toe! To my right! To my cousin's wet camel-toe--for she had now uncrossed her legs!

Immediately, I knew it all--the whole story. I had been duped, or, rather, my cousin had. She had been fooled into thinking that I had played footsy with her--by my sister--no less. Then she had decided to give me return gratification: a footjob. Well, I'm not sure. Maybe, she only intended to excite me at first, but, when she felt my naked cock, she had become excited and gotten carried away. Well, we both had.

I had made the natural mistake of supposing that it was my young and beautiful, unmarried aunt who was playing with me, and now I was playing with her. Oh, well--no harm, no foul!

I continued to thrust, this time faster, and I let the slopping sound get louder. 

"Do you want some pie?" asked my Grandma.

"No" said my aunt. "I'm stuffed."

To my surprise, she grabbed my head and thrust it into her open legs so far that my nose was tickled by her red landing strip. I got the message and began licking her clit, while continuing to thrust. 

She groaned, and I felt one of her legs move. I did not have to look back to know that her toes were curling.

Female orgasms can last awhile, so I continued thrusting and giving cunnilingus. I knew I had done a good job when she pinched my cheek, like she was sometimes in the habit of doing. I decided to rely on her kindness--I reached up and pulled down her thong. She assisted me by lifting her rear up slightly.

Finally, I had her panties free. They were more than a little wet, but the top was sort of dry. I had a use for them in mind--two, in fact.

I moved towards my lovely mom.

Very gently--with the touch of an angel--I brushed my aunt's panties against my mother's leg--just one swipe. Unfortunately, they only spread the cum. The thong was of no immediate use, so I put it in my pocket--I would use it later.

I saw the old girl sitting under the end of the table. I called to her very lowly and made hand gestures, but she did not move, except to scratch herself. I guess she was either too lazy or too deaf. The dog was out!

As for now, there was only one option. Admittedly, I was pretty reluctant, but there was nothing else to do because I had failed to convince the bitch. And I had to act quickly. My mother was sitting still now, but, at any moment, she might swing her feet out and discover me. 

With a lightning motion, I leaned forward and licked the cum off my mother's nylon encased leg.

To my shock, my mother reached down and patted me on the head. 




The Phantom Foot



"Good boy." was what she said. 

I could not figure it out. One of her fingers had just brushed against my ear. Had she been talking to me specifically--as her son? Or had she merely forgotten the dog's sex?

Well, that problem was solved, anyway!

Unfortunately, my cousin had slipped away--probably to watch football, so I could not play with her now. It was too bad she was not sitting next to my aunt--I would have been able to use both hands. Well, I guess there would always be another chance--perhaps tonight--perhaps even a threesome with my aunt and/or sister.

The ladies talk seemed to be winding down, but there was no telling how many more hours they might go on, so I nudged my sisters leg. I wanted a distraction, but she stayed put. When she handed me her glass of water, I knew what she wanted, so I leaned forward and licked the crotch of her tights. 

Four minutes later, she patted me on the head and said "Good dog!"

This time she did a card trick. 

I slipped back out from under the table. My legs were sort of cramped, but I stood up quickly. I thought nobody saw me, but my mother surprised me by speaking to me from behind my back.

"Would you like some pie?" 

"Yours?" I asked

She winked at me.

"Yes, please."

The End 



The Phantom Fuck



"So been screwing the birthday girl have you?" Marcia said to Gareth as they were eating breakfast.

It was at the last knockings of Sammi's twenty first birthday party. There were two servings of bacon and eggs, with all the trimmings; the early one was between six and seven for those still partying and the later one, from nine onwards, for those who had lost the will to go on and had crashed in the marquee or the pool changing rooms where Amanda and Kevin had thoughtfully provided loads of sunbeds, loungers, lilos and blankets. Most had been occupied for the past few hour, some even for sleeping on!.

"Fuck off Marcia, what do you mean?" the, City boy derivatives trader in his early thirties snarled.

"Come on don't be pissed at Aunty," the forty five-year-old immensely wealthy wife of one of the leading consultant psychologists in the UK said, smiling and putting her hand on Gareth's arm, after making sure no one could see them.

"What got you so worked up about our Sandra Dee? Her stockings? Did you get your sweaty paws up her silky draws?" Marcia asked almost singing the words from Grease.

"How the fuck did you know she wore stockings?"

"You should know by now darling, Aunty Marcia knows everything, she wants to know."

"And why would you want to know about Sammi's stockings and whether I shagged her not?"

Marcia wasn't Gareth's aunt at all, but they had used that term ever since their first time, when Gareth had said "It is a bit like having sex with my aunt." He was her friend Amanda's husband's son from his first marriage. Close, but not web feet territory, and that had been sufficient for Marcia and him to have been having sex on and off for nearly ten years. She preferred young men to those her own age.

"No particular reason," she said slipping her finger into his dress shirt, which had three buttons undone with his black tie draped round his neck. She slowly rubbed him between his breasts. 

"Other than checking up on my property."

"I'm not your property."

"Really?" Marcia said moving closer and staring right into Gareth's eyes. 

She pointedly slid one hand into the back pocket of her very tight, black, shiny trousers. That caused the front of her button up dress shirt, which she had worn with black tie earlier, to gape open. Whereas, Gareth had left three buttons undone, Marcia's shirt had four unbuttoned. That meant the shirt was open to more than half way down between her breasts. She was not well-endowed in that area, having only small mounds capped by large, dark nipples, so she could get away with showing so much. That is until the shirt gaped, then whoever was looking would see all and that is precisely what Gareth saw.

As she saw him looking right where she wanted him to, she again glanced round to make sure there were no onlookers. Reassured, she moved even closer. She caught his wrist with one hand and placed it on her pert, shapely, nicely rounded bum. She slid the other down his front and rubbed his bulge, as she leaned forward and kissed him. As she had anticipated he, firstly stroked all over each orb and then squeezed her bum and kissed her back.

"Ok you bitch," he grunted, recognising that she was the only woman that could always get to him. All the others, his age, younger, older, models, hookers, fellow city traders and bankers, starlets and MILFs, he could take or leave. With Marcia, he always came back for more.

Chapter 2.

Marcia didn't wear underwear. She rarely bothered with a bra, having small tits, and felt that without panties she, not only got rid of any ridges under the ridiculously tight jeans, trousers and skirts she favoured, but she also gained such fantastic sensations. As she had said to Amanda, who was Sammi's mum and Gareth's step-mother as well as being one of Marcia's best friends, although Marcia occasionally also dallied with Amanda's husband Kevin, but then as she thought to herself, 'who hasn't?' feeling rather sorry for her friend.

"It's like walking around with a vibrator up your cunt."

Marcia and Stephen had a pretence of a happy marriage. As it happens they got on quite well, for neither really believed in love, but there it ended. True, they attended many functions together, both the medical ones that resulted from his job and the charity, hunting, showbiz, sporting and celebrity ones that came about because of Marcia's family connections and massive wealth, now well into the billion plus sterling. 

Marcia had never been faithful to Stephen, but until recently Stephen had not thought of straying. Well he did have hookers and escorts, but they didn't really count, did they? Marcia had a number of fuckbuddies, had a penchant for young guys, particularly golf and tennis coaches and ski instructors and recently, she had found herself being more and more attracted to women, particularly younger ones. 

Although she had absolutely no evidence whatsoever, Marcia was always thinking that Stephen was having affairs. After all he was lovely. Tall and slim with long, blonde hair turning grey, he had a great body and dressed immaculately managing to be cool and stylish without seeming to be trying to look too young. Not an easy knack, but he pulled it off both with formal and casual clothes. 

Most of her friends told her how lucky she was to have such a gem. Marcia, with her lack of empathy and understanding of other people, ascribed her own standards and morals to her husband and to others. Stephen, a psychologist understood such thinking, after all that was what he was trained to do. He accepted that his wife would assume he would behave as she did, but until he had recruited Kate, it hadn't really entered his mind, despite many opportunities. 

He had come so close with Kate, his Medical Assistant for a couple of months. So close that they had ended up in a hotel room masturbating, but not fucking.

The most uncanny aspect of his brief relationship with Kate, was how Marcia seemed to know his feelings about his assistant; almost before he did. She used those in bed. Several times, after an emotionally steamy day with Kate, Stephen would get into bed with Marcia. She would somehow sense his aroused thinking about Kate and her full breasts and slightly oversized bum and would start talking about her and them. That would arouse Stephen even more and several times as he fucked his wife, not only did he make out it was Kate, but Marcia made out she was her as well.

"Feel my big tits Stephen," she would moan as he slid into her and "Oh yes Stephen you're making Kate cum" as he gave her an orgasm.

Yes, not only did Marcia not wear underwear, she also had an unusually voracious sexual appetite, a wide range of sexual interests, well fetishes really, no discernable morals at all and a totally selfish approach, "If I want it, I'll have it and fuck the consequences." Marcia lived for the buzz.

Chapter 3.

"Follow me, big boy," Marcia said removing her hand from Gareth's bulge, which rather disappointingly hadn't started to grow.

"Where we going?"

"To fuck, where do you think? That is, of course, if you're still able to after sticking it to Ms Goody Twoshoes, the blessed Sammi." Marcia replied leading him out of the marquee and round the side of the garage. 

"You'd be surprised at her," Gareth replied.

"Darling, I was totally gobsmacked when I saw her stockings, is there more to know?"

"Maybe," Gareth said, unusually for him feeling protective and warm towards Sammi. Usually when he'd fucked a bird he didn't want to know and didn't care what happened to her. Sammi seemed different somehow, but then half-sisters probably do.

"So where we going."

"Well, the lovely Amanda provided some of her closest friends, including moi of course, with a refuge. A little dressing room and loo for our exclusive use."

"Mmmm, handy."

Walking up the narrow and rather steep back staircase, Gareth's face was only inches from Marcia's undulating arse. He never ceased to be amazed at its awesome shape and her wiggle, which was the most erotic he had ever seen. He ran his fingers over the two orbs.

"Still no underwear, M?"

"Of course not, you know I don't wear such stuff, prefer the freedom me."

The mere though of her nakedness under the tight trousers and her bare tits in the shirt started to get him hard. When Marcia had come on to him, Gareth had wondered whether he'd be able to perform again, for he and Sammi had gone back for the second half a couple of hours after their first sex at around two. Those fucking stockings had a lot to answer for, he told her as he shagged her on all fours.

Luckily, he'd prepared well for the party and had taken it fairly easy during the early stages. 

Unlike most Thursday nights, when the city boys partied in London and any other night when they could justify two hundred pound bottles of Chateau Petrus, a few Doms, a visit or two from their friendly dealer, often a few hugely expensive hookers and a ridiculously expensive dinner as entertaining clients, Gareth had been careful. He hadn't popped a cocktail of pills, snorted numerous lines of coke and shoved any alcohol put in front of him down his throat. So he had got through Friday ok and he had had carefully planned Saturday. 

At seven he'd take two Cialis on the basis that their effect would last longer than the 'not to be exceeded' dosage of 'no more than one in any twenty four hours'; all his mates and fellow budding masters of the universe and he knew such warnings were for the birds not for real men like them. He took them as a 'just in case' not, of course, because he needed them, but then all the other stuff he took could slow a bloke down a bit, the city boys always told each other. And in any, case wasn't that why pills were invented to make up for where real life disappointed or let you down? 

Apart from the Champagne before dinner and whilst fucking Sammi, twice, and the white and red wine at dinner, which didn't really count, being wine, he'd been careful and not mixed his drinks. He was pretty sure he'd stayed on vodka all night, but maybe there was a dram or two of single malt and did he have a Henessy XO or two after dinner? Still, as a near million a year trader he had been trained very well in being able to take his drink, he hardly ever fell ever and couldn't remember the last time he passed out. 

What with the booming footsie, the crashing oil price, the manic trading and the total lack of any knowledge about what was happening by anyone, least of all Gareth, who ran a ten man desk, he'd had a tough week and could well have done without this party. Hence, his careful preparation; you didn't earn a mil a year without being able to plan, he always told his team. So, just after arriving he had taken a couple of qualludes and during the evening he had a few lines. But then, everyone one was, weren't they, well at least the twenty or so city boys at the party were. 

He was quite proud of himself, therefore, after Marcia had locked the door behind them, to feel his cock growing as if to order. True, he was laying on a small bed; true, she had taken her shirt off and let him suck her fucking amazing nipples; true she had stood before him in the tight, shiny, black trousers and gradually eased them off revealing her nakedness under them; true she had flashed her totally bald cunt at him and true she had then completely undressed him. 

'Ok' he had to admit 'it was taking longer than normal.' 'Ok' he acknowledged, 'Marcia was working harder than normal, and 'for sure' he muttered, when with her mouth stuffed full of his cock, she'd asked, "Any good babe?"

"Come on stud," Marcia whispered her tongue licking the length of his semi-hard dick as her finger found his anal hole. "You want that Gal?"

"Yes."

"Will it help?"

"Sure?"

"What are you thinking?" She asked, sliding her finger up to the first knuckle into his arse.

"How I want to fuck you?" He replied diplomatically, scared to say that he was really thinking' I hope the fuck that I get hard soon."

"I hope you aren't thinking of Sandra Dee are you?"

"No, of course not, not with you here."

"Yeah, right bollocks," Marcia said pushing hard with her finger so it slid well into Gareth's arse, hurting a bit, as it was intended, but also reaching his prostate.

"Come on Marc, you know me."

"Yes I fucking well do know you and know well that you're thinking of our little virginal nun in her sexy hold up stockings aren't you?"

This was a tactic Marcia had worked with several men including her husband Stephen; find their real turn on and talk to them about that.

"No, honest I was thinking of your arse in those trousers."

"In them? What's wrong with it out of them?" Marcia asked wiggling round so her bum was closer to him. Her finger still up his arse.

Gareth laughed, stroking her beautifully rounded bum that showed not the slightest hint of sagging or, worse, cellulite. She really did have a great arse, he thought slipping his finger into the crease between the perfectly symmetrical cheeks. 

Still not fully hardening, he was getting worried. He knew from previous times with hookers that he was in that viscious circle; it doesn't get hard, you think too much, then worry and that stops you getting hard. Twice he'd done that with thousand a night hookers, the bitches.

"And what, may I ask is Ms Goody Two Shoes' arse like, or were you too busy with her lovely little tits?"

"Both are great," he replied.

"So you are thinking of her?"

"No, I'm not."

"I bet you would like her to be here right now wouldn't you? Like when we had that hooker, her and me fucking you?"

"Sounds divine," Gareth grunted his fingers finding the wet warmness of Marcia's pussy. 'Fuck she really does have hot juices,' he thought wondering if the temperature of women's secretions varies very much. He made a mental note to give the new trainee that as a project to research, but was brought back to the wonderful reality of Marcia burying his cock deep in her mouth and sucking him long and hard. He still wasn't hard though, he guiltily realised.

"I know you would like darling Sammi sitting across your face right now, her young sweet cunt dropping its juices right into your mouth as I suck your cock and you suck her fucking nylons wouldn't you?"

"Oh God," he grunted. "Would you like that Em? Would you like Sammi to be here so you could suck her cunt.?"

"I'd rather she was sucking mine, perhaps I'll ask her, you reckon she swings?"

"No idea, but most girls do a bit nowadays," he said feeling those welcomingly familiar hardening sensations as Marcia continued.

"Wouldn't you like to walk behind both of us with us wearing tight trousers and you fondling our bums?

"Finding out neither of you was wearing panties?" He offered.

"Yes both of us without our knickers," Marcia grunted between sucking and licking his cock that was now nearly there. "And then, Gary as we take them off you see we are both wearing stockings and we say, fuck us in these stockings Gareth." 

He was so relieved to find that he was now fairly hard and that Marcia had climbed onto the bed, got onto all fours and was saying.

"Now fuck me, not Sammi."

She was soaking. 'But then' he smiled as he slid so easily into his third cunt, well second, but third time, of the evening, 'She always is fucking wet.' Briefly wondering if she really was a nympho, he pushed himself as far into Marcia as he could and then held his cock embedded right up her. Gareth then wrapped himself round her body his hands finding her almost flat tits, his fingers pinching her long, dark nipples. It felt good, it was comfortable, he liked laying like that the warmth of her insides gripping his pleasantly respectable erection, his fingers pinching and rolling her long, rubbery nipples.

"Harder, cityboy," she grunted.

He pinched harder.

"No not there you fucking maniac, fuck me harder I mean. I thought you had gone to sleep."

In fact, Gareth could easily have done that. What with all the booze, he had actually drunk several single malts and a few Hennessy XOs in addition to the wine and champagne, the line, or was it two, of coke Bret, a broker he worked with, had provided and of course the two shags with his half-sister, he was feeling tired. However, that he put down to the time, it must have been almost getting light, real cityboys aren't really affected by booze or drugs are they?

He started to fuck Marcia. He started pulling almost all the way out then plundering himself all the way in. It didn't work properly. She was so wet and had her legs wide open so it was a bit like fucking a jelly, nice and smooth, but no friction, he thought.

"Close your fucking legs," he growled.

"Why?" Marcia asked knowing that many men, including Gareth's father Kevin liked her 'wide-open' position.

"Its better," he slurred.

Marcia could feel this going badly wrong. Gareth was far further gone than she had thought and she was worried he wouldn't be able to perform properly, he hadn't done very well so far. It happened sometimes she knew, but not to her. Marcia prided herself on that. In all the time she had been unfaithful to her husband by committing adultery, which she often giggled, coincided almost perfectly with the length of their marriage, for she'd had two little adventures on their six-week honeymoon, no man had ever 'lost it' with her. Gareth, though, had come near a couple of times and this was, by far the most worrying.

She did close her legs a bit and that gave him more friction, but also applied more pressure to his cock, which was not fully hard. As he slid backwards after one deep thrust, he obviously went a little too far and he popped right out.

"Oh fuck," he moaned grasping his dick and trying to find the way back in.

"Come on Gareth for Christ's sake," Marcia rather unhelpfully urged.

He began to panic. He didn't seem to be able to find the way in and, certainly, he couldn't get the angle right, that's not always easy when a woman's arse is pointing upwards. On top of that, the more he tried the more he softened and the more his head seemed to be losing touch with his body.

Marcia felt and sensed what was happening. She had two choices, get dressed and walk out and maybe try and get another fuck from someone or, work on Gareth. Her manipulative mind weighed up the options. There were only two other guys there who she could reasonably proposition. Kevin, Gareth's dad, who she'd been having an affair with for a while. It was his and Amanda's party, though, and the chances of him being able to get away and spend time with her were limited and Ken. He was one of her husband's medical colleagues with whom she had bonked at a conference she had attended with Stephen, which was a very rare event. Again, though, she doubted if he would be able to get away from his fat, straight-laced shrew of a wife. So working on the bird in the hand principle' she decided to fuck Gareth.

"Don't worry baby," she cooed turning and falling flat on the bed. Come and lay here next to Aunty.

Marcia probably was a nymphomaniac. Certainly, she had a need for a great deal of sex on a very regular basis and, without doubt, when she started on a sexual jaunt there was little, in fact nothing she could think of, that could stop her. So now, naked, on a bed with one of her young studs, she smiled, and having had his dick in her, she had to finish.

"Let Aunty get you hard," Gareth heard as if through a badly tuned microphone.

This wasn't that familiar territory to her. Marcia enjoyed sex, not romance. She was in it for the buzz, not the tenderness, the satisfaction not so much the pleasure, the outcome not the chase. To her, the fuck was the objective not the foreplay, which often she forewent. On top of that, men normally followed her, they did as she instructed, she directed events not them. And she rarely, if ever chose extended foreplay. She realised now though, that was needed if she was to get what she wanted and that was for Gareth to fuck her, which was now an emotional as well as strongly physical need for her; she was like a junky needing that fix.




The Phantom Fuck



She kissed him, she licked him she stroked his cock and balls and she nibbled his nipples. It helped, but not much.

"I'm sorry Em, must be the booze," he slurred making her realise he was much further gone than she had imagined.

"Yeah right, don't worry Aunty will sort it out."

Even taking his cock deep into her mouth and stroking his balls had only a modest affect. She knew it just wasn't going to happen.

"Turn over," she ordered.

He did.

She pulled his legs open, there was just enough light for her to see the deep crevice between the cheeks of his arse.

She ran her fingertips along it, right across his anus. His body jerked.

Gareth was now nearly asleep or unconscious. He could just about work out what was going on, but it was more like a dream than reality, nice though.

Marcia leaned forward and ran her still hardened nipples over his back that felt nice, she liked it and did it some more. She wiggled downwards so that her tit was in his crease. She pulled his legs further apart. He vaguely felt things sliding across his back and now the cheeks of his bum, but couldn't quite make out what they were, fingers, a tongue, God knows, he didn't. He couldn't really work out what was happening and wasn't actually too sure whether he was with Marcia or Sammi.

Marcia took hold of the slight puffiness of the flesh of her tiny right breast. She squeezed so that the nipple, which is so disproportionately sized to the boob, stood out. It was like one of those things people use to ice cakes in those TV programmes she thought, as she moved the hard piece of rubbery flesh towards Gareth's arse. 

'What the fuck's that?' He thought feeling the pressure on his hole. As he did he reached behind him and found a leg. It was bare, no stocking, so it had to be Marcia, he smiled, pleased with himself for being clever enough to work that out.

She pressed more using her nipple to stimulate and slightly part his sphincter muscle. This was no longer, if it ever had been, for Gareth or them, no this was now for her, it was Marcia's show, Gareth had lost the right to be a partner, he was now her plaything. She reached between her legs and ran her fingers along her still nicely moist lips, lubricating her fingers. She then rubbed them right on his anus.

"Oh uggh yes," he groaned.

Marcia knelt behind him, she pulled him so he was now in the position she had been during Gareth's abortive attempt to fuck her, kneeling, head on the bed, legs open, arse in the air. She pressed with her finger, he grunted, she pressed harder, he moaned. 

Sliding her hand down her own body, over her hard nipples, small breasts, flat stomach and shaved pubis, she found her clit. 'It's the only way' she reconciled as her body reacted to her finger pressing right beside her clit, a not unfamiliar experience for Marcia masturbated most days.

Pulling his cheeks apart with her other hand she buried her face in his arse. The bottom half of his body shook, 'even in a near unconscious state sex still works' she smiled pushing her tongue against his anus. It went in a little way, but not very far. What it did do though was add more lubricant from her spittle, some of which went slightly inside. That was needed for then, rather roughly as she aroused herself with her clit, Marcia shoved her finger up Gareth's arse again.

"Oh fuck," he moaned pushing back at the emotionally unwelcome, 'I don't take it up the arse' I'm too macho for that, but physically very welcome sensation as his prostate muscle was sensitised. For several moments she finger fucked Gareth's arse, enjoying the sensation of being in control and loving the feelings from her clit. 

The additional sensations from his arse were too much for Gareth and they took him over the top. Not to an orgasm, but they tipped him from partial awareness to a near unconscious state, where his emotions shut down, but his physical reactions continued. 

It was too dark to see, so Marcia had to remove her hand from her clit and push it between Gareth's legs to find out whether what she had read on the net really did work. It did, he was rock hard.

Quickly, she rolled him onto his front, a moan coming from his mouth as her finger slid out of his arse. She straddled him, reached behind her, grabbed his cock and effortlessly mounted him. She took his hands and held them against her breasts. And like that, without any knowing or emotional involvement from Gareth, she fucked him, until she made herself cum.



The Phantom Pilot



Three Fokkers dropped from the cloud cover above. 

A Spandau machine gun chewed a dual line of holes through my starboard upper wing. What was left of the bracing wire began to flay the Camel's lower wing to pieces. A burst from my Vickers put one of the German planes out of the dogfight, but I had no time to glory in my kill. I pulled up on the stick in a vain effort to climb and spun out of control. A chap from Sopwith Aviation had warned me, as well as a hangar full of other RAF flyboys, about the inherent spin characteristics during training last summer. At low speed the machine displayed a tendency to go into a tailspin. 

That morning's flight was to be reconnaissance only. My wingman, a major, and I were to locate and report any observation zeppelins gathered over some troop formations the generals wanted to keep a secret. 

"That locate and report business is rubbish," my friend the major said as we walked out of the hangar and across the airfield, "We're going to do some balloon-busting."

I had crawled into the cockpit of my Sopwith Camel. 

The major's bi-plane took off ahead of me, trundling down the grass runway ahead of my own machine and lifted into the wind. I followed into the sky, hoping for a chance to see some action. But two hours into the patrol we still had nothing to report. For a skyline allegedly swarming with gasbags the sky remained overcast and uneventful. At least I was airborne. I'd rather fly a plane than a desk any day. I took a fuel gauge reading. Low.

Time to head back to the Aerodrome.

The major branched off, flying out of my sight. I never saw the major again; I hope he's well. 

I remember thinking, "Bloody hard to see out of these goggles," when I'd become preoccupied with the Fokkers. The remaining two buzzed overhead like angry bees. My folly was attempting to outmaneuver them. I climbed when I should have dived. My Camel also chose that critical moment to stall. At that altitude the instant silence of a dead engine can send a pilot's heart into his mouth. I thought my heart would burst from the sickening falling sensation. 

As I plummeted toward France those Spandau machine guns chattered again. Bullets ripped into my right leg. Hot pain lanced through me before an icy calm of shock swam over me. The square patterns of the fields spun round and round faster, but I saw everything with an unreal clarity. My starboard wings shredded as if beaten by ferocious steel whips. One of the Fokkers flew into my line of sight. My head drooped. I noticed the cockpit awash with blood.

The face of the French girl from the night before reeled through my mind, but I could not remember her name. Nor could I recall the name of my wife as the Sopwith Camel plunged into the unforgiving winter soil. 

A number of things registered at the point of impact. 

The jarring cessation of downward spiraling motion accompanied by an explosion and the heat of flames.

Then I felt nothing.

I awoke to the sound of running water, the voices of people shouting.

A high bluff overlooked where I lay on my back, unable to move. From the cliff a group of savages looked down at me, their faces smeared with war paint. They cheered my predicament and waved their spears. I closed my eyes for a moment, when I reopened them the men were gone. Apparently they had left me for dead. My head lolled, sluggish syllables poured from between my lips. The unmistakable feel of grass touched my bare legs, but my back brushed against sand. 

I smelled sweet flowers in the warm breeze. A layer of sand stuck to the sweat of my tattooed arm. 

My tattooed arm? I, Colonel Daniel Walker, aged fifty, of the Royal Air Force, had no tattoos! But I could only see my arm however and couldn't lift it for a closer examination. I wanted to spit the vile taste from my mouth, but lacked the wherewithal. I must be delirious, I thought. 

But not dead!

All five senses were accounted for. Despite a bad taste in my mouth the scent of flowers filled my nostrils. I felt the surface of the ground beneath me, had heard and seen people above me. My limbs lay motionless but my chest rose and fell with labored breathing. 

Why was I not a cinder in the French snow?

As my eyes traveled down the expanse of my body a cold finger of panic probed my guts. Below my waist was a scarlet mass. All the dizzying hope of still being alive faded in bitter disappointment. Had I been unmanned by the hail of lead from the Spandaus? I remembered the cockpit splashed with blood. Had I survived a terrible crash only to emerge as half a man? Any soldier preferred death over dismemberment. Sadness descended on me.

I groaned as I looked again down the length of my body and saw bright red. Something gold glinted just below my navel. What in God's name? Then the breeze blew on my legs, high on my legs. Would a man still have feeling in that area if so sorely wounded? A gust of wind caused a scarlet flap to flutter in the air like silk. I squeezed my eyes shut having no desire to look upon so ghastly a wound. My arm wouldn't move, but my fingers would. Cautiously I shifted my hand and touched my hip, felt the feel of silk between my fingers. That encouraged me to open my eyes again. What I had thought a red mass of torn skin and organs was a garment of some sort. I blinked several times unbelieving. 

Around my hips I wore a scarlet loincloth and the gold object below my belly appeared to be an elaborate belt buckle. "Walker, you're delirious," I said aloud. The words sounded foreign to me. I knew what I meant to say and had said it, but the words didn't come out in English. Or French either, a language I know very little about. 

Relaxing the muscles in my neck I allowed my head to roll back to the side. The sight of the tattoos on my arm added to my certainty of delirium. Off to my left, water blazed in the sunshine and I shut my eyes. I listened to the water, ignoring the questions roiling in my mind.

Something tickled my cheek. I cracked my eyelids. A long lock of black hair, like a woman's, brushed my chin. Ah, my French lover had black hair; she came to rescue me; what was her name? I sought to look upon her face, but no woman leaned over me so the hair must be mine, except I had had a haircut a week ago in Bois de Marmal. My gray hair didn't reach my ears let alone my chin. I was hallucinating, seeing painted warriors with spears and women's hair, babbling in a strange tongue. 

My eyes closed again.

I surrendered myself to blissful darkness.

Footsteps crunched through the sand and came to a halt close to me. I tried to look up, but the effort kept me from doing so.

The toe of a shoe, or boot, nudged my arm. I mumbled wordlessly.

"By the seven gray gods, he lives," a voice spoke, the language foreign to me, but I understood the words well enough.

"No one could survive that fall," a second voice disagreed. "Look how high the top of the cliff is from here."

"I don't believe it myself, " the first voice replied. The toe prodded at me again. "He just tried to say something. He moved his head."

"It cannot be," said the other man. I heard the rustle of cloth beside me. I smelled a strong odor of sweat. Fingertips touched my chest, the palm of a hand pressed down over my heart.

Not opening my eyes I asked, "Who are you?" The words sounded odd on my lips yet once more I understood.

"Does the Sheikh believe me now?" asked the first man.

"His heart's beating." The hand left my chest, fingers touched my face, turned my head back and forth. The voice of the Sheikh hissed in my ear: "Thwart, Thwart! Gather your wits about you, man."

"Must drink," I grated, "thirsty."

"Don't just stand there, Namtor. There's wine in the saddlebag."

I heard footsteps in the sand.

Someone knelt beside me. A hand clamped my jaw and propped my head back, liquid dribbled across my lips, sprinkled across my tongue. I drank hungrily at the sweetest wine I'd ever tasted.

"Enough, Namtor, we don't need a hurt man who's drunk to look after," snapped the Sheikh. "Put him over the back of one of the dromendaries. We must make haste back to the camp. The Askaar are no doubt still nearby."

Briefly my eyes opened when I felt myself being lifted. The whole world tilted and I saw sand and sky, tropical greenery. Long hair hung in my face. I glimpsed a man in a dirty white burnoose standing next to a line of camels.

From faraway somebody said, "Better not forget his sword, over by the water." 

My sword? I thought how utterly ridiculous and passed out.

I regained consciousness on my back on a blanket on the ground. Voices spoke in the language I curiously understood. I kept my eyes and my mouth closed.

A man's voice I recognized from before was saying: "I'd've thought that drink of wine would've brought Thwart around. That crazy fool always did like his wine."

"His breathing is regular again," a female voice said. Links of chain clinked. A cool hand touched my forehead. "But he is feverish."

The male said kindly, "Thwart's fortunate to be alive, Jadda. The Sheikh wanted me to check him for broken bones and other damage away from the eyes of the camp. You know he doesn't like idle tongues wagging and rumors spreading among his retinue." 

The woman began speaking, but stopped in the middle of her question. 

"Namtor, is he going to . . .?" 

"Going to live? Without a doubt. He's bruised and battered, but there are no broken bones."

"Thank the gods," Jadda said.

"There is a knot on the back of his head the size of an egg. But that's nothing. For a man who fell off a cliff."

"Did the Askaar push him off that cliff?"

"All I heard was yelling and fighting, I saw nothing. Maybe Thwart jumped."

"I wouldn't be surprised. He's too foolhardy for his own good." 

Namtor chuckled, "I saw blood on his sword when Portor retrieved it on the beach. He got a piece of one of them anyway."

"Why didn't you help him?" Jadda asked. She wiped at sand clinging to my face and shoulders. The links of chain rattled with the movements of her hands.

"Thwart jumped out of the bush ahead of the rest of us. When the Sheikh saw how many Askaar marched along the trail he had us retreat."

"To leave Thwart to die alone?"

"I wouldn't be talking like that, Jadda. What if the Sheikh heard you?"

The woman answered, "You won't betray me, Namtor."

His hushed reply was sincere. "You know I won't repeat what you say, but if anyone else should hear you you know the consequences."

"I've survived the Sheikh's lash before," she stated boldly.

"Why bring trouble down on yourself?"

I thought it about time I entered the conversation. I meant to speak more forcefully, but the words came out in a croak: "No one is not going to harm a hair on your head."

"Thwart!" the girl cried.

I saw the shapes of the two people in the falling darkness. A tall black man stood leaning against a giant sword the way a shepherd leans on his staff. The blade looked more like an enormous meat cleaver than a sword. The man, Namtor, wore only baggy trousers with broad vertical black and white stripes tucked into boots. The dark-haired girl on her knees beside me possessed curves and contours I had only seen on statues. Olive-skinned and darkly beautiful, she wore nothing but a length of chain fastened to a steel cuff on each wrist. That chain was joined in the middle to a shorter one that attached to a chipped enameled steel collar that had seen many necks before hers. She seemed as oblivious and unselfconscious about the chains as she was of her nudity.

I shook my head once, but only once, it hurt too much to do it again.

"Who is this Thwart character everybody keeps talking about?" I asked.

After a stunned silence the girl yelped delightedly. 

Namtor spoke first. "Welcome back to the living, man," he congratulated me. "How you feeling, Thwart?"

"Walker is my name," I stated; again, not as emphatically as intended.

"Walker?" Namtor inquired. "You've called yourself Thwart since I met you two or three seasons ago in the Silver Cities."

With a cry catching in her throat Jadda knelt over me. I felt her hair and her kisses on my face, also metal links of chain. Murmuring endearments in my ear Jadda crushed her body to mine. She was firm, but soft and smelled wonderful. 

I could hear Namtor say, "Perhaps what you do is unwise, Jadda; if the Sheikh sees this, he'll punish you. You well know he doesn't allow slaves associating with the men unless he commands it."

"I will have words with this Sheikh," I rumbled, that time with emphasis.

Namtor and Jadda laughed in surprise.

Finally Namtor said, "You never were one to disparage your benefactor, Thwart."

"What benefactor?" I demanded. "And why do you persist in calling me Thwart?"

"Because you are!" Jadda insisted. 

Namtor explained, "The Sheikh took you out of the arena in the Silver Cities. You've sworn your fealty and your sword to him. Remember?"

Jadda: "You don't remember you're in the Sheikh's employ?" 

"Who is this Sheikh everyone's talking about? Don't remember him."

"Do you remember me?" she asked.

When I said no Jadda choked back a sob.

Namtor whispered to her, but I overheard: "Thwart's lost his memory."

"I've lost my bloody mind is what I've lost!"

Jadda ignored me and said to Namtor, "He has suffered a bad fall."

He said to her, "He's not himself."

"Thwart was always so strong," Jadda sniffed.

"Quit talking about me like I'm not here!" I said. "I am not Thwart! I am Colonel Daniel Walker of the Royal Air Force," but added unsurely, "or at least I was this morning."

"He's incoherent," Namtor shook his head sadly.

"But he's alive," said Jadda, "I will make him remember me." She gazed into my eyes and ran her fingers through my hair. 

A flood of confusion whirled through my mind. These people knew me, but I did not know them. I knew a tangible desire for Jadda, felt like Namtor was an old friend. I had undergone the strangest of transformations in death, but was not dead. The thought occurred to me that Colonel Walker might be my imagination and Thwart the reality. He certainly had a developed sense of hearing. The sound of steps in the underbrush chased all speculation from my mind. 

Jadda got to her feet and backed away from me. A man I understood to be the Sheikh appeared, the man I'd seen earlier in the dirty burnoose. A billowing ghutra secured with an agal flowed around his shoulders. I don't know how I knew the names of this exotic desert headgear yet I did, knew the black agal to be woven from goat hair. After I died I somehow amassed a certain knowledge. Most of it dates to the modern computer information age. Maybe not so much knowledge as memories of those who had lived in future times. In other words, I have memories other than Walker's crystal clear ones and Thwart's blurry ones. The knowledge contained in them is often disturbing, not knowing its origin. But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

I saw sandals on the Sheikh's feet. A scimitar and a bullwhip hung from the sash around his middle. He carried a short leather switch in one hand, the kind used to lash a horse. Or a slave.

The Sheikh eyed me for a moment. "It gladdens my heart to see you with your eyes open, Thwart." He asked Namtor, "Has he recovered?"

"He's not himself."

"He looks like himself to me." 

Jadda interjected, "He's lost his memory." 

She cowered when the Sheikh raised his switch.

"I'm talking to Namtor, not you." He lashed her across her bare buttocks. Stung, Jadda leapt back with a cry of pain. The switch moved to strike her again.

I sprang to my feet, the point of my sword under the hooked nose of the Sheikh before I knew where the sword came from or how it got into my fist.

The Sheikh regarded me incredulously, with contempt, without fear. He said nothing. 

Before I could utter a threat Namtor placed a hand on my arm. He asked, "You lost your mind?"

"I already told you I have," I yelled. 

"Thawart, stop this, now!" Namtor said sharply.

"Stop calling me that!"

The blade trembled from rage in my hand, but the point remained very close to the Sheikh's face. He lowered his pony whip, his eyes locked on mine. Without breaking eye contact he eased his empty hand up, the one without the switch. His palm touched the flat of my sword and gently eased it away. For the first time I became acquainted with the almost hypnotic power of the Sheikh. He exuded a powerful blend of strength and calm, his confidence almost messianic.

I offered no resistance as he removed himself from danger by pushing my sword blade away from his face, down to a position by my side. Finally the Sheikh's hand left my sword and returned to his side. With my point angled at the ground I seemed to come out of a trance. Suddenly the pleas of Namtor filled my ears, urging me to take it easy, and Jadda, begging me to set aside my sword. I knew from the weight of the concern in their voices that things were not what they seemed, not through my eyes at any rate. In my new incarnation as a tattooed swordsman I realized I had broken a code of conduct unknown to me, reacting like Walker instead of Thwart; a young man who, I reminded myself, dressed in a loincloth and wielded a sword as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

And I wondered what world I inhabited. 

I died on Earth in 1917, but I still lived. 

But where did I live? And in what day and age? 

Both men and the woman looked at me with disbelief. Events even more unbelievable than the erratic behavior of total strangers had happened to me in the last few hours. Apparently I cheated death not once, but twice. Had I not witnessed savages in war paint, men in the garb of desert tribesmen or from the Arabian Nights, met a naked slave girl in chains? I was in their territory, not mine. They obviously had relationships with the man known as Thwart long before I inherited his body. 

Things would go easier for me had I inherited his mind too. As far as I was concerned my mind and soul controlled the instincts of Thwart's body. I began to think of his body as mine. Although I retained part of his memory and possessed his youthful reflexes, his physical body now belonged to me. 

How did the spirit of Colonel Walker come to inhabit Thwart? And not only how, but why? 

Had I been reincarnated? 

Was I in heaven or hell? 

Such questions overwhelmed me despite how much modern knowledge I possessed. Not solely because of the magnitude of them, but because I had no answers and saw no one around me who did.

And I had other things to concern myself with just then. 

The Sheikh regarded me, appraising me from head to toe. Finally he asked, "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Time to play the part. If I babbled on about Walker, these superstitious and primitive people might think me possessed by demons, or worse. That could get me boiled in oil or burned at a stake. I saw no sense in lying, but had to buy some time too. "I have suffered a bad fall, Sheikh. Forgive me, I am not myself."

He waited before answering as if he was staring into my soul. "I'm glad you're still alive, Thwart. You're a valuable man," he touched a hand to my shoulder, "and a friend." 

At the time I didn't know whether he told the truth or not. "You have my thanks. I remember very little."

"Concentrate on healing. I need you healthy, Thwart."

I nodded.

The Sheikh said, "Jadda, I want you to bathe and minister to Thwart. Ha, I thought you might enjoy that! Revive him, all right? But afterwards you will appear in my tent, also bathed."

Jadda bowed on her knees in front of him, her back to me. Her posture caused the naked halves of her buttocks to part. Between them I was able to see all of her secrets. An upraised welt from the switch glowed on both olive-skinned cheeks. My desire for her increased and I shifted from one leg to another, thinking no one would notice. She looked very lovely bowing in subservience.