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Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 01

By: Londonchap



I

"Drink it"

Those more innocent times seem impossibly remote now that they have gone for ever. It astonishes me to reflect that it was actually less than a year ago that a sudden loud knocking heralded the unexpected late-night appearance of a policeman on my doorstep. This is an event that would terrify me if it happened today, but in those days I was still the epitome (errors and omissions excepted) of middle-aged, middle-class, middle-England respectability. My conscience was entirely clear, at least as regards the law, and my reaction was one not of fear but rather of puzzlement and curiosity, overlaid by a strong sense of relief that at last something had intervened to ease the unbearable strain that had been building up all evening. 

It was not that my wife and I had been arguing. A blazing row would have been far preferable to the unrelenting silent glare that expressed her anger and disappointment more eloquently than words ever could. She was standing behind me as I opened the front door, but I could still sense her hostile gaze boring into the back of my skull as I asked the policeman what the trouble was. 

"Mr James Walker?" he inquired. "Are you the nephew of Dr Albert Walker, of, er --" He consulted his notebook and read out my uncle's home address.

I confirmed my identity and asked again how I could help. To tell the truth, I rather expected to be told that some unfortunate young woman had found my uncle's unwanted attentions so oppressive that she had succeeded in having him arrested.

"Well, sir," said the policeman gravely, "I'm afraid I have some bad news. Your uncle is in hospital after a road accident. He's in a very bad way. He's asking for you, sir," he concluded, gesturing to the waiting police car.

I hurriedly collected my coat and other essentials and asked my wife whether she wanted to accompany me.

"I'd really rather not," she replied frostily. "Your Uncle Albert always gives me the creeps. I'm sorry he's been hurt, but he's always been a terrible old lech."

This was a common and understandable female reaction to Uncle Albert. Though now approaching seventy, he had always had an eye -- a bloodshot, leering eye -- for what he called "young ladies", by which he usually meant pneumatic women between, say, eighteen and twenty-four. His contempt for the social graces meant that any woman with the ill luck to attract his attention could hardly fail to be aware of the lascivious stare that followed her around; while his age, shabby attire, straggly white hair, bad teeth, and indifferent personal hygiene, to say nothing of his foul temper and complete lack of decorum, guaranteed that his interest would not be reciprocated. 

"Well, I know what you mean," I agreed. "All right, I'll ring you from the hospital."

The policeman, probably unsure whether my lack of reaction indicated indifference or profound grief, kept silent as we drove through the dark north London streets. I was glad, for the silence allowed me to reflect on this news. How did I feel? 

Uncle Albert had been part of my life for as far back as I could remember. It was not that my memories of him were exactly fond ones, since the role of benevolent and kindly uncle was alien to him, and even when I was a small child he had been short-tempered and dismissive at our infrequent meetings. Although I was now rapidly approaching fifty, nothing much had changed over the intervening decades. He regarded me (along with most of the rest of the human race) with an indifferent disdain he could not be bothered to conceal, while his furious energy and restless intelligence, undimmed by advancing years, caused me to think of him as more like some untamable force of nature than a blood relative.

As the years went by he had become increasingly isolated and bitter. Despite his age, he still worked all the hours God sent in the research laboratory of a famous biotechnology company. He had told me, a few years before, about the company's half-hearted efforts to get him to retire. His bosses had soon backed down in the face of his hints about possible great discoveries on the horizon, interspersed with veiled threats to spill their secrets to the competition. I suspect they were not all that sorry to see him stay on, since for all his secretiveness, irascibility, and eccentricity he was undeniably one of the world's leading geneticists and biochemists and the company raked in millions from many products he had developed. 

And another thing: he never went after them for a share of the proceeds. Being his only close relative, I deplored this self-denial as much as the company must have appreciated it. But on the one and only occasion I had ventured to suggest that he ought to hold out for more of the action, my reward had been a furious tirade in which he accused me of sordid personal financial motives (of course he was quite right) and gave me very firmly to understand that all he wanted, from the company and everyone else, was to be left alone to do his own work in his own way.

My reverie was interrupted by our arrival at the hospital. The policeman hurried me through to intensive care, where a white-coated doctor greeted me. 

The doctor did not beat about the bush. "Mr Walker," he told me solemnly, "your uncle is very badly hurt. To be honest, I'm surprised he's lasted this long. He's refused to be sedated and he's been demanding to see you. Please go in, but prepare yourself for a shock."

It was indeed a shock. However little there was in the way of family affection between my uncle and me, I was deeply moved to see a man of such brilliance and energy laid low like this. His head was heavily bandaged and he was covered in sensors and drips and surrounded by all the flashing, bleeping paraphernalia of modern medicine. He was so still that I thought at first he was unconscious or even dead but an eye opened as he heard the door and he fixed me with a stare in which all his seething energy was somehow focused.

"Where have you been?" he gasped. "I must talk to you."

"Uncle, I came as soon as I heard. Don't try to talk; you must let them treat you."

"Rubbish! These quacks can't do anything for me. I'll be dead by morning; I know it. And all my life's work will be for nothing, unless you do as I tell you, you lucky little bastard. Will you do it?"

I had been accustomed since childhood to name-calling from Uncle Albert, but I did not see what "lucky" had to do with it. And I was loth to make such an open-ended promise even to a dying uncle. "Uh ... I ...."

"Swear! You must swear to me, you bastard!" 

To the obvious alarm of the medical staff, his body convulsed in pain as he wheezed out these words; and then, as I still hesitated, came a word I had never heard from him before. "Swear to me .... please ...!"

Everyone in the room -- the doctors and nurses, and most of all Uncle Albert himself -- was looking at me. Long moments passed. I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall; it seemed unnaturally loud and slow.

"Please ...." he gasped again. 

A dying man was begging me. What else could I say? "Uncle, I swear. I'll do what you want."

He seemed to relax. After a long pause, with his only free hand he feebly gestured for me to come closer. I leant over him. He drew a painful breath.

"Free Universal Carnal Knowledge", he whispered.

"What? I don't understand."

He made another weak gesture at the medical staff. "Get rid of these charlatans."

I motioned them to leave. Hesitantly, they complied.

When we were alone, he gasped out again, "Free Universal Carnal Knowledge".

I sensed the urgency in his voice. There was something he was desperate to tell me, and he knew he had very little time to say it. I still had no idea what the old man meant, but the significance of the initials had not escaped me; a very Uncle Albert-like joke. "Yes, Uncle, but what does it mean?"

And in a low faint voice, gasping for air, but marshalling his thoughts in a way that showed that within his shattered body his mind was still intact, he told me. 

He explained that he had been working secretly for nearly forty years on a new product for which he had devised the working title F.U.C.K.. No one else knew anything about it, not even the name. The company had a nebulous idea that he was trying to come up with something to enhance sexual potency, a kind of super-Viagra, but they had no real expectation that anything would come of it. Uncle Albert had been doing the most crucial work secretly at home, working every weekend and far into the night using rare and expensive chemicals and natural and synthetic hormones that he had ordered at work and smuggled out. He had drawn on all his knowledge of genetics, neurology, and biochemistry and now his work was finished. 

After working all last night he had finally been able to distil a dose of his serum and he had left it to gently heat for the necessary sixteen hours while he went to work as usual. And then, with an anti-climax that would have been absurd were it not so tragic, on his way home he fell victim to a combination of pent-up excitement, lack of sleep, and the fact that the local council had recently reorganised the one-way traffic system near his house. Crossing the street, he looked the wrong way and walked straight in front of a double-decker bus. 

"You must go there, now," he gasped. "Don't let the serum cook too long. And you must never tell anyone about this. I meant it for me, not for the company. But now, you must have it."

"But Uncle, what do you want me to do with it?"

"Why, DRINK IT, you idiot!"

His attempt to shout at me racked his body with pain. He lay back gasping. "You swore," he managed to say.

"Yes, but Uncle, how can I drink some chemical potion that's never been tested? I don't know what it will do to me. In fact," I added, "I don't even know what it's supposed to do to me."

Despite his pain he let out a low, lecherous chuckle. "You know all those young ladies I've lusted after all these years. They've despised me, laughed at me. Well, FUCK was going to give me the last laugh. Listen ..."

His voice was fainter than ever now. I leant nearer to catch his words. But suddenly, he moaned and lay back quite still. Some piece of medical equipment sounded an alarm and doctors and nurses rushed in. They struggled to revive him but I knew it was futile. I left them to it and waited outside for the bad news.

By the time they emerged and delivered it, I had decided what to do. I asked for Uncle Albert's belongings and, going through the pockets of his bloodstained coat, I found his house keys. I then went outside and called a cab.

All I had in mind at this stage was to go to Uncle Albert's house and turn off the heating device he had mentioned and generally make sure that all was in order and that he had not left any other experiments running. Despite my promise, I had no intention of taking any potion.

The house was a terrible mess, with old newspapers everywhere, and scientific periodicals, and the remains of TV dinners and takeaways. But the most striking feature was pile upon pile of porn magazines, all featuring the kind of women Uncle Albert had liked: young and fulsome, especially in the chest and the backside area. Many of the magazines had had pictures neatly cut out, obviously of specimens that found particular favour; and many, too, showed clear signs of Uncle's having relieved his sexual frustrations. This, apart from being disgusting in itself, was a matter of regret because otherwise I should not have minded thumbing through them, given that my own taste in women is not dissimilar. (It was my habit of buying this sort of publication, or rather her discovery at the weekend of my secret stash of them, that had caused the recent unpleasantness with Wendy my wife.) 

Uncle Albert's home laboratory, a converted spare bedroom, by contrast with the rest of the house was spotlessly clean. On a hotplate on the workbench there was a flask of clear liquid with a slight bluish tinge. It was not boiling. I cautiously put my finger near the surface of the hotplate, then on it. It was very warm to the touch, but not so hot that I had to remove my finger; I should describe it as shaving-water temperature. I turned off the hotplate and examined the liquid. A cautious sniff revealed it to be both pungent and wholly unappetising: imagine if you will a mix of methylated spirit and some very musky perfume. "Sorry, Uncle," I said, "but no way." But all the same, I felt sad about it. After all, I was looking at a man's life work, and I had promised him on his deathbed that I would use it as he intended.

Drinking the liquid was out of the question, but I could not think what else to do with it. Uncle Albert had been very clear he did not want his employer to have it, and the obvious alternative of simply tipping it away seemed wrong and disrespectful. As I stood there debating what to do, I gradually became more aware of my surroundings.

Although the laboratory was immaculate, the walls were covered with photographs of naked young women, obviously culled from the magazines. At first I assumed that Uncle Albert had merely wanted some female company while he worked, but then I noticed that the photographs were marked with delicate lines drawn as if to define precisely the women's body shapes, with tiny numbers labelling them like contour lines on a map. I was leaning forward to examine these markings, fascinated, when my cellphone suddenly rang and I stood up with such a start that I nearly lost my balance. As I put out my hand to steady myself, I knocked the flask and instinctively caught it by the neck to stop it from falling. Meanwhile with my other hand I found the phone and accepted the call.

It was Wendy, of course, demanding to know why I had not called her: what was going on, and did I know what time it was? I was surprised to see it was one in the morning. I explained that Uncle Albert had died, that I had lost track of time, that I had had to go to his house, and that I should be home soon.

"Well," she said, "I can't say I liked Albert but I'm sorry he's died. But," she went on ominously, "while you've been gone I've been thinking about Albert and how similar you are, with your dirty books and the way you leer at girls."

This was most unfair. I do not leer at girls. I have a keen appreciation for female beauty, I admit it, but I do not see why I should be blamed for what is surely a natural and healthy instinct in an adult male; and I am certainly never guilty of anything resembling the blatant ogling that Albert would inflict on any attractive woman that crossed his line of sight.

I had just opened my mouth to defend myself in these terms when Wendy, determined to deliver a speech she had clearly been rehearsing, completely floored me. "I'm sorry if this is a bad time to say it," she continued bitterly, "but I don't see why I should put up with it any more. We're finished. I've made up the spare bed for you. Please try not to disturb me when you come in, and we'll talk about the practicalities tomorrow." And the line went dead before I could reply.

I am not sure how long I stood there, rooted to the spot. I felt utterly dejected. From deep within me there welled up a terrible choking feeling of loneliness and loss. I had long known that I was not everything Wendy wanted in a husband and she had occasionally talked about divorce, but I never thought she would go through with it. And, despite all our problems, I also knew that I loved her dearly. True, I sometimes lusted after other women, but that was a purely carnal instinct and it had never gone beyond the lusting stage. Wendy was my wife, and I had built my life around my relationship with her. And now, abruptly, everything I had depended upon seemed to have been snatched away and in its place there was only a black pit of hopelessness ready to swallow me up.

Eventually I pulled myself together sufficiently to put the phone away, and realised to my surprise that the flask was still in my left hand. 

I looked at it. I felt at absolutely rock bottom. I had nothing to live for. I did not care.

I drank.

Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 02



II

Cooling off

I quaffed the whole flask off in one go and regretted it instantly. The taste, which was as foul as the smell should have led me to expect, shocked me into the realisation that in a moment's frustration and despair I had swallowed some rank concoction of unknown composition and potency. I half expected to collapse to the ground in agony like someone in a hackneyed Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation scene but, to my relief, I could sense no immediate ill effects beyond the memorably vile taste. With a slight sense of anti-climax, I drank several glasses of water, did a quick tour of the house to ensure it was secure and everything was turned off, and rang for a cab.

It was only when I sat down to wait that I became aware of a mild discomfort, like a slight stomach cramp. But by the time the cab arrived, mere minutes later, I was almost doubled up with abdominal pain, had a steadily worsening headache, and was beginning to sweat profusely. I really wanted to go to hospital but I felt embarrassed to admit what had happened and I was too proud to let Wendy think that she had driven me to attempt suicide (if she had; I do not think my motives were that clear). So I told the cabbie to take me home, assuring him that, despite appearances, I was perfectly all right. ("You OK, guv?" "Yes, I'm fine. Too much to drink, that's all." -- almost the truth, really.)

At home I let myself in as quietly as possible and collapsed into the spare room bed. I was still in great discomfort and hardly expected to sleep, but in fact I dozed off at once. My night was marked, however, by a series of dreams of an extraordinarily intense eroticism. One after another, in fact often several at a time, buxom young women ripped off what little they were wearing and threw themselves upon me. One or two them I knew, notably little Connie from work who appeared more than once, and a few of them were from Uncle Albert's laboratory wall, but most of them were conjured up from my own imagination.

The next thing I remember, a hand was gently rocking me awake, sunlight was filtering through the curtain and Wendy, dressed for work, was sitting on the bed looking at me with a curious mixture of animosity and solicitude, the former predominating. 

"I thought I'd better wake you up before I left," she said. "I don't know what's wrong with you. You haven't got a temperature but you're terribly flushed and you're in a cold sweat. I've rung your office and told them you won't be in because of a bereavement. Do you want me to call Dr Wyatt?"

I managed to mumble something to the effect that it must be some reaction to the trauma of the night before.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose so. I'm sorry for the bad timing, but I meant what I said. We'll talk tonight if you're feeling better. I must go now, I'm late. Goodbye."

With that she went, leaving me feeling desolate. The "Goodbye" had sounded so final. 

I wanted to stay in the bed but the sheets were too damp after a night's cold sweat. When I threw them off me, I saw they were riddled with the unmistakable stain of semen -- a good job Wendy had not seen that, I thought -- and only then did I remember the dreams. As I recalled them, especially the ones involving Connie, I felt myself getting aroused. I was surprised, judging by the state of the sheets, that I had any more spunk to offer, but after only a few moments' pounding the bed was even messier.

After a shower and some breakfast I felt much better -- remarkably fit, in fact -- and spent the rest of the day washing the sheets, making arrangements about poor Uncle Albert, and generally getting on with things. It was strange to be at home on a working day. I heard the commotion next door as our neighbour got her kids off to school, then her door slammed again as she left for work herself. 

It may be snobbish but I had always found these neighbours rather common. Betty Rico had three kids; I gathered that she got financial support from some man but he never appeared so I presume he was married (tut tut). It is not that they were bad people as such, but they were loud and vulgar. Currently, they all sported glorious tans having just returned from a fortnight in Grancanaria (during term time -- tut tut again). The two boys were notorious tearaways and their elder sister, Kylie, eighteen last month, was just blooming into womanhood. And "blooming", believe me, was the operative word. The boys and the mother had the generous build conferred by the family's love of fast food, but over the last year or two Kylie had outdone them all. She had simply exploded in every possible direction. I know I like a few curves but Kylie's curves had curves; she was barely five feet tall but must have weighed at least twelve stone and every time I saw her she had somehow found space for a few extra pounds. However, this did not stop her from being bright, brash and confident; nor did it prevent her from wearing the skimpiest outfits she possibly could (tut tut again). I mention Kylie because about ten minutes after Betty had left for work I heard next door's gate and saw Kylie, looking round cautiously, sneak back up her front path and let herself in. A few minutes later I could hear her favourite music through the party wall. Tut tut yet again.

But I had no time to waste disapproving of the neighbours. There was a lot I had to do and I was surprised how well all this activity distracted me from moping about the break-up of my marriage. Another thing that surprised me was the frequency with which improper thoughts entered my head; for instance when I was at the undertaker's discussing Uncle Albert's funeral I found myself distracted by another type of stiff. Twice during the day I had to find relief. I also looked in at Uncle Albert's to check all was in order. I had hoped to start tidying it up, look for his will and other important documents, and maybe even find some notes about FUCK, but I was running out of time so I went home to face the music when Wendy got back from work.

I hated the idea of divorce. Wendy and I had had twenty years together. She had had great ambitions for me when we first got together, and I knew she was disappointed that I had ended up in a middle-ranking job in insurance ("You could have done so much better," she always said). We had had our good times, and, particularly in recent years, we had had our rows. Always immaculately turned out, her dark hair cut short these days, she remained a handsome woman -- a little above average height, at forty-six still as slim as she had been at twenty-five -- but I have to admit that as the years went by I more and more found myself noticing younger women, especially if they boasted the right curves. But however much I looked and lusted, I never strayed; and I always knew that I loved my wife.

As soon as she arrived home I could see she was in a friendlier mood. She was still relatively curt and distant, but she asked after my health (to which I could honestly reply that I had never felt better) and let me make her a cup of tea. After we had had something to eat (the usual slam-in-the-microwave pre-packed meal), we sat down in the front room to talk. Feeling I still needed more mental rehearsal time for my begging "don't leave me" speech, I let her go first.

"Look," she said after a long, awkward silence, "I've been thinking. I was wrong to say what I did last night when -- you know…" She trailed off. I made an encouraging gesture.

"I was wrong," she said again. "It wasn't fair to say it when I did. You'd just lost your uncle. I apologise. And …" she paused; "I'm still upset but we shouldn't make such important decisions at a time like this, so can we have a cooling-off period until after the funeral, then we'll take stock, OK?"

Hugely relieved, I tore up the begging speech and told her that I agreed; we both had a lot to think about and it made sense to give ourselves a few days to reflect. And then, pushing my luck, I added casually, "And, er, am I in the spare bedroom again tonight?"

"Oh." She had not thought of this. "Er, no, I suppose not. But …" She held up a prohibitory hand. I made a gesture of meek acceptance and she smiled; only for a moment, before she remembered how angry she was supposed to be, but I saw it. After that, we had a drink, watched a film on television, had a number of conversational exchanges in a relatively cordial manner, and went to bed. In my case the last of these processes was complicated by the urgency, given all the circumstances, of concealing the raging hard-on that had been developing all evening. I kissed her goodnight (a respectful peck on the cheek) and turned over ready to go to sleep (my back to her, to be safe).

But I could not doze off. Thoughts of sex crowded unbidden into my mind. Moreover, I could tell from the way she was breathing that Wendy too was still awake and alert. 

And then this hand appeared. First she simply put it round me, but then she snuggled up closer and the hand began to explore; first up to stroke the hairs on my chest, then down. When she felt my hugely stiff cock she gave an audible gasp. It was mainly surprise, but there was another component, and it was not the disgust I might have expected. She began to rub her fingers gently up and down the shaft and make little appreciative noises with her mouth.

By now I was randy as hell. I slowly turned over in bed and began cautiously to bring my own hand into play. When it touched her midriff she slapped it playfully, then placed it firmly on her breast.

I swear that never, not even in those halcyon days of courtship, did we make love as we did that night. I could not hold out for long, of course. Wendy, who normally needed lengthy stimulation before she could climax, on this occasion came like a train as I simply exploded inside her. As I proceeded to do what any true gentleman would after late-night coitus (namely fall almost immediately into a profound sleep), I was faintly aware of her sighing contentedly to herself.

She was sound asleep when I awoke at three in the morning from more sexy dreams to find myself yet again with a rampant erection demanding relief. I wanked there and then, fortunately without waking her. The sheets, I thought, were already well besemened with leakage and spillage from our earlier effort, so the evidence would not be detectable in the morning.

Next time I opened my eyes it was to find Wendy pressing a cup of tea on me and telling me with almost girlish excitement that she had woken me up half-an-hour earlier than usual so we should have time for a repeat of last night, "if you can manage it, darling."

I reached down for a quick check. Apparently I could. And I did.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 03



III

"Sorry to hear"

On the tube to work as I mulled confusedly over what was happening to me, I found myself thinking more respectfully of Uncle Albert. It seemed the old goat had known what he was doing after all. Apart from anything else, he had apparently saved my marriage. 

Clearly in FUCK he had devised some kind of sexual super-drug. I compared it with what I had heard and read about drugs such as Viagra; they had had remarkable results in many cases, but surely nothing to compare with what Albert's invention had done for me. But I remained uneasy about what its effects might be, how long they would take to wear off, and whether I could handle them in the meantime. For instance, was I being successful in concealing from my fellow passengers in the crowded commuter train the rapidly firming stiffy that, in spite of all my exertions last night and this morning, was developing in my trousers? In particular, did the occasional glance I spotted from the very pretty girl sitting next to me mean that she had noticed something?

I had seen her before; several times, in fact, over the previous few months. She was already on the train when I boarded, so evidently she lived in some remoter suburb. She looked about eighteen, fresh out of school or college I speculated, obviously on her first real job in the City. She was on the short side, blonde, with a very pale complexion, beautiful blue eyes, an irresistible button nose, and, best of all, a very impressive pair of tits indeed. I always looked out for her in the mornings, and maybe once a week my vigilance might be rewarded. Until today, the highlight of this admittedly rather one-sided relationship had been the time I managed to sit directly opposite her and spent the entire journey stealing surreptitious glances over the top of my newspaper at her globes delightfully jiggling up and down from the motion of the train. 

This morning, I had been pleased to see a vacant place next to her and had slid into it with alacrity. I soon regretted my choice of seat, however, as the journey progressed and my trouser bulge expanded. I was in an exquisite quandary. If I hid behind my newspaper, my incriminating lap was exposed; if I concealed the swelling by resting the newspaper on it, as I eventually felt obliged to do, I had no defence against the looks she kept shooting in my direction. 

I thought my agony would end when she got off as usual at the stop before mine, but she chose today to stay on the train. I deduced she must have changed job. This seemed confirmed when we got to my station; as I got up to go, she appeared to realise at the last moment that this was her stop too and as I alighted I saw her very hurriedly gathering her belongings (an activity that involved bending forward so that her tits hung beneath her, a sight I was unfortunately in no frame of mind to appreciate). As I left the platform I noticed that she exited the train, looking rather flustered, only just as the doors slid shut. I did not see her after that; I was too busy trying to walk normally with the biggest erection of my life. So I did not notice as, keeping her distance, she followed me from the station to my office. She did not attempt to follow me inside; instead, she carefully noted the building and the name of the firm occupying it and set off to walk the half-mile back to her own workplace.

As soon as I entered the building I headed straight to the gents for a desperately needed wank. The spunk just kept coming, but eventually I ran dry. Only then, rather red in the face and feeling a little shaky, could I make my way to my desk. 

Everyone was very understanding about my bereavement. Brian, my boss, readily agreed to my taking a few days off until after the funeral, so I spent the day delegating tasks to colleagues, rearranging meetings and generally ensuring that everything would be under control during this unforeseen absence from work. 

"Sorry to hear about your uncle." It was the dozenth time I had heard these words, but this was different, for the speaker was little Connie. 

Here a word of explanation is needed. When I call her "little" Connie, I refer to the fact that she is, maybe, five foot one in her socks. Ghanaian, twenty-two years old, with a pretty, round, ever-smiling face, she admittedly does not have the generous chest that normally so endears a young woman to me (she would be a fairly standard C cup I imagine). But anything lacking above the waist is more than made up for by an African ass of truly heroic proportions, amply supported by massive thighs. It was incredible to me that so small a woman could carry so much backside. She had been with us for three months and I had lusted after that ass from the second I set eyes on it.

Much as I cherished the ass, I had sadly to admit to myself that its days with us were surely numbered because its owner made no effort to conceal her lack of interest and commitment when it came to her work. Lazy and disorganised, she arrived late and left early. She was good company, and would chatter away cheerfully to anyone that would listen about clothes, clubbing, reality TV shows, her gorgeous sexy boyfriend, her family in Ghana, and all the rest of it. Work, however, did not appear to feature anywhere in her list of priorities.

Connie's normal manner with me, as with all men unless actively discouraged, was one of good-humoured flirtatiousness. I had, naturally, given her no discouragement at all so she generally looked on me as a friendly face; the rebukes I had occasionally felt obliged to administer following some more than usually flagrant neglect of duty were like water off a duck's back to Connie. 

My bereavement brought out her nurturing instincts and she made me a mid-morning cup of tea and asked whether there was anything she could do in my absence. She was far too unreliable to be given any real responsibility but there were some minor but necessary tasks I asked her to perform -- ringing clients to rearrange meetings, that sort of thing. She stood next to me and took notes as I sat at my desk and explained what I wanted her to do. It took longer than I expected -- I had not realised how much information I kept in my head -- and quite suddenly, tired of standing and ignoring a chair that was readily to hand, she sat on the desk in a way that displayed her ass to particular advantage. Its sheer bulk was such that as she sat it pulled the waistband of her jeans away from her back, leaving a clear gap in which I could dimly perceive vast curves of chocolate flesh of an astonishing muscularity and firmness. In almost no time I could feel yet another massive erection swelling my trousers. To conceal it under the desk I had to pull my chair right up, which of course brought me even nearer the ass. Only by a preterhuman effort did I manage to stay focused on what I had to tell her, and when I had finished I thanked her for her help, and the tea, and off she went to resume her normal function of distracting other employees from their work.

Meanwhile, I needed someone to help me complete a major board report so I went looking for Fran Stewart. Fran was our graduate trainee, at twenty-two the same age as Connie but otherwise different in almost every respect. Fresh out of St Andrews University, Fran was exceptionally bright and capable and obviously had a great future ahead of her. She hailed from a tiny fishing village on the west coast of Scotland and had the cutest accent to prove it. She stood about five foot seven with a nice figure and had a pretty, slightly freckly face topped by the most glorious long red hair. (Why is it that red hair looks so terrible on men but wonderful on women?) I liked her a lot. 

And I am choosing my words here; "liked her a lot" does not mean "fancied her rotten". I suppose I felt quite paternal towards her. She had, strangely, never been out of Scotland before she came to work for us and from conversation over the months I had gathered that her upbringing was not only relatively sheltered but also, in many ways, remarkably deprived. 

Falling catches and increasingly strict European quotas had put the local fishing industry into terminal decline, and for boat owners like Fran's father the times were desperately hard, but these troubles scarcely registered with the young Fran as she grew up in her elder sister's much-patched hand-me-downs. She knew that anything costing money was out of the question; but who needs fancy clothes and consumer durables? She had her library books, the ruggedly beautiful countryside, and long solitary walks when she wanted to think. These were the things she valued most, and they were free; as was something even more precious, the love and support of a tight-knit family. Her parents, recognising that their precociously intelligent little girl had the potential to go far in life, rebuffed her dutiful offers to help with household chores as her big sister was required to do. Instead they told her to study. Her abilities were a gift from God, they told her, and it was her responsibility to make the most of them. The young Fran asked for nothing better, and thus encouraged she cultivated a deep love of learning, together with an instinctive aversion to anything remotely domestic.

In short Fran, so far as she was concerned, had an idyllic childhood. Not until she arrived at university -- incidentally the first person from her village ever to do so -- and saw the possessions that her fellow students took for granted did it dawn on her that she had been raised in dire poverty. It was a sharp blow to her self-esteem, but not half so bad as when, after four years of diligent study with every prospect of an excellent degree at the end of it, she applied for jobs and found herself well and truly patronised by an incredulous interviewer from a major Scottish bank when she innocently remarked that she had never been to England. Worse yet, not content with humiliating her, the man added injury to insult by failing to offer her a job on which she had set her heart. 

Characteristically defiant in adversity, Fran determined that she would show them. She would get a job in London and live and work there until she could return to Scotland with credentials that no employer would dare reject. Hence her application to my company. It was not her first choice -- she wanted banking, not insurance -- but it was in the financial sector and in the heart of the City and frankly she was running out of time and options. 

So were we. The fairly meagre salary we offered for our graduate traineeship had attracted no one remotely employable, so when this plausible-looking Scottish girl responded to our readvertisement and gave a nervous but adequate account of herself at interview, she got the job. It was not until she had been with us for some months that she discovered she had been the only candidate. 

Nothing in Fran's background had prepared her for London. It utterly overwhelmed her. Her initial reaction to its frenetic pace and bewildering vastness was to go into a "little girl lost" mode that I found quite irresistible. So I took her under my wing. I advised her how to get around town, how to find a flatshare, and generally how to convert herself into a functioning Londoner. 

When it came to her work, however, Fran was thoroughly confident and competent from the start and she had already helped me on some important projects. She was just the person to complete the report I was working on. I was disappointed to find that she was out meeting clients; she would be coming back, but not until late in the day. I left her a message to see me as soon as she arrived and meanwhile I got on with the board report.

The rest of the morning and the early afternoon passed without much incident. Colleagues I hardly knew -- people that had joined only last week and could not possibly have known that I even had an uncle -- came and told me how sorry they were to hear of his death. At half-past eleven and again just before three I had to retreat to the gents to relieve gigantic erections in the only possible way, and Wendy rang no fewer than four times to enjoin me not to be late home, but between these interruptions I worked diligently on the report. 

As I lunched in the company's dining area, I was pleasantly surprised that Connie, instead of chatting with giggly secretaries as usual, came and sat with me, again expressing her sympathy and offering to help. 

But the real shocker came at the end of Connie's working day (known as "latish afternoon" to the rest of us). There was no indication when she stuck her head round my office door that anything unusual was going to happen. "Sorry to trouble you, Mr Walker," she said, "but can I check a couple of things before I go home?"

I replied that of course she could, whereupon she sat on my desk again and asked a couple of reasonably sensible questions about what I wanted her to do. Then she asked what to do if there was a problem; I hardly thought there would be but I gave her my home number just in case and she seemed much reassured by this. As our discussion continued, I noticed that her questions became more hesitant and inconsequential. There was also something that I could not quite pin down about the way she looked at me. Were her eyes wider than normal? Did they sparkle more? She certainly seemed to be smiling even more than usual, and was clearly in no hurry to leave, even though it was now well after four o'clock. In the end the questions petered out altogether and she was simply sitting smiling on my desk gazing at me.

"Er, Connie," I felt obliged to say eventually, "there's some stuff I need to be getting on with, if you're finished."

She snapped out of it. "Oh, sorry, I'd better be going then. I hope everything goes well about your uncle. Don't worry about these calls. I'll see you next week." 

She jumped off the desk and headed for the door. I watched her go; or, to be more specific, I watched the way her ass undulated in her tight jeans as she walked. And then it happened. As she opened my office door she stopped, quickly glanced around to check that I was still looking and that no one else could see, and then, eyes front again but with her ass pointing squarely in my direction, she powerfully clenched her right buttock. The jeans strained to contain this awesome movement of fat and muscle. She held it for a second or two, then relaxed the right buttock and simultaneously clenched the left. Then it was back to the right. Left -- right -- left -- right -- left, faster and faster; then firmly clench both, hold the pose for several seconds, and finally relax. Without looking round to see what I made of the show (she surely knew), she raised her right hand from the elbow, waggled her fingers in a playful farewell, and walked off leaving me staring at the door she had left open behind her with a strangely dry sensation in my hanging-open mouth.

I am not sure how long I sat there but I must still have been showing the effects of this display of precision buttock-clenching when Fran drifted into my line of sight because she looked concerned and asked whether I was all right. Pulling myself together, I said I was fine but still upset about my uncle. She offered her condolences and her assistance if required, and I gratefully accepted both. 

I explained about the report. Its broad outlines were clear and I had filled in some of the detail but I had not got on so well as I had hoped and it still needed a fair amount of work and a thorough check for accuracy. I gave Fran a chair (she was not the sit-on-desk type) and we sat side by side at my computer screen as I told her what still needed to be done. "Get someone from Research to dig out these figures ... I think this trend could be illustrated with a graph ... You'll have to expand this bit from my rough notes ..."; the instructions went on an on. As usual when I worked with her I was struck by her ready grasp even of relatively technical points: "Attagirl," I thought when she made some particularly intelligent suggestion; "that's my Fran." But as I drew near the end I got the impression that she was maintaining her concentration only with difficulty, and she seemed to be looking more at me than at the screen. 

"Well, that wraps it up," I concluded. "I'm afraid it's a lot of work for you. Do you think you'll be all right with it?"

"Oh ... er ... yes, I'll be fine," she assured me. "In fact, I'll make a start this evening." But her manner was strange; and as we moved our chairs back from the screen, she simply sat there looking at me. It was the same kind of wide-eyed gaze Connie had given me earlier.

I put it out of my mind. It was nearly six o'clock and I wanted to keep my promise to Wendy to be home on time. I gathered my stuff together, told Fran not to work too late, and headed for the tube station.

After all that has happened since, it is hard for me to recapture my frame of mind at this stage. I remember that I rejoiced at the sudden revival of my marriage; I even conceived the idea that I might ensure that this improvement was maintained by somehow working out a way to synthesise more of Albert's serum. This is a notion that, with hindsight, strikes me as truly absurd; it could occur only to someone lacking any understanding of what was really happening.

Notwithstanding my overwhelming relief at the apparent salvation of my marriage, I recall that I also found time to puzzle over the behaviour of Connie and Fran. It was almost, I thought, as if the serum I had taken had somehow affected them; but how could that possibly be?

I should have had even more to think about if I had known that two minutes after I had left the building, in fact only a moment after I disappeared round the corner on my way to the station, a cab drew up opposite and out of it got a very attractive button-nosed blonde girl with noticeably generous breasts. She looked out of temper and flustered; she was, in fact, furious with her bosses for holding her up with last-minute tasks when all she wanted was to take up watch on my company's office. She established herself in the coffee-shop opposite, never for a second taking her eyes off the entrance lobby, and watched as my colleagues emerged one by one. She was still there at eight o'clock when a pretty redhead was the last to leave. As the last light went out she sadly abandoned her fruitless vigil, drained her third and final coffee and made her disconsolate way to the tube. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 04



IV

"Don't worry about it"

Of course, I knew nothing of this at the time. As I travelled home, I had plenty on my mind as I reflected on the day's events. Connie's ass-gymnastics had been spectacular; Fran's reaction was lower-key (as indeed Fran was a far less demonstrative person than Connie) but the rapt, doe-eyed, goofy gaze had been so utterly uncharacteristic of her, and so similar to the look that Connie had given me, that they must have had a common cause. And now I came to think of it, I had noticed Wendy giving me the same sort of look at home that morning but had assumed it was merely the afterglow of her spectacular orgasms.

Some men, I suppose, get this kind of attention from women all the time, but I was not one of them. Even as a younger man, when I carried far less weight and boasted a full head of hair, I had never been what you might call a babe magnet. There were points in my favour -- I am well built, standing over six foot (height seems to count for a lot with women), and I benefit from a decent education, a functioning brain, and a certain wit that plays well in some quarters -- so a few girlfriends duly came and went before the arrival in my life of Wendy. And it must be said that she fell like a ton of bricks the first time she met me -- and she certainly had other admirers available if required, so I must have had something. But at no time in my life have I been able to get the hang of that maddeningly elusive quality known as charm (although Wendy has it to spare, when she can be bothered to deploy it), and over the years male-pattern baldness and too much indulgence in Wendy's cooking have combined to extinguish whatever sex appeal I may once have possessed.

It was in this context that the reaction of three very different women stood out so strikingly. Until the last day or two, no woman had looked at me that way since Wendy stopped doing it about ten or twelve years ago. The sudden rekindling of her wifely affection might conceivably be explained away, but the response of Fran and Connie had to be something to do with FUCK. 

But what exactly was it doing? Its effects on my libido and my capacity for sex were obvious enough -- the newspaper on my lap concealed from my fellow passengers yet another growing stiffy -- but I struggled to understand the effect it had on other people. 

"Proximity," I thought. "It's got to be something to do with close physical proximity for a reasonable length of time." But there had to be more to it than that. I had also spent some time closeted with Brian (my boss: nothing much in the way of intelligence or drive, but a consummate office politician, hence his rapid rise) and Linda (the Personnel Officer: with the company since the dawn of time and due to retire shortly; tall, skinny, and efficient), but they had not behaved in any unusual way. Moreover, I was wedged on the train between a scruffy teenage boy and a hatchet-faced middle-aged woman, neither of whom gave any sign of finding me irresistibly attractive, or even of noticing me at all. There had to be more to it than simple proximity.

I was still pondering the matter as I walked up my front path. I was about to rummage for my keys when the door opened and Wendy, who must have been watching for me, hauled me inside, slammed the door and jammed me against the wall as she started pulling at my clothes and seeing how far she could get her tongue down my throat. In a reciprocal spirit I fumbled to try to remove her clothing only for my fingers to find nothing but bare skin.

I know I should have been taken aback by this but to tell the truth I had half expected something of the kind, especially since I had spent far more post-FUCK time close to Wendy than anyone else. Our joint efforts rapidly relieved me of my clothes, with a cry of lustful delight from Wendy when my engorged cock sprang free, and we fucked on the hall floor like animals.

After we had lain there for some time, our urges sated (for the time being), normal sensation began to return to me and I realised how uncomfortable the floor was. Also, I was feeling hungry, so I struggled to my feet.

Wendy followed my efforts with her eyes but was so blissed-out that it took her a moment to find the words to ask where I was going.

"To the kitchen. I need a cheese roll or something."

She looked alarmed. "No, no," she said, and tried hard to stand but was unable to achieve the necessary muscular co-ordination. I helped her up. "I'm planning something," she said. "Please try to wait. I'll be as quick as I can." She motioned me towards the front room, then stumbled off kitchenwards, apparently unconcerned by the great globs of white spunk trickling down her legs.

I slumped on a chair and idly watched the television news (we were in for a heatwave, apparently) while sounds of food preparation issued from the kitchen. Wendy, wearing a few clothes now and moving more normally, but still with an expression of radiant happiness on her face, appeared at intervals to bring me tea or assure me that I had not much longer to wait. Once or twice she stayed long enough to sit down and gaze lovingly in my direction, totally ignoring the television even when my channel-hopping happened upon one of her favourite shows.

Eventually she called me to the dining-room, where I found a superb meal laid out. She had roasted a large joint of pork and served it up with apple sauce (obviously freshly made, not out of a packet) and all the trimmings, with sautéed potatoes and a range of beautifully cooked vegetables.

It was superb. It was also very odd. I knew full well that the joint of pork and many of the other ingredients were things we had not had in the house. She must have planned the whole thing and made time to go shopping specially; no wonder she had wanted me home on time. And she must have worked really hard to prepare such a meal in so short a time; all right, the pork itself was probably cooking on a low heat while we rutted in the hall, but everything else must have been done while I slobbed in front of the television. Nor was this all; when I had cleared my plate of my second helping and positively refused any more, she bounded off to the kitchen and returned with a magnificent dessert to which, stuffed with food as I already was, I was sadly unable to do full justice.

I had to go to the bedroom and lie down to recover, and ponder this new development. It was no revelation that Wendy could cook, but this was the same woman that always proclaimed (with perfect justice) that she worked as long and as hard as I did and certainly was not going to spend her precious evenings in the kitchen; hence our weeknight regime of TV dinners.

There is not much more to say of the evening. When we went to bed we had another bout of glorious sex. And, just as the night before, I awoke in the small hours with another raging hard-on demanding to be relieved. But this time, I woke Wendy up; I had a feeling she would not object. Nor did she. And nor did passionate sex at three-thirty stop her from (successfully) demanding a repeat in the morning.

I lay in bed recovering after this final bout while Wendy showered and got ready for work. When she returned to the bedroom to kiss me goodbye, she was still smiling radiantly but looked puzzled.

"James, darling, what do you think is going on? Don't think I'm complaining," she hastily added, with an appreciative smile that confirmed her lack of objection, "but why are we suddenly so -- well, you know -- all the time?"

I had feared this. Hitherto she had given no indication that what was going on was in any way out of the ordinary but clearly at some level she had been wondering about it. I could hardly tell her about FUCK, so I should have to play ignorant and try to fob her off somehow. I was not optimistic of my chances; Wendy's persistence was one of her most striking characteristics. 

"I don't think you should worry about it," I cautiously began. I was about to add that I was puzzled as she, but it would probably wear off and meanwhile we should enjoy it; but I checked myself when I saw her quizzical look instantly replaced by one of reassured relief.

"OK," she said, kissed me warmly, and left. So this brief exchange left me with yet more to ponder.

My priorities for the rest of the day were to see Uncle Albert's solicitor and try to make a start on sorting out his house. I was seeing the lawyer at ten o'clock so I showered and breakfasted quickly. I was not surprised to hear Kylie Rico let herself back in next door shortly after her mother had gone out. Maybe she did this every day.

Mr Lucas was a solicitor of the old school, in a stuffy, traditional office. Normally, I quite like this kind of environment but the promised heatwave had arrived and I should gladly have exchanged the red leather upholstery for some modern air-conditioning. Mr Lucas was also struggling, I could see, but continued gamely. He said that his late client had not been very forthcoming about his affairs, for instance refusing to discuss whether he had made a will. But he assured me that if no will existed, I was Albert's only close relation (there were some second cousins in Canada) so I should inherit his estate. He offered to contact Uncle Albert's bank to explain the situation.

"However," he cautioned, "do not expect very much besides the house. Despite his outstanding abilities, your uncle seemed willing to work for a surprisingly modest salary, and I fear he was quite intemperate in rejecting my advice to seek rights over the commercial exploitation of his many discoveries."

"Yes," I replied. "I had a similar experience. I don't think money was really very important to him."

Mr Lucas shook his head in bemusement at his late client's eccentricity, and we went on to look at the details of what I had to do to resolve Uncle Albert's affairs.

I was glad when I could escape into the open air, although to tell the truth, as the sun blazed down it was scarcely an improvement on the stuffy office. Given my new-found need for sexual release every few hours I decided to head for home for a cup of tea and a nice wank before proceeding to Uncle Albert's.

With commendable restraint and self-discipline (as I told myself) I decided to make the tea before having the wank. As I idly glanced out of the kitchen window while waiting for the kettle to boil, my eye was caught by the strange sight of what appeared to be a beached whale in next door's back garden. A second look revealed that this was Kylie face-down on a sunlounger, wearing only a skimpy bikini. Obviously she had decided to take advantage of the weather to top up that Grancanaria tan.

With hindsight, it must have been my raging sex drive that urged me into the garden for a closer scutiny. Despite my liking for a few curves, I had thought of Kylie's "pregnant hippo" look as living proof that it is possible to have too much of a good thing. But now, as I tried to combine ogling over the fence with giving the impression that I was simply enjoying a casual stroll, I felt myself strangely drawn to those massive thighs, those proud buttocks and spreading hips, and those blossoming breasts whose bulge was so clearly visible under her procumbent body.

It was not just the warmth of the day that was making me sweat. I was terrified that she would turn her head and see me. It was a great relief when I realised that she was snoring like a hog. Although it hardly increased her allure, the sound emboldened me to stand right next to the fence. She was not five feet from me now. I could see how little droplets of sweat would form on her well-oiled skin before running down her mighty flanks. I could practically smell the bacon sizzling. I stood there enthralled.

Suddenly, she gave an extra loud snort and stirred. I hastily ducked out of sight, and through a small gap in the fence I saw her slowly turn over. If she decided to lie there awake, I thought, I might be trapped here for hours.

She sat up, squeezed a large dollop of sun lotion into her hands and started rubbing it in. The sight of her oily hands kneading her billowing form was almost more than I could bear. My cock was enormous now, begging to be allowed to explode. And then Kylie, as if to worsen my plight, and reasoning (I presume) that her garden was overlooked only by mine, and that Wendy and I were safely at work all day, removed her top so she could do a thorough job of massaging the lotion into her monster tits.

Freed of all restraint, they were mammoth. I had had no idea she had grown so big. When she had finished oiling one of them and let it drop back into position, it did so with an audible slap. Crouching uncomfortably behind the fence, unable to move a muscle for fear of making a noise to give myself away, and with easily the biggest and hardest stiffy of my life straining against my trousers, I was in an agony of lust.

Finally she resumed her sunbathe. This time she donned sunglasses and lay on her back, not bothering to replace her bikini top, so her vast oily bosoms sagged into position either side of her. Still I dared not move. And then to my inexpressible relief, I once more heard the sound of snoring.

Very slowly and carefully I stood up. I knew I should return to the house, relieve my needs, and start clearing up at Uncle Albert's place, but I still found myself unable to move away from Kylie. To be frank I wanted to leap the fence and ravish her. 

Then she stirred. For a terrible moment I thought she was waking up again, but then she gave an unmistakably sexual moan and I realised she was dreaming. "Ooooh! …. Oh yes! Yes!" Now one hand squeezed her breast, while the other fumbled under her bikini bottom. As she fingered herself towards climax, she writhed and moaned like a whore. 

I was gripping the fence so hard my knuckles were white. It was only a flimsy barrier; I could easily force my way through it. If I did, I was going to take her. There was no doubt about it. The law might call it rape, and so it would be, but I should not be able to stop myself. In desperation I unzipped my trousers and released a cock so huge and red that it looked deformed. It was so sensitive I could hardly touch it but I managed to rub my fingers along the shaft and almost instantly I felt a massive charge of semen about to explode. Somewhere in my brain I realised that if I hit the fence the spatter would be visible on the other side, so I spun round and sent bolt after bolt of hot sticky cum flying all over my lawn, where it lay in glistening trails. ("Darling, I think we've got slugs," Wendy told me when she next went in the garden a couple of days later. "Huge ones, by the look of it.") 

Dimly as if from far away I could hear Kylie's yelps of orgasmic ecstasy as she too climaxed a few feet behind me. I did not stop to see whether she was awake or asleep. I hastened back into the house, my cock hanging out of my trousers and still dripping cum. Hurriedly I tidied myself up and went upstairs to peek out of the bedroom window. Kylie was sitting up on the sunlounger looking blissful, and thankfully she showed no sign of awareness that anyone else might have been about. I was just congratulating myself on a very narrow escape when she alarmed me by turning to look in the direction of our house. I say "in the direction of" rather than "at" the house because it was not the searching, intense look she would have given if she had thought she might see someone; it was more of an unfocused gaze. She looked happy but slightly confused. For a moment I feared she would see me at the window but I realised that with the sun on the glass it would be impossible to see anything in the shade of the bedroom. After a few moments she shrugged, smiled in a dreamy sort of way, shook her head and lay back on the lounger to soak up some more rays.

I backed cautiously away from the window and tried to exclude from my mind such extraneous considerations as the way Kylie's tits had shifted shape and position when she shrugged, and concentrate instead on what was happening to me. I began to shake with anxiety as awareness swept over me that I had been within a hair's breath of ravishing a eighteen-year-old schoolgirl without caring whether or not she consented. I realised too that I was only beginning to understand what FUCK could do. Kylie's sudden passion could not have been coincidental; whatever FUCK did to women it had been able to do to her in the open air at a range of several feet. Although I wanted nothing more than to lie in a cool dark room and try to recover from the last couple of hours, I knew that I had to go to Uncle Albert's and try to discover what I had unleashed on myself, how long it would last, and how on earth I could control it.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 05



The weakness of the flesh

Several hours of clearing up at Uncle Albert's house brought me no real reward. It was arduous, unpleasant work on such a sultry day, and I felt terribly invasive going through the old boy's things. The reflection that now they really belonged to me made me feel slightly less uncomfortable about it, but it did not make the work any easier.

I decided to tackle one room at a time. So I started on a pile of old magazines at one end of the front room and took it from there. Most of them were porn – the old goat had apparently kept every dirty book he had ever bought, even desperately tame stuff (by modern standards) from forty years ago. I dreaded that I might accidentally throw away some vital clue about FUCK so I checked everything thoroughly before discarding it, and this made progress slow. I carefully kept all scientific periodicals whether or not they appeared to be relevant to Uncle Albert's work; some of the astronomical stuff he had probably bought merely out of interest, but you never knew.

I also powered up his home computer and spent a frustrating half hour trying to find the password. Knowing the man, I felt sure it would be some crude sexual obscenity and I tried plenty, but without success.

Finally I called it a day and went home, feeling hot, sweaty, dusty and fed up. 

It was a fairly typical home evening, differing from the night before only in that instead of letting Wendy pounce on me the instant I got home I insisted on having a shower first, and the food this time was Chinese. I noted that I was already beginning to accept these comforts as no more than my due, and I felt I should miss them when FUCK wore off.

I was also beginning to take for granted the sex on going to bed, in the middle of the night, and before getting up, and again I was not disappointed. As I watched Wendy leave for work the next morning I reflected fondly how loved and pampered I felt. This complacent mood was somewhat disturbed when the sound of Kylie sneaking home as usual reminded me that FUCK could cut both ways: it could give me the happiest marriage imaginable, or it might land me in gaol for some terrible sex crime.

So I got on with things, calling in to pay the undertaker and visiting Uncle Albert's bank. Mr Lucas had contacted them as promised so they were expecting me and we discussed the procedures for the formal release of his funds. There was less than fifteen thousand pounds, a remarkably meagre return on a lifetime of brilliant scientific achievement. It was further confirmation that Uncle Albert's motivation in life had not been financial. 

I commented as much to the bank manager, who had an apologetic air as if thinking I might blame him for the lack of riches. "Yes," he replied. "Maybe your uncle was a seeker after truth."

"Maybe he was a seeker after pussy," I wanted to say, but I kept this thought to myself. The events of the last few days made it clear to me that it had been Uncle Albert's driving passion to complete the project he called FUCK and unleash himself on the unsuspecting "young ladies" of London, only for a casual accident to cut him down when on the brink of success. For him, it was an incredible tragedy; but for London's young womanhood, I could not but reflect, a lucky escape. The mind boggled at the thought of what this decrepit old lecher might have done armed with the animal potency FUCK conferred allied with its apparent power to induce a dramatic sexual response in at least some women. The law would, I presumed, somehow have caught up with him before long, but he would have enjoyed himself in the meantime. And now, this gift or curse had fallen on me.

Home again, I saw Kylie enjoying another sunny day lounging in the garden. My cock, well engorged now since I had not come for at least three hours, urged me to take a closer look but I was very firm with myself. I went straight to the bedroom and wanked copiously. This reduced to a manageable level my fascination with Kylie's massive charms and allowed me to get on with business; I needed to make a couple of calls, then I could resume the unpleasant but necessary task of clearing Uncle Albert's house.

I also checked the answering machine. There were three messages, all from a cellphone number that I did not recognise.

"Hello, Mr Walker? This is Connie. Connie Amoah from work. Can you ring me back please?"

Half an hour later: "Oh, you're still not there." She sounded crushed, then pulled herself together. "Mr Walker, it's Connie from work. I'm sorry to trouble you at home but I need to talk to you quite urgently. Can you ring me on my mobile please? 'Bye."

The final message was another forty minutes later, about ten minutes before I got back from the bank. It began with a huge, almost despairing sigh at once more hearing the answering machine, then: "Oh, Mr Walker, I don't know what to do. It's so important that I talk to you. Please, please, if you get this message, ring me back right away, please."

The desperation in her voice gave me a strong suspicion of what must have happened. She was already in higher management's bad books, so I thought she must have crossed the line and got herself sacked, or at least threatened with formal disciplinary action. It would, frankly, hardly be undeserved, but I liked the girl and wished her well so I rang her back. I was pleased that she had felt able to contact me despite the embarrassment she must be feeling about the ass-flexing display now that the effects of indirect exposure to FUCK had had a couple of days to wear off.

She answered her phone the instant it rang. "Oh, Mr Walker, thank you, thank you for ringing me back. Just one second...". I heard her telling someone to excuse her, that she must take this really urgent call. This was followed by her rapid footsteps and the closing of a door. She sighed with relief and resumed. "Sorry, I was in my course. [I had forgotten that we were sending Connie on day release on Fridays.] I'm so sorry to trouble you at home, but, please, I really really need to talk to you."

"All right, Connie, what can I do for you? Are you all right?"

"Oh, Mr Walker, I can't talk about it over the phone. I know it's a lot to ask, but could you possibly meet me here?"

This meant probably an hour's drive to the college we had booked for the training, which I dimly remembered was out in the sticks somewhere, plus another hour back, at a time when I was desperate to get to Uncle Albert's. 

"Connie, I'm sorry if you're in trouble but I've got my hands full sorting out my uncle's affairs. Why can't you tell me over the phone? And I'll be back in the office on Tuesday if you want to talk face to face." 

"Oh, I knew you'd be angry. I feel awful."

"I'm not angry, Connie, I'm just busy. Please take a deep breath and tell me the problem. Are you in trouble at work?"

I heard her take the deep breath. "No, no, it's not that. I can't tell you over the phone. I just can't. Please, please, Mr Walker, come and meet me."

I relented. I suppose I felt I owed her for the ass display. I took the address of the college and set off for leafy Hertfordshire on the northern borders of London. The traffic was mercifully lighter than usual and I was pleased to find it took me only forty minutes. I had told Connie an hour but there she was, already waiting at the front entrance. For a moment I failed to recognise her because instead of the tight trousers or jeans she always wore in the office she was wearing a jeans skirt that came half-way down her mighty thighs. She burst into a huge smile the second she saw me and jumped into the car with alacrity. "Ooh, it's lovely and cool in here," she said as she settled into its air-conditioned interior.

I drove off. I had expected her to tell me what was troubling her but instead the normally talkative Connie seemed content merely to sit there looking at me. It was the same look she had given me on Wednesday, only more so. It was almost adoration.

"Connie..." I began.

She suddenly came to life. "Go left here," she unexpectedly said.

"All right," I replied, obediently turning into a country lane. "Where are we going, and what's all this about?"

"It's so beautiful down here," she replied dreamily.

She was right. The lane wound through the rich green English countryside on a glorious June day. We approached a quaint country pub that I thought might be our destination but Connie simply sat there silently drinking me in and showed no desire to stop. The lane took us into a wooded hollow and across a narrow bridge over the stream at the bottom and as we climbed the slope on the other side Connie came to life again and asked me to pull off the road. "We can talk here," she said.

I stopped among the trees, looked at her, and waited.

Eventually she said, "Mr Walker ..." in a very quiet voice, but then trailed off again.

Her eyes never wavered from me for a second. They were wider than ever and her whole face seemed radiant. Her mouth was slightly open and her tongue sensuously touched her lips. Her breathing had become rapid and shallow. I was alone in my car in idyllic and secluded surroundings with a highly fanciable girl who gave every indication of being overcome with desire.

I moved my face closer to hers. She mirrored the movement. We were only inches apart now. Somewhere at the back of my mind a tiny voice tried to remind me that I had been a faithful husband for twenty years but somewhere in my trousers a rapidly hardening cock told me to ignore it.

We drew slowly closer until our lips brushed together. That was enough. We threw our arms around each other and kissed with ferocious passion. I sat back on the driver's seat, keeping my right arm round Connie to pull her across to my side, while my left hand groped for the lever that would lower the back of my seat. We never broke the kiss for a second. As the seat flattened out she shifted her weight across and swung her leg over to straddle me. At the same time she rucked up her skirt to gather it as far as possible around her waist. As her great chocolate ass burst free I gasped at the size of it under my hands, but I had no time to waste as I felt for her knickers. I groped in vain; the little minx had come prepared.

My eager hands squeezed and fondled the vastness of her buttocks; each felt bigger than her head. Their huge circumference was such that it took me a few moments to find the dripping aperture of her cunt. Meanwhile her hands were fumbling to unzip my trouser fly. As soon as she succeeded my cock sprang free and she gasped in her turn. 

She was rubbing her body up and down mine like a woman possessed. I could feel my own hips beginning to move back and forth and then I felt the tip of my cock against her inviting pussy.

Abruptly and without any instructions from the conscious part of my brain, my hands firmly grasped her waist while my hips drew down as far as they could then pushed vigorously upwards. My cock homed in on its target like a heat-seeking missile and plunged deep inside her. Some animal instinct had taken over; this was not tender sensitive love-making but raw primal fucking.

Connie came almost instantly. For the merest second she gasped in surprise, then writhed convulsively and a huge long orgasmic moan escaped her.

I was not done. As my cock thrust in and out of her now passive body, which I still gripped firmly by the waist, I heard her faintly say sorry, as if it were her fault she had come so soon. My desire was so strong I did not expect to last much longer myself. To my surprise, I felt my thrusts answered, tentatively at first but then more firmly, by a bucking motion of Connie's hips. Helpless slaves of our shared desire, we writhed like animals. I felt a swelling explosion within and then, with an extra powerful thrust, I forced my throbbing cock deeper inside her than ever and pumped her cunt full of bolt after bolt of hot spunk 

As I released my tension, hers seemed to build to a new pitch and then she in her turn came. This second orgasm was nothing like the first; in fact it was beyond anything I had ever imagined in a woman. If her first climax had been a convulsion, this was like a tidal wave of utter ecstasy. Her entire body seemed to quiver uncontrollably. I hastily let go of her waist in order to feel the effects on that colossal ass. Her hips were still bucking while the buttock muscles themselves were in spasm, the two rhythms combining to create an earthquake of flesh under my hands.

After what seemed like several minutes, her body slowly relaxed. She was in some post-orgasmic transport of pleasure such that she seemed unable to move or even speak, but she did not resist when I lifted her gently off me, rearranged her skirt as best I could, and put her down on the passenger seat. Then I lay back myself, utterly spent.

Eventually I pulled myself together sufficiently to lever the seat back upright, which allowed me to get a good look at Connie. She was sitting in a completely inert posture, breathing in slow pants, with her head lolled to one side. Her eyes were open but she was looking blankly in front of her and her face was divided by a radiant slightly open-mouthed smile from ear to ear. When I lifted her hand it was utterly limp and she did not react at all; when I let go it fell by her side as if lifeless. Softly I spoke her name and the rhythm of her breathing changed ever so slightly and she made an almost inaudible grunt in acknowledgment; it was only then that I was sure she was conscious.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 06



Command performance

By the time another fifteen minutes had passed with no more sign of life, I felt that some action was necessary. I still had things to do. But what about Connie? I could hardly leave her back at the college in a post-orgasmic trance and reeking of sex; nor for the same reason could I put her on a train for her home on the other side of London. Somewhere she had to be cleaned up and made presentable. I could think of nothing for it but to take her back to my place; with any luck by the time we got there she might be taking a bit more notice.

I explained this to her. She did not reply, as such, but at intervals she emitted her slight grunt – "huh" – and I took this for consent.

Halfway home she showed her first sign of recovery, suddenly announcing quietly but clearly, "Oh ... my ... god."

"Welcome back," I replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, wow! Jeez-us fucking Christ!" was the best she could manage. I left it at that for a while.

As we entered my home suburb she seemed to come out of it a bit. "Oh, Mr Walker," she began.

This odd formality made me smile. "Don't you think you should call me James?"

She giggled. "Yes. Thank you, James. Thank you for everything. To think we've worked together all this time and I never knew! Where, where, did you learn to shag like that?"

"Well," I replied sort-of truthfully, "it's just a gift."

"A gift? You're telling me! Mr Walker – sorry, James – I know a lot of people think I'm too free and easy and I admit I've had my share of boyfriends but never, never ever, have I had it like that! The second time you made me come ... oooh!" She wriggled with pleasure at the memory. "It just kept washing over me in waves! I thought it would never end." She tapped the side of her head. "My ears are still ringing," she smiled.

We had just turned into my home street. "My house is just down here," I told her. "Do you think you're all right to walk?"

I had meant this as friendly sarcasm but she took it literally. "I think so," she replied, experimentally flexing her legs. But when I had parked in my driveway and politely opened the passenger door for her, she levered herself halfway up only to lose her balance and fall back in the seat giggling. I hastened to help and supported her to the house and let her in. I was so busy coping with Connie that I entirely failed to see Kylie at the bedroom window next door following our every move.

I led Connie to the bathroom and helped her undress. Gobbets of spunk and pussy juice were oozing down her inner thighs. Her co-ordination was getting back to normal by now and she assured me that she would be fine in the shower so I left her to it while I went downstairs for the inevitable English stand-by in testing times, a nice hot cuppa. 

I was relaxing on the settee sipping my tea when Connie reappeared, looking much refreshed after a good shower and more her usual blithe, flirtatious self. But that was not the only thing I noticed about her.

"I had assumed," I said as calmly as I could, "that you would get dressed before coming downstairs."

"I was going to," she replied, standing before me stark naked from head to toe and evidently relishing the situation, "but there was something I thought you'd wanna see first. Just stay sitting right where you are."

And with that she took a couple of steps towards me so that her neatly trimmed pussy was six inches in front of my nose. Her nakedness emphasised even more the contrast between the relatively slight build of her upper body and the vast girth of her thighs, each of which must have been easily as thick as her waist. The lower part of her trunk seemed to be squeezed into insignificance between those mighty limbs.

Then she turned round so that the awesome hemispheres of her buttocks hovered inches before me. For some moments she simply stood there, allowing me my first opportunity for a really close examination. They were astonishing. They spread almost horizontally from her relatively narrow waist; in fact there was a distinct fold where the top of each buttock met the base of the back, something I had never seen or heard of before. 

I had thought, when I sat down with my tea, that I was well and truly shagged out, for the next few hours anyway. But now, my cock was begging to differ. I felt it swelling and sensed its demands. I wished I had suggested a repeat of our session in the car before she went in the shower, but it was too late now.

And then Connie put the tin lid on it with a repeat of the ass-dance, this time at very close quarters and with none of that annoying clothing in the way. She also took much longer over it, demonstrating unbelievable control of the buttock muscles. With a jiggle of the hips she sent waves of flesh undulating up and down and from side to side; throw in a quick twist of the pelvis too and both cheeks were projected upwards so dramatically that normal gravity seemed to have been suspended for a moment. Not only could she clench her buttocks together so sharply that the gap between them closed with a loud smack that sent ripples of flesh radiating from the centre; she could force her cheeks apart (purely by muscle control, no hands) to reveal a beautifully clean and strangely receptive-looking rectal opening, which she then proceeded to tense and relax.

It was the sight of Connie's ringpiece clenching and unclenching that did it for me. I grabbed that slim waist and pulled her down on the settee next to me. Nothing loth, she gave a slight cry of surprise but instantly recovered to help me rip off my clothing. I thought of attacking her ass – anal sex had never seemed at all attractive to me until that moment – but I decided to stick to what I knew and we fucked there and then in the front room. It was, I think, a less rushed and slightly less animalistic effort than in the car, and certainly more comfortable. But the end result was the same; Connie came twice, once near the beginning and again, massively, when I filled her wet cunt with sticky cum. 

When I had got my breath back I looked at my handiwork. There she was, blissed out beyond words, gazing into space with wide blank eyes and with a dopy smile on her face. Nothing if not a practical man, I slid a magazine under her to stop any cum from oozing onto the settee and got on with making a few necessary calls while she recovered to the point where I could get her in the shower again. I had given up all idea of going to Uncle Albert's; my concern now was to get Connie safely on her way before Wendy came home.

After half an hour she had reached the "oh-my-god-wow" stage at which point, fearful of waiting any longer, I half-led and half-carried her to the shower and cleaned her up. This time, taking no chances, I got her dressed myself. I did not trust her to find her way home by public transport so I called her a mini-cab.

While we waited in the hall Connie, slowly coming back to normal by now, again sang my sexual praises. "I just can't believe it, James. It's not just the greatest sex of my life – it's simply far and away the greatest sex of my life! It's better than any sex I've ever heard of. That first orgasm in the car was fantastic; it just blasted at me out of nowhere and blew me away. But the second was – well, I don't know how I can describe it – and we've just carried on from there.

"Look, James precious," she went on, suddenly more serious, "I can't leave it here. How can I? What am I going to do? I can't just go quietly back home to Tommy [this was the "gorgeous, sexy" boyfriend] as if nothing had happened. I need you."

I had been afraid of this. "Connie," I said sternly, "I'm a married man. You've always known that."

"I know, I know," she replied. "But I couldn't help myself. I don't know why it happened but it did. I've always liked you but when we were talking on Wednesday, I suddenly realised I wanted you and needed you more than anything."

"So that's why you gave me the buttock dance?"

"Well, that was just on impulse. I wasn't sure you'd even noticed me – sexually I mean – so I thought it would get your attention. All my boyfriends have liked it when I've flexed my ass like that."

"I'm not surprised," I said. "It's quite a party piece. But you didn't have to do that to make me fancy you; I've done that since the first moment I saw you."

"Really?" she asked delightedly. "I never thought you, er ... and I didn't, um ...". She paused. "Or maybe I did, without realising it, because it hit me right between the eyes on Wednesday. Yes," she said, more to herself than me, "I think I must have been working up to it."

"Isn't rationalisation," I said (but not aloud), "a wonderful thing?"

"And since Wednesday," she resumed, "I haven't been able to think of anything else. I thought it would wear off but instead it just got stronger and stronger and by this morning it was a straight choice between calling you and going out of my mind."

Well, I thought, that is as handy a girl's-eye description as I could have hoped for of the effects of indirect exposure to FUCK. But I had to try to dampen her enthusiasm somehow.

"Connie, it was unbelievable for me too, but we can't turn our lives upside-down just for great sex."

"Oh, but James, don't say that!" She looked distressed. "It's not just the sex; it's you. You're the kindest, finest, loveliest man I could ever dream of. All I want is to help you and make you happy. I'd do anything for you, anything. Even if what you want me to do is ... is ..." She was beginning to well up now. She could not bring herself to finish the sentence, but then she made a visible effort to pull herself together and, looking straight at me and with tears streaming down her face, she blurted out, "Even if you wanted me to go away for ever and never see you again I'd do it; it would break my heart but I'd do it. But no matter what I'd still be yours, James; while there's breath left in me I'll always be yours."

I was aghast. I looked at her helplessly trying to think of something, anything, to say in reply. The silence was broken by a knock at the door. "Cab, mister?" came a voice.

I opened the front door a crack and told the man, "Two minutes."

I embraced her. "Listen, Connie, precious," I said, "you're a wonderful girl and of course I don't want to send you away for ever or anything like that." Her sobs stopped as she heard these words and an overwhelming feeling of relief seemed to flood through her body. "But," I went on, "I want you to go home to Tommy now. You'll see me again when I get back to the office on Tuesday, but not before. And you mustn't tell anyone about this. Do you understand?" I felt her nod. "Will you do that for me?" She nodded again. Releasing the embrace, I reached for my handkerchief and dried her eyes. "Good. Now kiss me goodbye."

She threw her arms around me and kissed me passionately. As we pulled apart she murmured, "You're so wonderful." And off she went, leaving me feeling emotionally shattered.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 07



VII

Girl next door

The events of the day had stunned me. I had had no idea things might go this far. Not only had I just rendered worthless the marriage vows on which I had based my life for twenty years; not only had the sex been utterly out of this world; but to cap it all this sexy, vivacious young woman, her whole life before her, had just pledged herself unconditionally and with every appearance of desperate sincerity to a fat, bald, middle-aged married insurance manager.

I thought long and hard without really getting anywhere. Eventually I heard the key in the door and Wendy appeared, laden with provisions for whatever lavish meal she had in mind for tonight. Finding me already home, she of course (for so quickly had I come to take these things for granted) leapt on me instantly. Fortunately I had had time to recover from my exertions with Connie and was well able to measure up. At first I found it disturbing that I was fucking my loving and blissfully unaware wife a few short hours after breaking my most solemn vows to her, but as I got into the swing of it instinct took over.

After the sex, Wendy struggled off to the kitchen but just as she went she announced, "I've got something for you, darling," and passed me a large carrier bag. I thought it odd that she did not stay to watch me look inside. I opened it. It contained at least fifty pounds' worth of assorted dirty books.

I find it hard to quantify the number of different levels at which this disturbed me. Here are a few in no special order.

1. As dirty books go, they were rotten. Wendy obviously had no idea what I liked so had settled for a bit of everything. Most of it was of no interest to me at all. And she had apparently gone to an ordinary newsagent so it was generally very tame material. Until this moment it had never occurred to me what a very personal act the selection of pornography is; you do not want anyone else to do it for you.

2. The idea of my very respectable wife's marching up to the counter of a street corner newsagent and spending fifty quid on girly books was too gruesome to contemplate.

3. I had just had very satisfying sex. This is not the time I want to see pornography.

4. A few days ago Wendy had been making my life a misery and threatening divorce because of this very issue. What was she trying to prove?

I went to the kitchen and said we had to talk. Without any argument she stopped cooking and gave me her complete attention. When I asked what she was playing at she seemed taken aback and said she had decided it was silly of her to object to my use of porn since I evidently enjoyed it, so she had bought some books to replace the ones she had thrown away on Sunday. She thought we might look at them later. She had thought I would be pleased.

I gave it to her very straight about dirty books.

1. I would buy them.

2. I would look at them alone. This was not something we could do together.

3. Not only was she not to buy them, she was not to look at them even in my absence. If she found them accidentally she was to put them back at once without looking at them.

Did she understand? Yes. She looked so repentant that I let her have a few kind words to the effect that she had meant well. I accepted her proffered apology, and she looked a bit less miserable and returned to her cooking.

This was yet another strange incident to ponder. Even leaving aside the extraordinary change in our sex life, Wendy's general attitude had altered remarkably post-FUCK (I realised I was beginning to divide my life into pre- and post-FUCK). Pre-FUCK, she had been, on the whole, a good and devoted wife to me, and I had loved her dearly, but she had been very much one to stand up for herself, she had had no hesitation in letting me know when she felt I was at fault in any way, and she was extremely stubborn when she had decided what she wanted. Post-FUCK, she had been doing everything possible to please me; nothing was too much trouble even when she would have had every right to put her feet up and take it easy. But I felt that all these things were superficial; there was some more fundamental change going on, and it frustrated me that I could not put my finger on it. 

I could hear her humming contentedly to herself while she chopped vegetables and then it struck me. Post-FUCK, she was happy. 

This realisation astonished me. Of course the old Wendy had had good days, but she had been fed up and miserable a lot of the time, harassed by this, worried about that, annoyed by something else. But for the last few days, she had been a picture of radiant happiness; not just that, but she seemed satisfied and fulfilled as well. The only time I had seen her upset was just now, when I showed my displeasure about the dirty books.

Over dinner, I asked her straight out how she felt about life; had she noticed anything different lately?

"You mean, apart from our being at it like knives all the time?" she smiled. I nodded.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I suppose I started counting my blessings. I can tell you exactly when it was, too. On Tuesday night, when we were supposed to talk about the [she gave a shudder before she could say the word] divorce I began to think about how miserable I must have made you the night before, when Albert died, and I felt really guilty about it and the more I thought about it the more I realised I had a fine husband, a king among men, and I couldn't think why I should want to divorce him. The whole idea seemed ridiculous; it still does. Ever since, I've just wanted to make up for it."

"And how do you feel in yourself?"

The question obviously surprised her. She had to think for a moment. "Well," she said, "now you mention it, I feel marvellous. I don't think I've ever been happier, even when we were first married. Isn't that strange?"

Now it was my turn to hesitate. I was aware I was skating on very thin ice here but I desperately needed to understand what was going on. While I was still debating whether "yes" or "no" was the more politic answer to Wendy's question, she forestalled me by answering it herself.

"No, actually, it's not strange. What shouldn't I be happy loving and caring for the best husband in the world? Look at the question you asked me just now. You were worried about how I felt when I hadn't even thought about it myself. Is it any wonder that I love you so?"

Rightly recognising this question as rhetorical, I chose to leave it there. Connie and Wendy were very different women but in the space of a few hours, each of them had expressed in her own way her complete devotion to me. It was highly flattering, but I had no idea how I was going to deal with it.

The next day was Saturday and normally would have been spent chasing round shops and catching up on housework. But not this time. It gives me no distress at all to report that Wendy and I spent the entire day in bed fucking. We could not get enough. We behaved like a pair of lovestruck (and luststruck) teenagers; quite the pleasantest and most rewarding Saturday I had spent for years. Suddenly life with FUCK seemed good after all.

More of the same on Sunday would have been most welcome but Wendy had a long-standing commitment to see her aunt in Sussex. Often I accompanied her on these visits because I enjoyed the drive and was quite fond of the old lady, but it would have been hard to reconcile it with the newfound necessity of ejaculating copiously every few hours. Wendy wanted to cancel and stay home with me but I said she ought to go and, as I was coming to expect, she complied with my wishes without demur. 

It was another blazing hot day. I knew I ought to go to Albert's but Wendy had taken the car so it meant a bus ride and I found it hard to summon the energy. Eventually I left the house but as I closed my front gate I heard someone call my name.

"Hello, James. Sorry to hear about your uncle. My mum told me."

It was Kylie, leaning over her front gate. She was, as usual, revealingly clad, on this occasion in a pair of rather short football shorts and a white shirt that she had cut off just below her huge tits. The shirt was not buttoned up; she had tied the two corners together under her bra-less breasts, so as to stretch the thin white fabric over them and hold them together. She must have been spending more time on the sunlounger because she looked incredibly bronzed. Her smiling face – in fact her whole body – glistened with sweat and I saw little rivulets of it running down into the cleavage of her vast bosoms. I was trying to be subtle about where my eyes were resting but she must have noticed because she gave me a cheeky grin and leant farther forward, accentuating her cleavage still further.

She was giving me that look – the wide-eyed, adoring gaze I was coming to recognise. I ought to move before someone saw us, but I felt paralysed. Then her eyes dropped a little, but not from modesty. They were fixed on my groin. At the same time I felt the warmth of blood stiffening my cock. Kylie's look was no longer a dreamy gaze; it was a lecherous stare, and a leer of undisguised lust spread across her young face.

"You look hot," she said with studied ambiguity. When I failed to reply she added, with the air of one making a casual observation, "Wendy's gone out. I saw her."

I had to get away fast. "Er, well, I must be going," I said, willing my feet to start moving.

"You and Wendy had a nice day yesterday", she replied.

I must have looked baffled at this apparent non sequitur because she added, "I could hear you through the wall."

The walls did transmit noise, it was true, so it was often possible to hear activities from next door. It was hardly what I ought to be discussing with my eighteen-year-old neighbour, though.

Then she came out with it. "I wished it was me," she said in a low but clear voice.

Desperately fighting the magnetic pull of her rampant sexuality, I made a last bid for freedom.

"Don't be silly, Kylie," I said in what was meant to be a casual, laugh-it-off voice. "I really have got to be going, you know." I finally managed to get some co-operation from my feet and took a step away. 

A desperate look crossed her face and she blurted out abruptly, "I heard you and the black lady too."

I stopped dead in utter horror. She had heard me with Connie on Friday! I tried to say something but only a feeble croak emerged.

"I wished I was the black lady too," she said. 

I finally managed to speak. "Kylie," and I was begging now, "please, I have to go. Your mum will think it's funny if she sees us talking like this."

"It's all right," she said. "She ain't minding me. She's out the back with me brothers."

"Kylie, please …" 

But she had me caught and she knew it. Her eyes were fixed uncompromisingly on my throbbing cock. Then, quite slowly and deliberately, she raised a hand and tugged at the knot that held her shirt together. It parted instantly and her tits swayed free. She looked at my face for a moment to see the effect (which I presume was a mixture of lust and horror), then her stare reverted to my cock, which now felt gargantuan.

After a while she began to rock very slightly from left to right, so that her tits swung gently before me. I was standing in the street, with a gigantic erection in my trousers, staring at the naked swaying tits of my eighteen-year-old neighbour. It was a quiet road that we lived in, but even so it was a minor miracle that no one had passed by. It was probably only a few minutes, but in my agony it seemed like hours that we stood facing each other before Kylie broke the silence.

"I only want to chat for a bit," she claimed innocently.

I gave in. "All right, Kylie, you win. But not here in the street. Come in my house, OK?"

She looked ecstatic. "OK," she said, and retreated hurriedly up her garden path without ever taking her eyes off me. She opened the front door and yelled into the house, "Mum, I'm goin' out!"

"All right, darling," came the faint reply from the garden. 

Kylie, without bothering to do up her shirt, ran back up her garden path (a sight to behold) and was waiting at my front door almost before I knew what was happening. As I fumbled with the key she looked up at me with wide sparkling eyes and a huge grin; it was an unforgettable mixture of adoration, anticipation, lust and sheer triumph. 

I was under no illusions what I had agreed to. Now I had surrendered I had decided, or maybe it was my cock that had decided, that this was no occasion for subtlety or decorum. She wanted it and so did I and that was the end of the matter. The second the door closed behind us I jammed her against the wall and pressed my lips to hers. She kissed desperately, a real randy eighteen-year-old kid's kiss. Already her hands were struggling to remove her shorts and knickers and her bosom heaved with anticipation.

I manoeuvred her though the door into the front room and as I finally escaped my trousers I fell back on the settee. In a second she was on top of me, stark naked now and with those colossal tits dangling above me. I grabbed them firmly, squeezed them together, and crammed them into my face. She was moaning with desire and her hips were beginning to thrust even though I was not yet inside her. I let go of her breasts and used one hand to pull her arm round me. She got the idea and held my face to her bosom, freeing my hands to explore her lower body. She had no equivalent of Connie's slender waist; in fact, she had no real waist at all but through the layers of flesh I could feel where her hips started and so I held her tight just above there and made my own pelvic thrust upwards.

Again my cock seemed to know unerringly where it wanted to be. I pushed it home – no sign of any hymen in the way, incidentally – and she squealed with delight. I was not sure whether she had come but I hardly cared. Her hips began to buck violently again and I struggled to co-ordinate my own thrusts. Suddenly her movements became even stronger and much more rapid. She emitted short sharp yelps of wanton lust as she beat herself to the most explosive climax. She pressed my face even harder against her huge quivering tits and came with a huge satisfied roar of sheer animal joy.

Her frantic fucking had put me off my stroke, but now that she had relaxed she was mine to do with as I would. I grasped her round the middle again and began to drive my cock home in a series of long, deliberate strokes. Each time it seemed to delve that little bit deeper, and each time she let out an involuntary grunt as the pressure of the thrust forced air from her lungs. I was being utterly selfish now; she had had her pleasure and I was taking mine. I slowly speeded up my thrusts while maintaining their depth. Suddenly some basic instinct took over and I was thrusting back and forth like a jack-hammer. Then I felt the rush of hot spunk in my shaft and it blasted from my cock and soaked her inside. 

As it did she abruptly came to life. A moment before she had been as limp as a (very flabby and heavy) rag doll following her earlier orgasm, but now her body seemed suddenly gripped by a desperate tension. As each hot spurt from my spasming cock hit the inside of her cunt she gasped and quivered. This unexpected reaction seemed to intensify my own orgasm still further as with a mighty final thrust I felt my cock unleash inside her a blast of cum eclipsing all that had gone before. Kylie gave a vast elemental heave and uttered a long, low moan that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul.

It was over.

Many minutes must have elapsed before I could move. With Kylie on top of me, over twelve stone of what was now effectively dead weight, I was the reverse of comfortable but at first I had no strength to do anything about it. Finally I felt that breathing was becoming difficult so with a great effort I managed to shift her. With a loud bump she fell unceremoniously on the floor, but she did not react.

When I had gathered my senses a little I leant over to look at her. Her post-orgasmic state was clearly far more profound than even Connie's had been. She was sprawled awkwardly on her back, her breathing was rapid and very shallow, and her eyes were wide open like saucers but they seemed glazed and did not respond when I waved my hand in front of them. Her mouth sagged open in a vast vacant smile. When I said her name she showed no recognition at all.

I struggled to my feet. There was no way I could lift her off the floor but I managed to rearrange her into a more natural and comfortable position; it was like manhandling a sack of potatoes. I put a cushion under her head and staggered off to get a cold drink from the kitchen.

As I drank, I wrestled with a new realisation. I had been assuming that the effects of FUCK would gradually wear off. But on this evidence, the reverse was true. They were becoming more intense.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 08



VIII

"Any woman"

After a while I began to feel stronger and I wished I could go to Albert's as I had been trying to do for the last few days. But I could hardly leave Kylie sexed-out on the front room floor so I pottered about the house for a bit, then, since she showed no signs of coming down after nearly an hour, I decided I might as well take the opportunity to catch up with a few jobs about the garden.

"'Ello, James," said someone. "Sorry to 'ear about yer uncle."

It was Betty, Kylie's mother from next door. "Thanks," I said.

"I'd like a word, if yer've got a moment," she said. I was about to make some excuse when she added, "It's about Kylie."

Fear gripped me. Kylie was at that moment lying on my front room floor fucked into oblivion. Could it be that Betty somehow knew?

I invited her to continue and moved nearer the fence, but not too close because I feared what effect FUCK might have on her. I had no desire whatsoever to seduce Betty, who was the salt of the earth, no doubt, but was frumpy and forty, with a cigarette (as always) hanging from her mouth.

"I'm reelly worried about 'er, yer see," she began. "She won't take no notice of me. She just does what she wants. She goes out when she wants, never tells me where she's goin' or when she'll be back, she's often gorn fer hours and if I ask where she's bin she just tells me ter mind me own business. She's out somewhere now, matter of fact; gawd knows what she's up to."

Huge relief flooded over me; she knew nothing. I managed to make some reassuring comment about headstrong teenagers.

"I know," she said, "I was a right scamp meself. But that's just it. I love 'er to bits, and I can see she's goin' ter make just the same mistakes as me. Yer see," she added confidentially, "she finks I don't know but she's bunking off school, just like what I used ter."

I hope I looked suitably shocked.

"An' she's allus goin' on about 'ow she's got ter 'ave 'er tongue pierced, or 'er nose or 'er belly button. I don't 'old wiv all this piercin', I fink it looks 'orrible. I dunno 'ow much longer I can talk 'er out of it, though."

This time my look of concern was unfeigned. I was with Betty one hundred per cent on this one. I hate piercings.

"'Er weight, too," she went on. "I try ter watch what she eats but she just piles it in when I'm not lookin'. And the stuff she wears, she looks like a tart. An' she's active," she went on. "You know, wiv boys. Or it might be men, I don't know. She don't tell me nuffink. But I found the pills."

Again, I tried to look shocked at the revelation of Kylie's non-virgin state. I was pleased to hear about the pills, though. One of my many worries over the last few days had been that all this unprotected sex with Connie and Kylie might lead to pregnancy. At least I was apparently safe with Kylie. I said that it must some comfort that the pills showed that Kylie understood the risks. I added that I could see why Betty was worried but I was not sure how I could help.

"Kylie looks up ter you," she replied. "I didn't know till the last couple of days but when I 'appened ter mention – Friday mornin' I fink it must've been – that Wendy 'ad told me yer uncle 'ad died she looked reel sad and said it was such a shame, you was such a nice man. And since then she's mentioned a couple more times that yer such a good and kind man and she keeps askin' me if she can do anyfink ter 'elp yer, but I told 'er I couldn't fink of nuffink. But I fort it's good that she looks up ter James, cos she's right, 'e is a good man, an' maybe she'll listen to 'im cos she won't listen ter me an' she don't 'ave no contact wiv 'er farver, yer see."

A stickler for good English myself, I could not but wince as she concluded this speech. She misinterpreted my reaction.

"Yeah, shame, innit? But it can't be 'elped. 'E's married, see? 'Course, I allus knew that but I was young an' 'e was so lovely, I just din't care. An' give 'im 'is due, 'e's bin good to me money-wise," she added, gesturing at the house. "But it ain't the same as a proper family. That's why I worry about Kylie; I can see 'er goin' off the rails same as me."

Dully I registered the irony of being asked to keep Kylie out of the clutches of married men. I said I was not sure how much influence I might have, but I promised to have a word with her. I reflected that I should have to do so anyway, so it might as well be with her mother's blessing. Betty thanked me for agreeing to help and said she would ask Kylie to look in on me as soon as she returned.

I had noted with some relief that although this conversation had lasted some time and we had been standing quite close on either side of the fence, Betty's manner to me had remained reassuringly normal and I had not detected the remotest suspicion of any dreamy, wide-eyed gaze. This was good news, of course, but it increased my confusion about how FUCK worked.

Returning to the front room, I could see at once that Kylie was coming slowly back to life. She was still lying flat on her back on the floor, but she moved her head very slightly when she heard me come in and she announced, "Fuck.'

Very accurate diagnosis, I thought. "Kylie,' I said aloud, "are you all right?"

She seemed to take a long time to consider this. In the end she came out with, "Fuck me," and lapsed into blissful post-orgasmic silence.

I was shocked to find a slowly stiffening bulge in my trousers telling me that what she had uttered as a meaningless expletive was maybe not such a bad idea. "Kylie?" I enquired again. There was no reaction at all; she had drifted back into a more profound trance. I looked down at her. Flat on her back, legs a little apart, spunk oozing from her cunt (beautifully clean-shaven, I noticed for the first time), she gazed blankly at the ceiling with a vacant expression of total bliss on her face. She was utterly helpless before me.

It would be rape. I knew it would. There was no way I could pretend even to myself that she had consented. But the sight of her there, her sheer absolute availability, wiped these thoughts from my mind. I stripped, separated her unresisting tree-trunks of legs, and took her. 

As my cock drove into her there was a gush of displaced spunk from our previous session. She did moan a little at this point, whether with discomfort or pleasure I did not know or care. As I thrust vigorously back and forth her hips seemed to make feeble attempts to respond. But there was no sign of awareness on her face; her occasional gasps were only the result of the pressure on her lungs as I pounded up and down on top of her. 

But when I came, squirting jets of fresh spunk to mix with the stale semen already filling her, her hip movements suddenly became stronger. Then, just as abruptly, she gave another of those huge long moans and relaxed again.

I pulled myself off her and collapsed into a chair. She simply lay there, utterly inert. The only signs she was alive were the shallow rapid breaths and the indescribable expression of ecstasy on her otherwise vacant face. Looking at her, as I slowly recovered, I asked myself what I had allowed myself to do to this healthy and vivacious teenager. What sort of person was I becoming? I knew my sexual urges were still getting stronger, and it seemed now that I was willing to be increasingly selfish about satisfying them. I had some excuse for so much sex with Wendy – after all, the sternest moralist could hardly criticise me for desiring my wife – and I could plausibly tell myself that Connie (both times) and Kylie (the first time) had led me on shamelessly (not much of a justification, I know). But there was no excuse for what had just happened; I had used Kylie's insensate body purely for the selfish satisfaction of my animal lust. It was as if I had the arrogance to think that I was entitled to take any woman I wanted.

I suddenly sat up. That was it! Any woman I wanted! So that was what Uncle Albert had done! Somehow, god knew how, FUCK was tailored so that it would affect only those women that I wanted. I rapidly reviewed the extraordinary events of the last few days. The three women that had succumbed – Wendy, Connie, and Kylie – were all women that I desired. Even though in Kylie's case my desire had been stimulated by the FUCK coursing through my system, it had undoubtedly become very real. And as soon as I had spent any amount of time physically near these women, they had been overcome by lust for me. On the other hand, men and undesirable women seemed immune however long they spent in my company; this explained the lack of effect on Brian and Linda at the office, Betty just now, the solicitor Mr Lucas, and various other people I had been close to on trains and elsewhere.

This also helped to account for the only ambiguous case, namely Fran. True, I had spent a lot of time closeted with her on Wednesday and it had obviously had some effect, but nothing like so dramatically as with Connie. This made sense: I was very fond of Fran, but mostly in a paternal way; I was aware she was very pretty and I loved her accent but she was not entirely my type and any sexual feeling for her was relatively low-key. Connie, on the other hand, I had fancied like mad for weeks.

At long last, I felt, I was beginning to understand what was happening to me. If I wanted a woman, any woman at all, all I had to do was contrive to get near her and stay near her for a reasonable amount of time. Then she was mine. She would be helpless to resist. "On reflection," it suddenly occurred to me, "Fran is more fanciable than I thought. I can't wait to try it out on her."

I jumped to my feet, utterly appalled. How could such a thought have entered my mind? My lovely Fran was not like Connie and Kylie; she played by the rules (as I had always considered myself to do), and she had a great professional career ahead of her, doubtless with a nice middle-class husband and kids along the way. Horror swept over me that I should have contemplated even for a second taking all that away from her, just for my own carnal pleasure. "No," I said firmly (but not aloud, for the still-entranced Kylie was beginning to show faint signs of awareness). "Wendy, Connie and Kylie are enough woman for any man. Fran is sacred."

After a while I became aware of a growing feeling that the still-helpless Kylie looked very sexy and desirable lying there oozing with my juice. I had expected this. I took a firm hand with myself. I went upstairs to the bedroom and had a very determined wank. It was hardly the same as sex with a real woman, such as the one lying downstairs ripe for the taking, but I stuck to my task and was eventually rewarded by a great outgushing of spunk. At once I felt the sexual imperative ebb away. I took this as a sign that if I was careful maybe I could manage the consequences of FUCK, and I was also feeling quite pleased with myself for unravelling at least part of its mystery. 

When I returned downstairs Kylie was definitely taking more notice. She was still lying in the same position but she turned her head when I came in and she gave me a gaze of unqualified adoration. "Oh, James," she managed to sigh eventually.

"You sound like a girl in a Bond film," I replied.

She managed some sort of a chuckle. It was some time before I could get anything really coherent from her, but slowly I pieced together the story from her point of view. She told me that it seemed inexplicable to her now, but she had never thought very much of me one way or the other until a few days ago, when she had been sunbathing in the garden when she should have been at school. 

On hearing this confession of truancy I remembered to look shocked and disapproving. This seemed to dismay her. "But James, I know it's wrong but it's so fucking boring and all the teachers hate me. My mum'd kill me if she knew."

"Never mind that now," I replied. "Tell me what happened when you were sunbathing."

"I had this unbelievable sexy dream," she said. "It was absolutely fucking fantastic. When I came I almost exploded. And it was you, James, the man in my dream was you. I've dreamt of you again every night since, and in the day I've just wanted and wanted to be with you and do it – you know, make love – with you. That's why I've been watching out for you all the time. That's how I saw you and the black lady."

"And you listened too?"

"Yes. Whenever I was on my own I listened with a glass against the wall. I couldn't believe how much you and Wendy did it. It made me feel so horny. And the black lady too. I knew I mustn't say nuffink to no one –"

" 'I mustn't say anything to anyone.' " This gratuitous correction just slipped out before I could stop it. (Colleagues get me to check their grammar at work.) One might expect an unruly teenager to react with sharp resentment, but in fact she accepted it meekly.

"I knew I mustn't say anything to anyone, but I fort – thought – if the black lady, well, why not me? I watched your house all day yesterday but you never went out and I could hear you doing it, and then today I watched again and when Wendy went out I thought I've gotta see James today, I've gotta. I was out the front trying to think of an excuse to go round when I saw you going out. I felt so horny and I didn't want you to go so I talked to you and –"

"I remember the rest," I assured her.

As she had told this story she had by slow degrees levered herself up on one elbow to face me, and now she attempted to stand. I jumped up to help her. As she got upright, my god, not droplets of spunk but an absolute river of it – a thick, white, sticky river – ran down her thighs. She gasped, and looked at me in even wider-eyed wonder, as if she were unable to believe her luck.

"Oh, James, you are so fucking brill!"

Dully wondering how I was going to explain to Wendy the state of the carpet, I got some tissues and we cleaned her up sufficiently to get her in a chair without ruining it. She sat there drinking me in with fascinated adoration while I marshalled my thoughts.

"Now, Kylie," I said in my firm voice, "there are some things I need you to do for me."

"Oh, anything," she sighed happily; "James, I'd do anything."

"Good," I said. "I want you to go upstairs [she looked joyful] to the bathroom and have a thorough shower [she looked slightly crestfallen, but still eager to comply]. Then put your clothes back on [I wanted no repetition of the Connie incident] – I think they're in the hall – and come back to me here. Quick as you can, please."

I spoke brusquely because I wanted to try another theory I had developed about FUCK. I had already reasoned that its effect on a woman I desired was to create an irresistible craving for me. But once sex had actually taken place, this craving seemed to be supplemented by an overwhelming eagerness to please. Look at the incredible trouble Wendy had taken to do things she thought I would like; while Connie had pledged the absolute subordination of her will to mine. And, so far as I could recall, any direct request addressed to either of them had met with instant compliance. So I decided to test it with Kylie on the grounds that if it worked with an obstreperous teenager it would work with anyone.

I was not disappointed. Without a word she jumped to her feet (still slightly unsteadily) and hurried out of the room and up the stairs, and moments later I heard the shower. I had told her to be thorough and I presume she was because it was some time before the sound of water ceased. Not long after that she reappeared in the front room fully dressed (or what passed for it in her case). 

"Good," I said. Even this curt expression of approval prompted a look of delight. "Now, go home." She looked downcast. "Don't tell anyone where you've been. Your mum is going to tell you to come back here because she wants you to talk to me."

Her face lit up in utter joy. "Are we gonna do it some more?"

I was firm. "No Kylie, we aren't. Not today."

"Don't you like me?"

I could see she was getting ready for the waterworks job that Connie had pulled. This time I was ready for it. I knew my FUCK-fuelled sex drive well enough to be certain that I should be seeing Kylie again, so I simply told her that of course I liked her and yes, we should certainly be enjoying much more of each other's company, but she had to be patient and trust me and above all she must never breathe a word of what had happened. 

She promised.

"Good," I said. "Off you go."

She went, only to return a few minutes later, having formulated a question.

"How did you know my mum was going to say that?"

"She told me earlier. She's worried about you. So am I. Now, listen, Kylie."

So I gave her her orders. It did not matter that school was boring. She went there for education, not entertainment. She was to attend faithfully and apply herself diligently. She was to treat her mother with due respect and let her know where she was going and when she would be back. ("Unless you're coming here, obviously. Then you must invent some lie.") I told her I hated piercing and she was to forget about it, but I missed out the bit about the tarty clothes, which I had decided on reflection I quite liked. And I added an item of my own, about the cigarettes I had seen her smoking in recent months; this must stop at once. She reminded me that her mum was always nagging her to diet. I thought about this for a second, decided the curves would not suit everyone but looked good on her, and told her not to worry about her weight (she looked pleased). It was when I got to the bit about her being "active" that we hit a tricky negotiation.

I had been thinking about this. Kylie was blossoming into womanhood with hormones surging in all directions and it seemed wrong to expect her to confine her "activity" to a middle-aged neighbour with two other women already on the go. I decided I was happy with a share of the cake; I did not want the whole of it. So I came over all modern and told her I understood that growing up was very exciting and she wanted to meet people and have new experiences, but she must be careful.

She looked stunned. "I only want you," she said as if it were ridiculous to imagine otherwise. "Those other boys –" She made an expression of scorn.

In the end I told her that it was her life and her body. If she wanted to keep it for me, she could; but that was her choice, not mine. 

"Well if it's my choice," she said firmly, "it's not my body any more. I'm giving it to you. It's yours, James."

And there we left it.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 09



IX 

"If someone could give you a pill"

By the time Wendy came home my batteries were thoroughly recharged and we headed straight upstairs for the usual mindblowing fuck. Later on, when she finally made it to the front room, she looked dismayed at the horrible mark on the carpet. (I had tried to do something about it before she came back, but with only limited success.) I told her I had spilt something.

"What on earth was it?" she asked.

I decided to try the power of FUCK once more. "Don't worry about it," I said casually.

"OK," she smiled contentedly, and cheerfully headed to the kitchen to cook and clean. Part of me missed the old forthright and obstinate Wendy, but I had to admit the new version had advantages. And there seemed no doubt which Wendy was happier, a point I put to the test over dinner. I reminded her of our conversation on Friday night, the one about how her outlook had changed.

"How would you feel," I asked, "if someone could give you a pill that would make you go back to the way you were before?"

"Ugh," she shuddered. "I'd throw it in his face. I was so bloody miserable then."

The following day, Monday, was Albert's funeral. I expected it to be a grim affair and so it was. It revealed the sad but perhaps unsurprising truth that Albert had indeed been a man without friends. Mr Lucas the solicitor put in an appearance but apart from him I was the only mourner unconnected with Albert's employer. Even my precious Wendy let me down. She had booked the day off but on Friday one of her colleagues had kindly gone sick and left her with some emergency to cope with (she worked at the head office of a big retailer). So I was left to make small talk with a smattering of Albert's scientific colleagues and a couple of management types. 

We kept the formalities brief. Someone from the company made a short speech about Albert's brilliance and unwavering dedication to scientific truth; then I followed with some suitably lapidary remarks recalling his disdain for wealth and fame and praising his single-minded commitment to his goal in life (fortunately no one asked me to specify what this might have been). The whole ceremony was uncompromisingly secular. Albert had never said anything about religion, but somehow we all knew he would have wanted God kept out of it.

The company had laid on a few refreshments afterwards in one of its meeting-rooms (the least it could do, I thought, after all the money it had made). Cautiously, I took the opportunity to sound one or two of the scientists to see whether Albert might have taken any of them into his confidence about his greatest project. I could only drop oblique hints, of course, but they would have resonated with anyone with the least inkling of Albert's schemes. But I got nothing but blank looks. It was clear that Albert, true to form, had kept his work to himself. So as soon as I decently could I left the rest of them to exchange company gossip and headed for home.

The truth is I was dying for a shag. My need for sexual release was growing more frequent. Wendy and I had fucked overnight and first thing, which of course was wholly routine by now, and I had slipped off to the gents twice at the crematorium and once at the wake, but I could feel the sap rising afresh. And this time, I thought happily, it would not be another of these mechanical wanks; a real woman awaited me. Wendy had promised that morning that after sorting out her work crisis she would leave at lunchtime and be waiting when I got home. And we both knew what that meant.

It was half past three when I returned home, complete with raging stiffy, so where was Wendy? Glumly I went upstairs to do the necessary by myself. As I got undressed it occurred to me to check for messages on the bedside phone. 

I heard Wendy's voice. "James, darling, I'm so sorry. Those bloody women in accounts have completely bitched last quarter's sales figures. It'll take all day to sort out. You'll have to manage without me I'm afraid. Expect me about seven or eight. 'Bye, darling." The angry tone and intemperate language, both untypical of her, spoke of her frustration.

My own frustration, meanwhile, was projecting angrily in front of me demanding relief. I lay on the bed and contemplated it as it reached skywards. I had (if I may set modesty aside for a moment) never been a small man; but what stood before me now was beyond all normal experience. A slowly deepening red in colour, it must have been at least thirteen inches long. The girth, too, had massively increased. I experimentally put my wrist alongside it for comparison; the wrist, I could see, still had the advantage, but the cock was not that far behind. As even more blood engorged it, the skin, already pulled far back from the glistening red helmet, became painfully tight. My need had become desperate. I reached out a hand to apply the necessary stimulation.

At that moment a sudden inspiration flashed across my mind. Kylie! Of course! By now she was quite legitimately out of school. I grabbed the phone and stabbed into it the cellphone number I had presciently got from her yesterday. She answered promptly. "Kylie –" I began.

"James!" She almost squealed in delight. "Oh, James, I've been thinking of you all day and –"

"Never mind that," I interrupted brusquely. "What are you doing now? Is there anyone with you?"

"No. I'm on me own, walking home from school. James, when can we –?"

"Kylie, I'm at home. I need you to come round here right now, quick as you can. I'll be upstairs. I'll leave the front door unlocked."

She gasped as if her dearest wish had come true, which to be honest I think it had, and I heard her running footsteps before she thought to disconnect the phone. I put the front door on the latch and returned to bed. I knew I should have felt some shame about summoning a schoolgirl to meet my needs and the brazen way I had left her in no doubt of what I wanted, but my desire was so powerful that I no longer cared about anything except that I should soon have a real live cunt to spunk into.

After what seemed an age but was actually less than five minutes I heard the front door open, closely followed by a sound like a ton of coal falling upstairs, if such a thing were possible. Then Kylie burst into the room.

As she entered, the sight of my cock stopped her dead in her tracks. Her jaw dropped and her eyes bulged as if they might pop out of their sockets and roll across the floor. 

Kylie was a picture. She was covered in sweat and her face was beetroot red from the unaccustomed exercise of running all the way from school. Her uniform, which struggled at the best of times to contain her increasing bulk, was in terrible disarray, her tie loose, the shirt untucked with several buttons undone and her white socks round her ankles. The straw boater that the school forced the girls to wear in summer was at a crazy angle on her head. She looked frighteningly young.

"Oh, wow," she finally murmured in awe, her eyes glued to my giant cock. She raised a hand to remove her tie but I had a sexy thought and stopped her.

"No, Kylie," I said. "Just the knickers. Leave everything else where it is."

With a lascivious smile and without for a moment taking her eyes off my cock she rummaged under her skirt and dropped the knickers. Then she ran across the room and leapt on top of me, pressing her lips to mine with lust-fuelled passion. I had no time to respond. There was only one thing that mattered. With both hands I pulled up her skirt and roughly seized the waistband to hold her in optimum position and I rammed that angry cock far inside her.

She instantly threw her head back with a sharp cry, her body suddenly tensed with shock and pain. I knew I must have hurt her but I could no longer control myself. I withdrew my cock a little only in order to drive it violently within her again. At this she came; her body shook and quivered as the tension was released: "Aaayy – eeeeee - uurghhh!" she cried. I scarcely noticed as my cock hammered away, desperate for satisfaction. It could not be long delayed as a series of frenzied thrusts stimulated great spurts of goo to fill her cunt. Her hips began to pound up and down and I realised that she was hitting a second orgasm, only moments after the first. I continued to pump cum into her as if my supply were endless, but a final blast exhausted me and sent Kylie over the edge as a tidal wave of flesh swept through her vast body. And then finally we were both still. 

A little later I had tipped her onto her back and was sitting on the bed looking at her. She was still in her uniform, with the skirt gathered up so that she was entirely naked below the waist except for her black frumpy school shoes and the white socks round her ankles. Spunk flowed from her shaven pussy and trickled into the void between her immense thighs. She had lost one or two shirt buttons and most of the rest had come undone so her breasts and her huge bra were exposed. And on her face was the same blank yet utterly joyful expression I was coming to know so well, with its glassy gaze and gormless smile. 

Once she had come down sufficiently for conversation to be possible I told her I thought I might have hurt her and I was sorry.

"It doesn't matter," she assured me. "It hurt a bit when you first went in, but you wanted me. That's all I care about, James – what you want."

She obviously hoped to stay for seconds but with noble self-denial I made her take a shower and sent her home. I was not sure when Wendy was coming back and I knew she would seek my immediate attention. (She got it too.) I was also conscious that I needed time to prepare for what promised to be a big day tomorrow; I was back at work and should have both Connie and Fran to worry about. 

I did not know the half of it. Looking back on it now, I think of that Tuesday as the day my life really changed.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 10



X

"Nice top"

I wanted to get to the office early since there was bound to be a lot of work to catch up with, to say nothing of Connie and Fran, so instead of walking the mile to the station I caught the bus. This meant that I saw her before she saw me.

There she was, standing outside the station, oblivious to the admiring glances she attracted from each passing male and peering anxiously at every possible approach route. I was shocked to recognise none other than my girlfriend from the train, the pretty blonde with the button nose and those wonderful tits. It was so unexpected to see her here, behaving in such a strange way, that it took me a few moments to realise that she must be looking for me.

Of course: I remembered now. Last week we had been sitting side by side for the whole journey into town. I remembered the way she had kept looking at me, and how embarrassed I had felt. I also remembered her confused behaviour as I got off the train. I had thought she was disgusted as my FUCK-enhanced cock so obviously filled my trousers; only now did it dawn on me that she had been succumbing to the irresistible influence I now exercised over any woman I wanted. "Oh great," I moaned inwardly. "Just what I need. Another gorgeous woman desperate to sacrifice her young life at the altar of my lust." 

She did not see me until I was getting off the bus. Then she started so violently I thought for a moment she was going to fall; but she steadied herself and stood, feet close together, staring at me with wide eyes, her mouth agape and her hands clasped under her chin. The expression "her heart was in her mouth": her posture simply summed it up.

I had no idea how I could release her from the spell but I thought I had to try. I walked directly up to her. Apart from angling her head up slightly to stay focused on my face as I approached (I was a good foot taller), she did not move a muscle. "Hello," I said, smiling. "I've seen you on the train, haven't I?"

She made no reply. She looked confused and maybe even scared. 

I extended my hand. At first the gesture seemed to be completely lost on her, but after a long pause she dropped her right hand into mine (leaving her left hand incongruously parked under her chin) and gave me by far the feeblest handshake I have ever encountered. Her hand was so small, even childlike, that my engulfing hand seemed enormous; and when I let go, her arm fell limp by her side. The poor child was quite clearly beside herself.

"I'm James Walker," I informed her. 

There was another long pause. I could see she knew she ought to respond and desperately wanted to but she struggled to summon the words. "Alicia Benson", she announced eventually and broke into a relieved smile that she had been able to articulate her name so successfully.

"Well, Alicia, I think we should celebrate knowing each other's names. I'll buy you a coffee."

We found a table in the coffee shop adjoining the station and I learnt for the first time of the agonies to which I had unknowingly subjected this poor girl over the last few days. Since our tube journey last week I had quite frankly not given her a thought (having much else on my mind), but her life had been dominated by thoughts of me. 

It took time to piece things together because unless gently prompted she would lapse into gazing at me with silent wonder, but I was able to confirm that her glances on the train had signified not disgust but a rapidly increasing fascination with this irresistibly attractive older man sitting next to her. She knew she must not stare but it was impossible to keep her eyes away from him. He looked so fine: loving, kindly and wise. Who was he? When she got to her usual stop she felt impelled to stay on the train and see where he got off; and when he did, she followed him to his workplace.

She explained that she could think of no excuse for following me into the building and knew she could not hang around outside all day so she had reluctantly gone to work, returning as soon as she could to stake the place out and follow me. But she had got there too late, and missed me.

"And if you had seen me and followed me home," I asked, "what then?"

"I don't know," she replied, looking miserable and confused. "I didn't think that far ahead. The only thing I could think of was how much I needed to see you again."

She told me that she had been aware she had seen me before, but somehow she had previously overlooked my magnificent qualities. This point, in fact, seemed to perplex and embarrass her more than anything; how could she have been so blind? There must have been something the matter with her. At any rate, she knew that I joined the train two stops down the line from her so next morning she caught a much earlier train than usual and got off at my station and waited. 

"That was so awful," she recalled. "When you didn't appear I was gripped by this horrible fear that I was never going to see you again. I've waited at the station and outside your office every day since but I just knew it was hopeless and I'd lost you. I was so angry and frustrated. I'd been right next to you; I could have touched you; and I'd lost you. I've had that agonised sense of loss ever since," she went on, starting to look upset; "until this morning, of course," she concluded, breaking into a huge relieved smile of pure happiness. 

I was much moved by her story. I was aware, of course, that this was all the effect of FUCK, and I was guiltily conscious that by staying so close to her I must be making it worse. I had started by looking for some opening that would allow me to weaken her fascination for me but as she had told me her story I had realised that FUCK's grip on her was far stronger than I had imagined.

I had to admit I was becoming increasingly fascinated myself. I had always known she sported remarkably large breasts considering her youth and relatively small frame, but in the past their bulk had usually been contained by modest attire, her top often being done up right to the neck. But today, maybe in honour of the continuing fine weather, she wore a white cotton shirt with a wide low halter neck that exposed her bosoms in all their pale flawless glory. They drew my gaze irresistibly. Halfway through her story she had suddenly noticed where my eyes were resting. She blushed, smiled modestly, and leant forward to push her bust more firmly in my direction.

"Nice top," I remarked appreciatively.

She gave a gratified giggle as she realised my double meaning. "I'm glad you like it," she smiled, pressing her arms to her sides to force the tits still farther forward. 

My conscience came up against those tits and surrendered unconditionally. It was no contest. For all my good intentions when we sat down, by now I had a raging hard-on (fortunately invisible from Alicia under the table) and I could think of nothing but how I was going to have my way with her.

"I don't understand what's happening," she said bemusedly. "The last few days have been so strange. I'm not -- I'm not going mad, am I?"

I reassured her on this point, and asked her to tell me more about herself. I learnt she was eighteen (spot on, I thought), she came from Worcester and had been undecided whether to go on to university after finishing college, so she had come to London to temp for a year, earn a bit of money, and see the big city while she thought about her future. She was lodging with old friends of her parents.

This might be an opening, I told myself. "Is that all right?" I asked.

"Well, the room's a bit small and they could be more exciting, I suppose, but yes, it's fine."

"And," I went on, taking the bull by the horns, "now that you've finally met me, how do you feel?"

She sat back and let out a huge sigh. (I was fascinated to watch the way her tits responded when she shifted position.) "Oh, James," she said finally. "What can I say? You're just so much more wonderful that I ever imagined anyone could be. I just wish I could be with you for ever. Please, please say I can stay with you."

I was not quite certain what she meant by this, and I am not sure she knew either. I waved my left hand in front of her so she could see the wedding ring.

"Oh, I know," she said sadly. "You needn't rub it in. I know it's just a silly dream but [another huge sigh] it would be so wonderful if I could be with you always. It's all I've been thinking of. At least," she concluded, with an air of resigned acceptance of reality, "at least say that I can see you again."

I said she could and took her number, promising to call her in the next day or two. I told her we had to go to work now and I thought we should take separate trains because people might think it odd if they saw her staring at me (we were getting our share of curious looks in the coffee shop). She told me I was so thoughtful.

As I got up to go she put aside her untouched coffee and sought permission to ask a personal question.

"Go ahead," I said, resuming my seat.

She paused for a long time. 

"Your wife," she said finally. "Do you love her?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "I love her very much," I said truthfully.

She nodded sadly, as if she had expected this answer. Then she blushed, and stammered, "Have you -- would you ever -- I mean, could you ever be unfaithful to her?"

"Alicia," I replied sternly, "that is a very personal question to someone you've only just met."

She looked horribly embarrassed but was clearly determined to get something off her considerable chest. "Because if you could," she said, "and if you wanted, I, er, I could, I mean ..." And she trailed off. When I made no reply she dropped her eyes and looked crushed. "I've upset you, haven't I? I'm sorry. Oh, James, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me but I saw you leaving and I just panicked ... I've blown it, haven't I?"

"Alicia," I said, getting up again. "I've got to go now. You must go too. Catch the next train after me. And keep that phone switched on. I'll ring you soon, I promise."

Looking up at me with big round blue eyes moist with emotion, she seemed unable to speak but gave a series of rapid nods to show she had understood. I left without looking back but I felt those eyes follow me every step of the way. As I boarded my train I saw her arrive on the platform, her eyes still fixed on me as the train pulled out. I reflected that I was becoming so accustomed to the effects of FUCK that it had not surprised me to hear a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl, who I felt sure had never put a foot out of line in her life before, so abjectly offer herself to a married man of nearly fifty.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 11



XI

The "M" word

I was now late for work, of course. Immediately I arrived I hurried to the gents for the wank of which my conversation with Alicia had left me sorely in need. As I made my way to my office a colleague mentioned that Fran had been looking for me. "Connie, too," someone added. 

I got to my desk and switched on the computer. Of course there was a vast stack of emails. I opened first the one from Brian about the board report. In it he congratulated Fran and me on a job thoroughly well done, so that was one thing off my mind. I continued to check emails in the knowledge that someone would be knocking on my door any moment. I wondered who would win the race.

It was Connie. Shutting the door behind her, she hurried into my arms as I stood up to greet her and we enjoyed a long and passionate kiss. Despite her evident pleasure at seeing me, she seemed slightly nervous and edgy so I asked whether something was troubling her. Had the college reported her to the company for her disappearing act on Friday?

"Oh, they don't care," she replied dismissively, "so long as they get their money. Anyway it was my last week. No, James, it's much worse than that. You'll be so upset." She had to pause before she could continue. "It's Tommy," she said.

"What's happened? Has he been bad to you?" I was surprised how protective I suddenly felt.

"No, no, nothing like that," she replied, looking down as if in shame. "Oh, James, I don't know if I can tell you."

I was already late in and I had a feeling this would be a busy day, so I wanted none of this beating about the bush. I remembered my theory that a direct order never fails and said she must tell me, whatever it was.

She complied at once, speaking in a low but clear voice. "When I left you Friday I went home like you told me. I went to bed early saying I had a headache because I wanted to be alone to think of you. I played with myself in bed and imagined I was with you, and when I came it was fantastic. Tommy must have heard me because he appeared at the door in just his shirt and he had a big hard-on. He smiled at me. 'You've found a cure for your headache, then?' he said and got in the bed with me.

"Oh, James, I didn't know what to do. I didn't want him but I'd never refused him before and he kissed me and got on top of me and –" She dropped her eyes again and took a deep breath before continuing. "I couldn't stop thinking of you but that made me feel horny and then he was inside of me and I felt myself responding and –" She broke off and looked at me pleadingly. "Oh, James, the sex was amazing! Not so good as with you," she hastened to add, "not nearly so good, but far better than I'd ever had with Tommy or any guy I'd had before. But James, you must believe me, it was Tommy in bed with me but in my mind it was you I was fucking, it was you!" 

I motioned her to keep her voice down (these internal office walls are not the most soundproof). As she went on to tell me that subsequently she and Tommy had been very active (as Betty Rico would have put it) but she had always been thinking of me, I examined my own state of mind to analyse how I took this news. Was I jealous?

I decided that in all conscience I could answer no. I still wanted her, of course, and had office etiquette permitted it I would have spreadeagled her on the desk and taken her there and then. But the news that she had been with Tommy did not upset me; if I was not in a position to use her, I felt, I had no objection if she wanted to take her pleasure elsewhere. So I explained to her that it was all right, what she had done was only natural and I was not angry with her.

She looked relieved but not satisfied. "But James, it's you I want to fuck, not Tommy. The way you made me feel on Friday," she said with a strange smile that managed to be at once wistful and lascivious, "that's what I want. James, when can we fuck?"

I had been wondering about this myself. So far I had not come up with the answer. I thought of taking her to a nearby hotel at lunch or after work but it would not be ideal – some colleague might easily see us – and besides, always a thrifty man, I resented the amount I should have to pay for an hour or two's use of the room. I was also put off by the knowing looks I should get from hotel staff as this fat bald middle-aged man turned up with a sexy black girl half his age.

So I told Connie I was working on it and she would have to be patient. I also took the opportunity to give her a talking-to about getting to work punctually and pulling her weight in the office. Then I kissed her warmly and sent her on her way.

Scarcely was she out of my office before there was a knock and Fran marched in without waiting for permission. I knew FUCK had affected her but was unsure how much. I had thought she might be flustered and confused but not a bit of it. With an air of resolution about her, albeit tinged with nervousness, she took a chair and looked me straight in the eye. "James, we must talk."

"First of all," I said, "let me thank you for the report."

"Never mind about the report," she said brusquely. "I want to talk about us."

I looked over her shoulder to check she had firmly closed the door. Her forceful mood had me on the back foot. "Us?" I queried.

"Yes, us. James, I love you."

I looked at her but could not speak. She seemed nervous and embarrassed but also thoroughly determined. I got the impression she had rehearsed and rehearsed what she was going to say when she saw me and she was going through with it no matter what. I also realised that she was the first FUCK victim (apart from Wendy, of course) to use the "L" word. And then she put the cap on it with the "M" word.

"James, darling, I love you and I want to marry you." Having got this off her chest she let out a relieved breath and looked more relaxed. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me and waited patiently for a reply.

Appalled and completely at a loss for words, I could think of nothing but the same trick I had pulled on Alicia. I raised my left hand and displayed the wedding band. It did not work so well this time.

"Yes, yes, I know," she said impatiently. "I've thought about that a lot. But what can I do?"

As I gathered my thoughts I remembered that Fran had met Wendy: twice in fact, once at the company's Christmas dinner ("Partners welcome") and once when Wendy had to come up to town for some appointment and looked in at the office. Both times they had chatted in the most amicable way and after the second meeting Wendy had talked to me about possibly inviting her for dinner. "But Fran, think," I said. "You know Wendy. She's a lovely person. Just think about the implications for her – for all of us – of what you're saying."

"I have thought about it," she insisted, "and it's a rotten situation. It's so unfair. I've got nothing against Wendy – I like her a lot – but it's her or me."

I needed to stop this before it went any further. "Then it's her," I said firmly.

I expected anger or tears, but instead her mood seemed to soften. "Puir darling James," she said feelingly, her Scottish accent asserting itself, "I knew you'd say that. You're such a guid and lovely man and Wendy's your wife. It's only right and proper that you'd stand by her. And I know this must be terribly sudden for you, darling, but," she went on, the note of determination returning to her voice, "I've had days and days to think about it and I know that you're the loveliest and finest man in the worrld and there can never ever be anyone else for me. I want to be your wife."

"Fran," I replied despairingly, "you know I've been married to Wendy for twenty years."

"Exactly," she replied. "So now it's my turrn." (Even in my worry and confusion I found a moment to wonder how on earrth Scots manage to rroll their "R"s like that.)

I tried appealing to her sense of right and wrong. "Fran, you've always been such a good and decent person. I can't believe you're threatening to break up a happy marriage."

She did have the shame to look a little guilty. "Oh, I know everyone will say I'm the scarlet woman," she admitted, holding up a handful of that glorious red hair and smiling sadly at her own rueful joke, "and they'll all be sorry for Wendy. And they'll be right. She doesn't deserve it; it's not her fault. But I didn't mean to fall in love; I always liked you and respected you but I never saw it coming and I don't see what I could have done about it. So you can't say it's my fault either. It's no one's fault, except," and her earnestness relaxed for a moment into a dazzling smile, "maybe yours for being so attractive, darling. It's just bad luck on everyone, but there it is."

"Fran, please don't call me 'darling'. You must know I like you too," I assured her (and under the desk my swelling cock was telling me that it shared the sentiment), "and I'm deeply flattered, really I am, but this is wrong. You can't make me leave my wife."

"Oh, I know I can't," she said unexpectedly. "It's up to you. You're loyal to Wendy because you're such a wonderful man, it's why I love you. But James, darling," she continued, defiantly using the forbidden endearment and looking me straight in the eye in dead earnest, "I can make you happier than Wendy can and I'm telling you now, I'm going to do everything I can to make you mine. That's my decision. What you do about it, stay with her or come with me, that's yuir decision."

She stood up. "Well, that's it," she said as if concluding a formal business discussion. "I thought I ought to let you know how things stand." And with that she marched out again.

She left me staring after her. I was trying desperately to think. It was idle to pretend that the conversation had gone as I had envisaged it; instead, she had brought a script I knew nothing about and we had followed it throughout. My cock was telling me to get after her and hang the consequences, while part of my mind wondered how she would react if I suggested an affair. 

I took hold of myself: "Fran is sacred," I muttered. I had to find some way of releasing her from my spell but I was too randy to think straight. As I headed to the gents for relief I noticed Connie busying herself with some paperwork, looking for all the world a contented and conscientious employee. The sight of her reminded me how much more satisfying a real woman would be than yet another mechanical wank and for a moment I thought again of taking her to an hotel. 

Then it suddenly struck me that for about the same money an alternative option was available, one offering none of the dangers of sneaking off to hotels. I changed course from the gents and headed for the exit, signing out for a two-hour lunch. (This would attract no attention; I often lunched with clients.)

I want straight to the tube and fifteen minutes found me in the West End, where I was reasonably safe from chance meetings with colleagues or business associates. I was looking in telephone boxes for the prostitutes' calling-cards that have become such a striking feature of London life in recent times. Over the years I had often glanced idly at these, as you do, and had found some of them quite tempting. In the past a combination of apprehension, thrift, and husbandly loyalty had always enabled me to resist them, but today I was in earnest.

Maybe Connie was still on my mind for it was a black girl that caught my eye. Her card proclaimed 'genuine photo', an oft-made claim I had always been a bit cynical about. The card, unlike some of the others, showed the girl's face clearly, with its delightfully cheeky come-to-bed grin. She looked in her mid-twenties and, without being fat, had plenty of those curves in the right places. With trembling hands I dialled the number. 

A rich chocolaty seductive voice answered and directed me to a nearby basement flat. I found it easily and, feeling thoroughly frightened, in fact fully expecting some toughs to jump out and mug me, I rang the bell. The door was opened by a skinny and unattractive black woman of about forty. She must have seen my face fall because she said, in the same sexy voice I had heard over the phone, "I'm the maid. Are you Jim?" It took me a second to remember that I had given my name in a form that I never otherwise used, mainly because Wendy so detested it. "Come in, dearie. The girl will be out in a sec. She's just getting ready. Gina!" she called. 

A door behind her opened and there emerged the original of the photograph, wearing a very see-through red baby-doll and that sexy grin – and nothing else. She was possibly a year or two older than I had judged from the photograph, maybe twenty-seven, but that did not alter the fact that she was highly fuckable.

Her face lit up at seeing me; anyone would think we had been friends for years. "Hi, Jim honey," she said brightly; adding, "I love men with ties." She grabbed mine and thereby led me to a slightly down-at-heel bedroom, where she sat me down on the double bed. "Right, hun, what'll it be?" she asked, rattling off a list of services and prices. To be honest I did not know what half of them signified – "reverse oral"? "french"? – but I knew that what I was there for was called "full service" so I paid her for that, plus a tip for the maid, and she disappeared with the money. I sat on the bed, feeling out of my depth and wondering whether this was the point at which I got mugged.

She returned after a moment or two and seemed surprised that I was still dressed. Apologising for what was obviously a social gaffe, I started to disrobe and she gave me an acute look and said, "Is it your first time, hun? Paying for it, I mean?"

I admitted it and she came over all maternal. "Don't worry, honey, you'll be fine. Gina will look after you." But at this point I freed my raging cock from my clothing and she drew in her breath, staring as it stood forth in its proud eminence. "Oh, my!" she said eventually. "You are a big boy, aren't you hun?"

"I bet you say that to all the guys," I replied.

She regained her professional poise: "Yes, hun, that's right," she smiled; adding, "I don't usually mean it, though."

Naked now, we embraced on the bed and I kissed her buxom black curves. I eventually tore myself away from her beautifully ample breasts, and worked up to her neck (she giggled gratifyingly as I hit a ticklish spot). But when I went to kiss her lips she turned her head away and wagged a finger playfully but firmly in my face. "Not on the lips, hun." This was a big and unexpected disappointment, but I obediently made my way to other parts of the body where those ripe lips would not tempt me.

I was hugely randy and desperate to get inside her, but it was, I thought, the only chance I was ever going to get to explore her very comely body, so I held off as long as I could. It suddenly struck me that her manner was changing. Up to this point, she had been perfectly pleasant and friendly but also very much in control. But now she was writhing in my arms as I kissed her inner thighs and her breathing was becoming irregular. She gasped out, "I need you … oh Jim, I need you inside me now." I assumed this was part of the normal show and determined not to be rushed, but as I made my way back to her breasts she suddenly grabbed me with surprising strength and pulled me toward her and planted her lips passionately against mine. She then groped for my cock, held it firmly, and made an accurate and skilful upward thrust with her hips so that it was forced into her cunt. It was all I could do to maintain the kiss as her body tensed, her back arched up and then everything relaxed as she came.

I could see the unused condom lying on the bedside table where she had left it handy before we began. At some level I realised that we had departed from the usual script and that FUCK was responsible; but my cock's need for release overrode everything else as I thrust in and out. Within moments my pent-up juices surged forth and Gina orgasmed again, far more powerfully this time.

As I climbed off, my passion spent, my brain began to function properly again and I cursed my stupidity in having chosen this way of releasing my sexual tension. For there she lay, just as Connie and Kylie had lain, spunk oozing from her cunt, motionless and glassy-eyed on some far cloud of sexual ecstasy. How would the maid react to this? How could I possibly explain it? 

I had to escape. I got dressed quickly and left the bedroom. The maid looked up from her Mills & Boon. "All right, dearie? You off now?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I replied, heading for the exit. I think my urgency betrayed me, because she got up and looked round the bedroom door.

"Gina?" she said. "Oh gawd! What have you done to her? You bastard!" she shouted.

I was already out of the front door and halfway up the steps to street level. As I went I heard her still yelling, "Bastard! Bastard!" Mercifully as I hit the street a cab passed by and I hailed it.

As the cab pulled away I sat back appalled. The way I had allowed my raging libido to override my good sense and judgment was vivid proof of the wise observation of Robin Williams: "God gave man a brain and a penis, but unfortunately not enough blood to operate them both at once." It was utter folly to have acted on the passing whim to visit a prostitute when a moment's forethought would have warned me what might happen. I was aware, of course, that I had done Gina no lasting harm, but the maid was hardly to know. I thanked my stars that she had not reached the street in time to take the number of the cab, but I took it as a warning to be careful. It was in a sombre mood that I returned to the office to the unwelcome news that Brian had called a managers' meeting.

He was apt to do this from time to time at very short notice, I suspected more to prove to himself that he was the boss than for any practical benefit. As usual, we discussed not much at some considerable length; by the time we finished I was feeling that familiar urge again, but this time I had the sense to relieve it in the gents.

During the dull parts of the meeting (i.e., the whole of it) I had had time to think things over. I was deeply concerned by the effect I had had on Fran, and I had no idea what she planned to do to get me away from Wendy so she could marry me. Maybe – frightening thought – she had already begun. Somehow, for everyone's sake – hers, mine, Wendy's – I had to find a way to break her fascination with me. I could think of one thing only that might work. Maybe if I came clean, if I admitted frankly what I had done to her, then just maybe she would find within herself the strength to break free. It was a desperate gamble, but I could see no choice.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 12



"Bloody selfish"

When I got back to my office I buzzed Fran and asked her to come and see me. She arrived promptly and shut the door. "I know what this is about," she said as she took a chair, "and you can save your breath. I've made up my mind, James, and nothing you could say will change it." Then she looked more closely at my face and her manner softened abruptly. "James, you poor darling, you look so upset. What's the matter?"

"Fran," I said, too apprehensive and ashamed to look her in the eye but determined to go through with my plan, "I have a terrible confession to make." 

And I made it. I told her everything.

Well, I need to qualify that statement slightly. Uncle Albert's name for his little project was a joke she would definitely not have appreciated, while Connie and Kylie featured only as "this girl I know" and "this other girl", and I was far too ashamed to admit how I had spent my lunch break, but otherwise I held nothing back. She followed the story carefully, at first with sympathy as I described Albert's death, then with pleasure (she tried to disguise it but I knew her too well) as I recounted my row with Wendy; but as the tale went on she shifted first to puzzlement and finally to a kind of wry contempt.

"So," she said scornfully when I had finished, "let me see if I've got this straight. You've taken a magic potion that means women can't resist you, and once you've been to bed with them they adore you so much they'll do anything you say. Is that right?"

"Well," I said, rather deflated by this brutally succinct summing-up of the traumatic events of the last week, "I don't think magic has anything to do with it. But otherwise, yes, I suppose that's it."

"Oh, James," she sighed, "I appreciate your loyalty to Wendy and everything but if you wanted to put me off with some story wouldn't it have been a lot simpler to tell me she was dying of cancer or something?"

I groaned inwardly. She was right. It was an excellent suggestion and would have been well worth trying; it might at least have bought me a little time. I suppose recent events had been so vividly real to me that I had forgotten how incredible they would seem to anyone else. 

Fran was settling nicely into "scoff" mode. "I suppose I ought to be flattered in a way, if what I said has [she paused for an instant to find the telling word] discombobulated you so much that you'd invent a cock-and-bull story like this. And to think I was afraid that you'd just shrug off what I said this morning; you must have had such a lot of women after you over the years, it might be water off a duck's back to you. But James, darling, no matter how much a shock it was when I told you how I felt, surely you never thought you could fob me off with such a farrago of nonsense? I'd sooner believe you'd been abducted by aliens. In fact," she went on sarcastically, relishing my discomfiture, "that was it, wasn't it darling? Nasty bug-eyed aliens did some experiment on you to make you irresistible. Come on, darling; you can tell me."

Her air of half-amused disdain was getting on my nerves. I had not, I thought bitterly, worked myself up to an agonising confession, baring my soul, so to speak, to try to save hers, only to be laughed at like this.

"Well," I said crossly, "there's something I can tell you. You've talked about loving me and marrying me but you haven't said anything about fucking me."

I had chosen the word for its shock value; she had never heard such language from me before. And I knew too, as her jaw dropped, that I had touched a raw nerve. I drove home my advantage.

"That's it, isn't it, Fran? You've put it all in terms of love and marriage but that's not what you've really been thinking about for the last week, is it?"

By now poor Fran was blushing so deeply that her face was almost the same colour as her hair. She had been brought up in a tiny Scottish village where everyone went to church and talking frankly about sex was simply not the done thing. She looked down at her shoes so that her hair fell across her face. From behind this protective screen a hesitant voice emerged, meek and ashamed.

"Yes, James. It's true. I – I've had these dreams. Every night. I've never had dreams like that before. And you were in them all. They – they were wonderful. You were wonderful. And in the day, I kept thinking about you, and the dreams, and –" she broke off and looked up, still very red in the face and apparently on the verge of tears. "And I just want you so much, James, more than I've ever wanted anything." 

I jumped to my feet and went to her. She stood up and almost fell into my arms and I felt sobs shaking her body. Finally she composed herself a little and sank back into the chair, drying her eyes while her face slowly returned to its normal colour.

"But James, darling," she protested, "I admit you've seen through me but you still don't expect me to believe this absurd story about Uncle Albert's potion."

I decided to put the ball in her court. "Well, Fran, you tell me. What proof would you accept?"

"Oh, very clever," she said, her spirit returning by the minute. "Push it back at me. All right, then," she challenged, "do it in front of me. Call some woman in here and put your whammy on her."

I could see this was not intended seriously but even so the idea appalled me. Was my life not complicated enough? "Fran, I can't do that," I replied.

She was triumphant. "Ah! At least now you're admitting it!"

"I can't turn some poor woman's life upside-down just to prove a point to you," I insisted. "I've caused enough trouble as it is."

She gave an impatient snort. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation," she said. "It's ridiculous. Let me know when you're ready to talk sense."

She made to get up but I stopped her with a gesture. I wanted to have this out there and then.

"Fran, wait. I won't 'put my whammy' on a new woman for you but I can show you one I've already 'whammied'." Fran looked at me blankly.

"You know 'this girl I know'?" I went on. "The first one I told you about?" Fran nodded speechlessly. "Well, you know her too," I told her. "She works here. It's Connie."

"Connie?" Fran looked stunned.

"I'll ask her to join us," I said, moving to the door.

"But it's well after four," Fran replied. "She'll be long gone." (Fran, who took her work extremely seriously, had given me her views more than once about "that lazy, flighty girrl".)

"I don't think so," I answered. I looked out into the main office. Connie was still busily and apparently contentedly attending to routine office duties. I called her and she dropped her papers and hurried to my office.

"Oh, James, I –" she began delightedly, then broke off as she saw we were not alone. "Hello, Fran," she said shortly. Fran, being ineligible for flirtation and resistant to girlish chatter, had always been a bit of a problem for Connie.

"Connie," I said, giving her a seat, "please tell Fran what's been going on."

Connie looked at Fran, then helplessly at me. She silently mouthed "Us?" at me.

"It's all right," I assured her. "Just tell her."

Connie's account was slightly nervous and hesitant to start with but she soon warmed to her theme. I contributed very little, intervening only to move her on at certain points, notably when she started to wax lyrical about what the sex had been like. Fran listened to her story speechless and open-mouthed. "It's been so amazing," Connie concluded. "I'm so lucky to have found a man like James. I didn't know what happiness was before." Her tale told, she ignored Fran and sat back, gazing adoringly at me.

Shock, confusion, and dismay contended on poor Fran's face.

"You two," she muttered eventually, more to herself than out loud. I thought for a second she was distressed at the thought that Connie and I had enjoyed sex together but then she said, still very hesitantly, "You two – you – you could have agreed this story between yourselves." 

But I could see she was clutching at straws. I pointed out the absurdity of her suggestion. "Oh, we concocted all this, did we Fran? And when do you think we did that? After we spoke this morning I went straight out for lunch, remember? And Connie I presume ate here."

"Never left the building," confirmed Connie.

"I saw you," said Fran dully. "You were sitting quietly in the corner by yourself staring into space. I thought it was odd because you're usually so gregarious and loud." Even in her confused state Fran realised this was rather a pointed comment to someone she did not really get on with. "Sorry," she added, "no offence."

"None taken," said Connie. "I was daydreaming of my lovely James." (Next day she told me she had wondered what "gregarious" meant but realised it was not the time to ask.)

"And when I got back," I resumed, "I went straight into that wretched meeting of Brian's and I buzzed you as soon as I escaped. So when did we hatch this little plan?" At this point, I regret to say, I took the opportunity to repay poor Fran for the sarcasm she had inflicted on me. "Did I perhaps foresee what you were going to say to me this morning and prearrange with Connie what I wanted her to say?"

Fran had no reply. She simply sat there looking from one of us to the other. Connie, I could see, was bursting to ask me what all this was about, but I motioned her to keep quiet. Remembering what I had told Fran about the effect on women once sex had taken place, I decided to offer yet further proof. "Connie," I said, "tell Fran what you would do for me."

"Oh, Fran," she sighed happily. "I'd do anything for James, anything he wanted." 

"Connie, stand up," I said rudely. Instantly she jumped to her feet. "Stand on one leg. Put your left index finger in your right ear. Stick your tongue out at Fran." As these orders met with immediate and unquestioning compliance, Fran's look of bewildered horror intensified. As the final clincher I tried to think of something as un-Connie-like as possible. "Hum the national anthem".

She did it. I took pity and stopped her after the first couple of bars. I could see I had made my point. "Sorry, Connie," I apologised. "I hope I'll never ask you to do anything so silly again, but I had to make Fran understand how things are."

"That's all right, James. You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"Well," I suggested, making a more sensible and reasonable demand this time, "in that case perhaps you'd better go to the cooler and get Fran a glass of water, I think she needs it."

While Connie was gone poor Fran opened and closed her mouth once or twice but no words escaped her. Connie returned with the water and I thanked her and asked her to go back to work. 

Fran took a sip. It seemed to settle her slightly.

"So it's true," she finally whispered. "You did it. The way I feel about you – you did it." There was a note of anger in her voice now.

"Not on purpose," I replied. "I had no idea it was happening. I never meant it."

She ignored me. "What should I do? What can I do? Should I go to a doctor? Or the police? Yes, what do you think of that, James? Shouldn't I go to the police?"

When I had been planning this conversation during Brian's meeting I had stupidly failed to anticipate Fran's scepticism, but I had foreseen that she would be angry and might even think I was such a menace to pure womanhood that I needed to be dealt with somehow by the authorities. And maybe, I had thought, she would be right. I had no idea what the police would make of it but I had decided to leave it to her.

"All right, Fran," I said quietly. "If you think that's for the best I'm not going to argue. And maybe the doctors will find some antidote to the serum."

There followed an immense pause. Once or twice Fran opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. Feeling that my fate was in her hands, I patiently awaited her decision. Gradually, her anxious expression faded into something altogether different, as if she were trying to deal with the problem by distancing herself from it and thinking about it more abstractly. When she finally spoke her air was one of calm reflection.

"The thing is," she said, "I'm not sure I want an antidote."

I goggled. This I had not foreseen.

"But, surely, now that you know that this feeling for me is artificial –"

"But James, think," she said, speaking quite slowly and deliberately now. "My knowing that the feeling is induced doesn't stop it from being real. It's just as strong as ever." She seemed to relax, as if some great decision had been taken. "I still want you, darling."

"But that's just the potion talking," I argued desperately. "It's not you."

"You remember a couple of months ago I went to visit my sister and her new little girl?" she asked irrelevantly. I remembered well; she had come back cooing with enthusiasm about her little niece and brimming with delight at becoming an "aunty".

"Fran, what's that got to do with –?"

"I watched my sister as she nursed the wee baby and she simply glowed with pride and fulfilment and, well, just sheer happiness. It was so beautiful."

"Yes, but –"

"Don't you see, James? That happiness she felt; if she stopped to think about it, she'd realise that it was induced too. Babies are so helpless that mothers are made to feel that way so that they look after them. But if some unsentimental person had pointed out to her that her maternal feelings weren't her, they were induced, would she have thought they weren't real? Would she have wanted them taken away, if there were a way of doing that? Would she?"

"Er ...". It was just like my clever Fran, I thought ruefully, to come up with a killer argument like this just when she needed it. The image she had planted in my mind of a young mother proudly nursing her firstborn was so powerful and evocative that it distracted me from trying to find a good reply. I felt there must be a flaw in her reasoning but for the life of me I could not locate it. Fran saw her advantage and pressed it like a mistress of debate.

"Well, would she?"

"Er, no, of course not, but –"

"Well, then," she interrupted triumphantly. "That's how I feel."

In despair I tried a different tack. "But Fran, now that you know about Connie and all the rest of it –"

"All right, James. I know it can't happen the way I thought. I know" – she broke off for a long sigh of weary acceptance – "I can't have you to myself; there's Wendy and Connie and god knows who else. So you win, darling. You can be married to Wendy if you like and you can have Connie if that's what you want – but James, darling," she interrupted herself, "she's so flighty! – and I obviously can't stop you from having any other woman that you want, but James, darling James, dearest James, please, you've got to have me." And she fixed me with a longing gaze.

Those yearning eyes affected me powerfully. I knew now beyond doubt that I wanted her. Under the desk I felt physical confirmation of my desire as my hungry cock began to swell. But I had promised myself: Fran is sacred. I resolved to be strong. "Fran, I mustn't. I can't let you throw away your whole life like that."

"I'm not throwing my life away; it's what I want."

"But Fran, you've always told me how you want a husband, a family, a nice house, all of that."

"Well, I thought I did. But I've changed my mind."

"You mean you've had it changed for you. No," I said firmly. "It's wrong. I won't do it. Perhaps I can find an antidote, or maybe it'll just wear off."

"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted dismissively. "Look," she suggested brightly, "we could go to my flat now, it's only ten minutes in a taxi."

"What about Gabriella?" This was Fran's Brazilian flatmate.

"She's at Manlio's tonight. Like most nights. It's love's young dream for those two," said Fran impatiently. "Now, are you coming?"

"No, Fran. It's wrong. Can't you see it's wrong?"

She did not reply. She had wandered to the door and quietly opened it a crack. She motioned me to come over.

"Look at Connie," she said.

I looked. The main office was emptying now as people went home, but Connie was still there, diligently catching up with filing. I could just see a contented smile on her face and she was quietly humming some lively tune to herself (not God Save the Queen).

"She was like that this afternoon," Fran informed me, "while you were in the meeting. I noticed it because it was so unusual; normally she'd run a mile from that sort of job. Yet there she is, happy as a skylark." She shut the door again. "And did you see the way she looked at you when she was here just now? Did you hear the way she talked about you? She was radiant, James; she glowed with joy."

Fran turned to me and looked me very steadily in the eye. "James, I'm not asking you any more. I'm pleading with you. What you've given Connie – give it to me too."

"Fran, Fran, how can you throw away everything you always wanted?"

She was getting angry now. "What I always wanted," she snapped, "was happiness. I just didn't know where to find it before. Now I've realised. That's all that's changed."

I looked at her in helpless silence. I was out of arguments, but Fran's supply seemed inexhaustible. "And it's not as if you didn't want me," she went on. "You haven't said you don't want me, and the stuff wouldn't have worked unless you did. So go on, James," she challenged me, "tell me you don't want me."

I could not lie to her. There was more to it even than the sheer carnal lust that I was struggling to contain. Her youth, her beauty, even the intelligence and spirit with which she was out-arguing me, everything about her made me desire her more and more. "Fran, I'm not going to deny it. You're wonderful. Any man would want you. But –"

"I knew it!" she said triumphantly. "And besides," she added in a more intimate tone, blushing again, "you've been staring at my chest for the last half an hour."

It was true. She was wearing a tight jumper (she hated the office air-con) that hugged her form and threw her breasts into clear relief. Compared to the melons I usually admire, they were little more than grapefruit, but they were proud little things and perfectly formed. 

"James, James, darling," she pleaded. "You've always been good to me and gone out of your way to help me. And now there's something I want more than anything, and it's such a simple, easy, natural thing, I can't see why you're making so much difficulty about it." 

"I promised myself," I disclosed. "I felt so guilty when I realised what I'd done to you that I promised myself to leave you alone."

This really seemed to enrage her. "Oh, I see, you promised yourself! And that's it, is it? I don't suppose it ever crossed your mind to think of my feelings about this!"

With a dismissive gesture suggesting she had lost all patience with me, she marched back to the door and called Connie.

Fran gave Connie a seat, sat down herself and motioned me to sit at my desk. Then she asked me to tell Connie the same story of Uncle Albert and his serum. Reluctantly, unsure where this was leading, I complied. Connie listened with wonder but without any of the doubts that had afflicted Fran; this confirmed my suspicions that FUCK conferred trust as well as obedience.

"Right, Connie," demanded Fran; "now you know what's been going on, how do you feel about it?"

"Oh, Fran," she replied, "it's just fantastic. I'm so lucky! I feel so proud! I can't believe it. James could choose anyone he liked and he wanted me!" Fran was right; she exuded joy and fulfilment from every pore.

"And if I could give you an antidote, so the effects of this potion, or whatever it is, would go away," continued Fran, "would you take it?"




Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 12



This was spookily like the question I had asked Wendy. It got a similar response. "Oh, no, Fran! That would be awful! James," she turned pleadingly to me, "Fran can't do that, can she?"

"There you are, then," said Fran with the air of a barrister resting a water-tight case. "I want what Connie's got."

Connie's eyes widened at this and she looked rapidly at Fran then back to me.

"James, is that true? Does Fran want you too?"

I explained that Fran too had been affected by the potion and was begging me to give her the same treatment as Connie had had on Friday.

"Then you must," said Connie promptly. Fran shot a startled look at this unexpected ally. "At least," Connie hastily continued, "I'm sorry James, it's not for me to tell you what to do, but I know you're so lovely and kind and Fran must be feeling like I did last week and it would be horrible not to."

"Connie," I retorted, playing desperately for time, "I didn't know you even liked Fran."

Connie looked nervously at Fran and then at me again. "Be honest," I said.

"Well, James, to tell the truth I'd like her a lot better if she didn't have that two-foot poker rammed up her ass." Having got this off her chest, she smirked at Fran: "Sorry, no offence."

"None taken," replied Fran dully.

"But you can't leave her wanting you, James. It would be awful. She must be going mental. Besides, I always thought you liked Fran. Why won't you fuck her?"

"Yes," interjected Fran in a sudden burst of frustration and rage; "why won't you fuck me?"

I was stunned to hear that word from my lovely demure well-brought-up Fran. She saw my shock and followed up.

"Fuck me," she demanded. "Fuck me, James. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

Even Connie looked a little startled. I think she wished that Fran had revealed this side of her personality before.

Fran's outburst must have been easily audible in the main office. I could only hope that by now everyone had gone home. I felt I was being put under unbearable pressure. It was not only Fran and Connie that were ganging up on me; under the desk a now huge erection added its vote to theirs. 

"James," said Fran, fixing me in a furious red-eyed glare that was a far cry from the looks I was used to getting from women of late, "I know you've been good to me since I came to London and I've always liked you and respected you, but I've got to say I think you're being bloody selfish about this." 

I looked from Fran's angry glare to Connie's pleading gaze and back again. It was all too much, I thought. Here I was, resisting stubbornly in the face of overwhelming temptation, and was this my reward? "Bloody selfish", was I?

Something snapped inside me. "Bloody selfish"? I would show her "bloody selfish".

"All right, Fran. You win." 

If I had expected my capitulation to improve her temper I was disappointed.

"Well, at long last," she said bitterly. "Thank you so very much, Mr Generous. Is right now too soon for you?"

"Just let me make one call," I asked.

"I'll get my hat," she snapped back and strode off. I told Connie she could go home now – I think she had hoped to be invited along for a threesome – and quickly rang Wendy to tell her I should be late. I was, too, still enough of a husband to think that having unburdened myself to Fran and Connie I was under an obligation to bring my wife in on the secret, so I asked her not to cook anything elaborate; we needed to talk. Then Fran reappeared in the sexy beret I had always liked and we headed for the exit marching side by side, eyes front, and without exchanging another word.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 13



XIII

Off my chest

The situation was surreal. Here we were, hurrying off to inaugurate a sexual relationship, yet we were sitting as far apart as the size of the cab would permit, staring angrily out of opposite windows without a word to each other. I was furious with Fran for having forced me to give way when all I wanted was for her own good, and I could see she was equally upset at my reluctance to give her what she wanted. But she was still eager; when we got to the flat she fumbled with the keys in her impatience and muttered some Scottish imprecation under her breath. 

She gripped my hand firmly and led me straight to her bedroom. I sat down on the bed while she, still without a word to me, hurriedly and without any preamble began to undress, keeping her back to me with an incongruous modesty that in a better mood I should have found charming. 

I removed my tie and shirt and was standing up to drop my trousers as Fran, still with her back to me, slipped out of her knickers and was naked. As she turned I could see she was still thoroughly out of temper. "Right," she said impatiently. "Let's get on with --"

The anger vanished from her face. Her jaw dropped and her eyes, widening like saucers, focused on my immense throbbing erection. Suddenly she was unsteady on her bare feet; she swayed a little, then her legs gave way and she landed with a thump on her knees. She did not collapse any further: for a few moments she simply knelt there, a few feet in front me, stark naked and staring unashamedly at my cock. She looked so endearingly ridiculous that my own anger ebbed away.

I playfully tweaked the cock (no hands, pure muscle control) as if to say, "Come hither." Her eyes followed it as it bobbed up and down and she gave a smile combining amusement and lust. She shuffled forward on her knees until she was almost touching the cock. I gave the muscle a stronger tweak and this time maintained the tension instead of releasing it, so that the cock rose in front of her face. Her eyes, widening yet further, eagerly followed its ascent. Now its tip was inches from her nose.

She cautiously and slowly raised a hand toward it, apparently terrified to touch it. When finally her finger brushed against it she withdrew her hand sharply as if she had had an electric shock. Then she touched it more confidently and ran her hand gently along its shaft. All the time her face was wreathed in a look of sheer wonderment.

"Kiss it," I whispered. She leant forward slightly to touch her lips tenderly against it, subjecting me to an exquisite agony of sexual tension that I bore as long as I could. Finally I raised her gently to her feet and embraced her. We kissed passionately. I laid her on the bed and admired her perfection for a moment. She gazed lovingly at me, almost trembling with anticipation. She did not speak, but sighed with pleasure as I lowered myself slowly on top of her and kissed those modest but perfect breasts. My desire for her was now uncontainable; I moved up so I could kiss her neck, her ears, and finally her ripe inviting lips, while I could feel my cock searching eagerly for the moistness of her pussy.

My cock found her wet lips and gently I pressed it home. She gasped. I was frightened of hurting her, for she was no mature woman like Wendy or free spirit like Connie or Kylie or Gina. This was the tight young cunt of a good girl with a sheltered Scottish upbringing. She had told me about the boyfriend she had had at university, and since coming to London she had gone out a few times, and even spent a romantic weekend in Venice with someone she met at a speed-dating event, but the relationship had soon fizzled out. So far as I knew that was the extent of her sexual experience, so I entered her cautiously in a series of gentle thrusts, pushing in a little farther each time before withdrawing. At each thrust she inhaled with a sharp gasp, whether of pleasure or pain it was impossible to tell, and her body tensed, her back arching and her buttocks clenching together. Each time I pulled back, she relaxed and let out a huge sigh. As the thrusts got deeper her reactions grew more intense; finally I pushed in as far as I could and this time she gave a convulsive shudder, her buttocks forcing themselves together and raising her hips as if her body wanted to force my cock even deeper. And then she was quite limp, the breath escaping her lungs like air from a paper bag and a smile of ineffable bliss on her slightly open mouth.

Slowly at first, I thrust up and down inside her. I was beginning to understand the effects of FUCK and I knew she would come again when I did (which could not be long). I also thought that maybe I could exercise some control over my cock after all. As my movements gradually grew faster, and even in her blissed-out state some primal instinct of Fran's made her hips start to buck gently, I felt my climax approach. Fran's movements grew stronger, she was breathing faster and more deeply, and I felt her back begin to arch again.

Then I came. And as my juices bathed her insides, Fran also climaxed with an overwhelming sense of bodily release and a massive sigh that seemed to empty her lungs of every particle of air.

But I had not finished. By sheer will-power I had managed to constrict some penile muscle and interrupt the flow of spunk. I moved gently in and out, gathering my strength for the final onslaught. But I could hold myself back only for a few moments. Then I accelerated again, and once more the animal in Fran bucked back at me. Her response was stronger this time, as if her deepest sexual instincts were finding expression, maybe for the first time. Her unexpected vigour excited me still more and my cock, now utterly free of any conscious restraint, powered in and out faster and faster. And suddenly her whole body was answering my thrusts and she convulsed under me as no woman had ever done, moans of pleasure escaping her at every movement.

I orgasmed again, pumping spunk into her as if I should never stop. The first jet seemed to galvanise her, tensing every muscle, and she hovered on the brink of release until the final great blast escaped me. Then, finally, she came again, hugely this time, with what was almost a roar of blessed release. All the tension simply flowed out of her and what was left beneath me was a helpless rag doll, her glassy eyes unseeing and her whole body, I suddenly realised, wet with perspiration.

It took me a few minutes to gather my own senses and pull myself out of Fran and onto the bed by her side. It would, I knew, be some time before she recovered. I should have liked to stay and talk her down but I needed to get home to Wendy so I reluctantly got up and dressed. Before leaving I found a blanket and draped it tenderly over her, and I leant over her to hear her shallow breathing and kiss her unresponding lips.

On the train home I took care to avoid any remotely fanciable woman and wedged myself in safely between a suited young executive and a woman of about sixty with a face like a bag of spanners. I pondered my situation and what I was to tell Wendy. Halfway home I literally kicked myself when I finally realised, far too late, what had been wrong with Fran's argument about the nursing mother. But at least my agonies over Fran had been resolved, albeit on her terms rather than mine; I reflected, however, that I still had Alicia to deal with. 

Wendy greeted me brightly when I got home. "Hello darling. Supper's ready. Do you want to go upstairs first?"

I had to disappoint her. Having missed lunch, I was ravenous, and I needed to talk to her. (Also, I was still getting over servicing Fran.) So she served up the unpretentious meal I had requested and I told her I had something very important to say to her.

Starting with a sincere apology for not having told her at once, I recounted my story. This was the third time I had been through it so I was well rehearsed, and I added details that I had edited out previously: I told her the name of the potion (after all, she had known what Albert was like) and Connie, Kylie and Fran featured under their real names. Connie's name meant nothing to her, of course, but she looked surprised, maybe a little shocked, when I told her about Kylie. The disclosure about Fran she took calmly, almost as a matter of course, possibly helped by the fact that, in the interests of keeping the peace, I skated over the marriage proposal. This was the only particular I withheld apart from my visit to Gina, which I still felt very embarrassed about. 

Wendy heard me out, her head cocked to one side like a bird's (a characteristic of hers when her attention was fully engaged). Like Connie but unlike Fran, she accepted the whole story without the slightest hesitation or doubt.

"So that's it," I concluded. "That's why everything's been so strange lately." 

"It certainly explains a lot," she smiled. "So you're the lucky boy, then, aren't you?"

"A lot of people would say so, but if I'd known what would happen I'd never have touched the stuff however hopeless I felt."

"Thanks to me," she said, looking down guiltily.

"Well," I said, "after all that's happened I don't think you should be the one feeling guilty. Darling, you're nothing like so angry as you have every right to be."

"I don't feel angry at all," she rejoined. "I love you far too much ever to feel angry with you. Oh, I know what you're going to say -- 'that's just the drug' -- and you're quite right. Of course it is; I'm not stupid. But darling, when that clever girl Fran told you the feeling is still real, even though it's artificial, she was quite right."

She paused before adding in mock rebuke, "Really, James, I can understand about Fran but Kylie? She's only a schoolgirl and a trampy little schoolgirl at that. I'm shocked." She sat back smiling indulgently at me.

"You don't look shocked," I pointed out.

"Well," she said reflectively, "to be honest, I've rather been expecting something like this. I don't mean Albert's drug, of course; I had no idea about that, but since the realisation came over me of what a marvellous man you are I've thought you must have sexy women after you all the time."

"And now you know. I have."

"Yes," she said. "And it's only natural. And, darling, if you also do what's natural, and it makes you happy, how can I object? I'm your wife. I want you to be happy. It's all that matters to me."

"You can't call it natural," I objected. "It's nothing of the kind." 

"I know, but remember Fran's Law. 'The fact that the feeling is induced doesn't mean it isn't real.' "

"Ah yes, but that's exactly what was wrong with her example about the nursing mother. I'm so frustrated that I didn't spot it at the time. A nursing mother's feeling for her baby really is natural; evolution has hard-wired it into women's brains to keep the human race going. But what we're dealing with here isn't natural at all. It's the product of Uncle Albert's corrupt scientific genius."

"Whatever," said Wendy dismissively. "The main thing is that the last week has been the happiest of my life and that's the end of it. I don't want to analyse it any more. I want to take you upstairs and get my share of what you've been giving everyone else."

"Hold your horses," I said. "You're forgetting Alicia."

"Alicia? Oh yes, the girl on the train. Poor little thing; she must be in a dreadful state over you," said Wendy sympathetically. "All right, darling, what do you want to do about Alicia? Apart from the obvious, I mean?"

"This house," I remarked airily, "has always been a bit big for just the two of us."

"James! You scoundrel! You want to get this girl in here just for your pleasure? Me in the main bedroom, her in the spare? Is that it?" She gave me a wicked grin.

"It had crossed my mind."

"Is she pretty?" Wendy asked casually.

"I think I have to tell you frankly that she's extremely pretty."

"And it's what you want, darling?"

I assured her it was very much what I wanted. I also suggested that the girl would be a great help around the house. So we agreed (that is, I suggested and Wendy agreed) to invite Alicia for dinner the following night.

I dialled Alicia's number. She answered instantly but nearly dropped the phone when she realised who it was.

"James, James, oh James, thank you, thank you for calling me. It's so lovely to hear your voice."

"Why, thank you Alicia. It's nice to hear your voice too. Tell me," I said, coming straight to the point, "are you free tomorrow night?"

"Oh, James," she sighed happily. She seemed unable to speak further, although I could hear her breathing emotionally and I thought I even detected her heartbeat.

"Alicia, tomorrow night?" I prompted eventually.

"Oh, yes, James, yes, yes."

"Good," I said. "Come round to my house for dinner." I had decided not to say anything about lodging with us and in fact I gave her no real indication at all of what I had in mind. She was too much overcome with emotion to ask any questions, so after arranging to meet her the following evening at a sandwich bar near her work I hung up. 

"She's coming," I told Wendy.

"I'm sure she will be," she replied with another of her wicked looks, "but first it's my turn."

And so to bed.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 14



XIV

"Ducks in a row" 

The following morning, as the radio news was telling us that the hot fine weather would finally break today, Wendy and I discussed the situation again, and she offered me some advice. "Get organised, James. Get your ducks in a row. [An interesting choice of phrase.] You can't just lurch from one unforeseen crisis to the next."

It was a sound suggestion. On the way to work I thought about how to implement it. I was very clear that I wanted to sort out the women I had got so far before I thought about capturing any more. It was a crying shame, though. I could see at least two highly fuckable young women in my carriage, but with great restraint I hung around the men and ugly women and got to work safely.

Once in my office I actually managed to get some work done before, as I had expected, there was a knock at the door.

Fran entered. She was transformed from the angry, frustrated woman that had left the office the night before. Her eyes sparkled, she was wreathed in smiles, she broke out at intervals in girlish giggles, and she somehow looked younger than her twenty-two years. 

"'Morning Fran. You look well."

She flopped down in the chair and let her hair fall across her face. She blew some of it aside so I could see her expression, and giggled again.

"Oh, James," she sighed, and shot me a dazzling smile, "I feel marvellous. I knew it would be good but I never dreamt it would be like this. I feel ten times the person I was yesterday, I can't stop smiling and laughing, it's just wonderful. I'm so glad you chose me, darling. And as for last night -- well, I daren't even think about it, I just go all goose-pimply. Do you know it was ten o'clock before I could even get off the bed?"

I asked her to tell me more about this. These post-coital trances were a consequence of FUCK that I needed to understand.

"Well," she began after a pause to marshal her thoughts, "after we went to bed, er, made love, er --" She hesitated. "James," she inquired, "what do you like to call it?"

"Well, Fran, at least in a private conversation I like to keep it simple and call it 'fucking'."

"Oh yes, of course," she agreed immediately. "That's the best word. I don't know why, but I never liked it before. After we fucked," she resumed, "I couldn't move. My whole body tingled like pins and needles only far more intense and it felt so lovely. My eyes were open but everything was so bright and I couldn't work out what I was looking at. And there was this rushing sound in my ears; I could hear other things, like when you were getting dressed, but they seemed far away. And there was this steady, regular thumping noise, too; I remember trying to think what on earth it could be."

"You were conscious, then?"

"Oh, yes. All the time, I think. I remember you kissed me when you left. I wanted to talk to you, get you to stay, but I couldn't speak or move a muscle. I couldn't even respond to your kiss."

"So after I left, you just lay there on cloud nine?"

"It was cloud ninety-nine," she corrected me with another glorious smile. "It was just bliss, utter bliss, it's the only word. Eventually I realised that the thumping noise was my own heart and slowly my eyes started to focus and the ringing in my ears got quieter, but for quite a while my eyeballs were the only thing I could move. As my feeling started to come back I realised I had some wet sticky stuff between my legs and I could feel it running down onto my bottom but I didn't realise what it was at first. And James, when I started to move, huge dollops of it just kept oozing out of me. When I stood up it ran all down my legs. James, darling, my beautiful James, how do you do that?"

I was taken aback to hear my modest and demure Fran discuss such things with this joyous abandon. Without waiting for a reply, she went on in the same vein. I got the impression she had been thinking about this a lot.

"Before, when I've been with, er, sorry, fucked someone, there's only been a few dribbles of it. And James, having you inside me, I've never known anything like that before. They were so little compared with you. And when you made me climax it was like -- oh, I don't know -- like explosions of light in my brain and waves of warmth and loveliness washing over my body -- oh, James, I can't describe it properly, there just aren't worrds. And you kept doing it again and again, it was so wonderful, James, just like you. Oh, look," she concluded lamely, holding up her arm; "goose-pimples."

I had sat enthralled, and I have to say rather aroused, enjoying the novel experience of hearing Fran, Fran of all people, talking cheerfully about sex with such uninhibited candour. 

"Well, Fran, it's nice to see you so happy. And I presume you'd be willing to do something for me."

"Oh, James," she replied blithely, "just name it." Then she added brightly, with a touch of the old Fran spirit, "I'll hum the national anthem if you like."

"That won't be necessary," I smiled. "Tell me about Gabriella. Is it right she's not round your place very much?"

"She's moving in with Manlio. She rang last night to tell me. I couldn't move to answer the phone but she left a message on the machine."

"Better and better. Fran, I think I'll be visiting your flat on a pretty regular basis."

She looked so pleased she could hardly reply. "James, darling James, please start today."

"I intend to, and I'd like to bring Connie too."

I thought this might discombobulate her (to use her word) but not a bit of it. "James, that would be perfect. You'll have such fun with both of us." She added confidentially, "We were talking about you earlier."

"You've seen her already, then?"

"Yes. She said hello as soon as I came in. [Connie in before Fran? This was a first.] We had a good talk. She said she could see the look in my eye. She's all right really, isn't she, James?"

"The two of you were biting chunks out of each other yesterday," I reminded her. "You called her loud and she said you had a -- well," I concluded, "I gathered she thought you were stuck up."

Fran smiled blithely. "I'm sure I deserved it. I understand her better now. We're friends. I'd love her to join us."

"Good," I said in a businesslike way. "This will normally be after work but today it'll be at lunchtime so you'd better go and invent some excuse for a long lunch. Tell Connie the same. Till lunchtime, then, Fran."

It proved to be a wonderful lunchtime. The two girls showed no inhibition at all about a threesome. After exploring them both thoroughly I took Fran first, restraining myself from emptying all my spunk in her and transferring rapidly to Connie's gaping hole to deposit the rest. Both girls had gratifyingly huge orgasms and blissed out. I needed a bit of recovery time myself before I could detach myself from the black and white limbs entwined on the bed and get myself a cold drink. By the time I had got dressed to leave Connie was coming out of it. This supported a theory I was beginning to form that the recovery period tended to diminish over time. I asked her to stay until Fran began to come down, to make sure she was all right and would get back to work.

I enjoyed a productive afternoon's work occasionally interrupted by thoughts not only of Fran and Connie but also, as the day wore on, more and more of Alicia. Connie came back nearly an hour after me and Fran more than an hour after that. Fran, especially, returned too soon, because she looked glazed and distant, and I gather that at least once she simply tuned out in the middle of a conversation with some colleague and stared goofily into space. She had to say she had a bad toothache and was taking industrial-strength painkillers.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 15



XV

"I was the first" 

After work I hurried to meet Alicia. I was ten minutes early but she was already there. As I saw her, I felt a pang of conscience. She was so young, so pretty, so innocent, so wholly unaware of what was happening to her. And I, instead of looking after her and protecting her, was planning to take her home and fuck her and keep on fucking her to my cock's content. But, I reflected, it was pointless to think this way: my experience with Fran had shown that Uncle Albert's invention was not be denied. Then Alicia stood up to greet me and I saw those wonderful boobs of hers, and any qualms were swept aside in a surge of lust.

As I talked to Alicia I realised how FUCK affected different women in different ways. They all, of course, became besotted with me but somehow their various personalities still shone through. Alicia, I guessed, might have been a little impressionable even before FUCK got to her because it seemed to have affected her more than anyone. She hung on my every word and those great blue eyes never left me for a moment. They widened even more when I told her my wife and I were thinking of taking a lodger and I thought she might be interested. I could see she was trying to think how this would work, and what my wife would have to say about it, but she was clearly overwhelmed at the thought of closer proximity to me and was not able to formulate any sensible questions.

"It will be all right, Alicia," I promised her. "Trust me. Any worrying that needs to be done, I'll attend to."

She seemed much happier after this. "Oh, James," she sighed, "I feel so safe and happy when I'm with you."

I thought to myself, "If she's like this before sex, what's she going to be like after it?" 

We put on our coats and walked to the tube under louring skies. The threatened storms were clearly imminent; I was glad I had asked Wendy to pick us up when we got to my station. Alicia seemed so distracted that I let her sit next to me on the train (I was afraid she might get off at the wrong station otherwise) and I had to endure curious looks from other travellers as this lovely girl gazed raptly at her middle-aged companion. Asking her to stop had the effect of making her look elsewhere for maybe fifteen seconds before her eyes settled on me again.

I was desperate for her by now. The hair, the eyes, that little nose, those huge tits, and the way she looked at me were an irresistible combination.

By the time we approached my station the thunderstorm was in full swing. Wendy was waiting at the ticket barrier; I introduced Alicia briefly and in sheeting rain we ran to the car, with excited laughter from the two women. As Wendy drove the short distance home, I sat next to her in the front and Alicia sat quietly in the back, never looking away from me.

The rain was unrelenting. When we got home I got soaked in the moment or two it took me to leave the car and open the garage door. Alicia ran for the shelter of the front porch and I was about to do the same when Wendy, still straightening the car, hissed delightedly to me, "James! She's not pretty; she's absolutely lovely!" 

I ran to the front door and unlocked it. I followed Alicia in, Wendy hurrying behind. I hastily doffed my coat and turned to Alicia, still dripping in the hall. "Here," I said, "let's get those wet things upstairs. I'll put them in the spare room." With that I took her gently but firmly by the arm and led her up the stairs, still in her raincoat and hat. She came meekly. If she thought it odd to be taken upstairs within seconds of arrival, she gave no sign. Wendy, however, gave me a sharp knowing look and I mouthed back at her, "I can't wait."

I took Alicia to the spare room. It was quite large, not much smaller than the main bedroom, and Wendy had found time from cooking dinner to remove the odds and ends that had found their way there and generally spruce it up. It looked warm and inviting. "This would be your room," I told her, "if you came to lodge here."

Only now, I think, did she fully take it in that she had been escorted to a bedroom. She looked surprised, nervous, expectant, and a little scared. "Let's get rid of these wet things," I said.

First I took her hat and hung it on the door; then her coat. She dropped her hands behind her back to allow me to remove it easily. Then, trying to act as if this were the most natural thing in the world, I gently raised her arms above her head and began to remove her teeshirt. She did not resist. Her eyes gazed up at mine: fear was there; bewilderment too; but also, unmistakably, desire. I lifted her shirt up and over her head to expose those extraordinary breasts, held by an underwired white bra, that were so hugely out of proportion on a girl of only eighteen and small for her age. 

"James, your wife ..." she whispered nervously.

I concluded the sentence: "... is a wonderfully understanding lady."

Alicia seemed to be paralysed. I leant forward to undo the buttons of her cheesecloth skirt and it fell to the floor. Then I reached for the fastening of her bra and felt the weight of those mammoth orbs as the clasp came undone and they fell free. As I slipped the bra off I thought she was trying to speak but no sound came. I teased the knickers gently off her hips and they joined the skirt on the floor. She stood there, trembling a little, still flecked with rainwater, naked before me. I was astonished at the flawlessness of her pale skin; she looked like marble, only soft and yielding. She seemed oblivious of the storm raging outside, but the thunder and lightning made me feel there was something almost diabolical about the control I had over her. She was in my power, utterly mine, to do with as I would.

I gently eased her onto the bed, laying her down full length on her back, and hurriedly removed my own clothes. My cock, of course, was huge by now and I had come to expect a gasp of lustful wonder when I set it free. But Alicia did not respond; in fact, I realised, she was no longer looking at me. Instead she gazed blankly at the ceiling. I looked at her, concerned. There was still fear in her eyes but also a desperate, yearning eagerness for whatever was to come. And her lips were moving. She was muttering something over and over again in a voice so quiet that I could not catch the words over the sound of the rain lashing down outside.

I moved her legs apart so I could lie between them. Tenderly I ran my fingertips over those breasts. She gave a little gasp of pleasure as she felt my touch. Then I explored them with my lips, applying only a featherlight contact as I lovingly followed their glorious contours. I drew myself up so my face was close to hers. She was still muttering. I could hear the words now: "... I'm with James ... I'm with James ... I'm with James ..." she breathed as if in awe and wonder.

I could wait no longer. I silenced her lips with a tender, lingering kiss and shifted my weight slightly to ease her legs a little farther apart. The tip of my cock touched her and her lower body seemed to tense, raising itself slightly as if to invite me in. 

Gently and tenderly I eased my cock between her labia. Although I longed to force myself home and pound away, I was desperate not to hurt her. I drew back a little to position myself to enter her, then slowly but deliberately I thrust forward.

Suddenly she gave a sharp little cry of pain as I felt an obstacle. It took me a moment to think what it was. With a sudden thrill of confused emotions ranging from remorse to raging desire, I realised she was unsullied, untouched: a virgin. Maybe if I had known this earlier I might somehow have held back, but to be honest I doubt it. At any rate, there was no turning back now. "Alicia," I murmured softly in her ear. Her big blue eyes, more fearful now but still desperately eager, turned to look at me. "You trust me?" I whispered. The reply was a tiny terrified nod. Without another word I placed a hand firmly over her mouth. I drew my cock back further, then pushed it forward with much greater force than before. As her hymen gave way, she flinched at the pain but the loud cry she would have given was muffled by my hand. I moved my cock slowly back and forth to ensure the path was clear and as I removed my hand she sighed with relief as the pain faded. A solitary teardrop trickled down her face. "Brave girl," I whispered.

Still fearful of hurting her, I edged forward again gradually as I had with Fran. But Alicia's sexual instinct was quicker to awaken than Fran's had been. She gasped with pleasure and her hips bucked powerfully to meet my movement. Then her little hands came to life and she gripped my buttocks to urge me in further. In my next thrust I pushed as hard as I could and she forced her whole body up to meet me and came with a vast moan of orgasmic joy tinged with pain as her virgin cunt was stretched around my monster cock.

Instead of coming down from the orgasm she seemed to reach one peak after another as I pounded in and out of her, all restraint gone now. I felt my own sap rising. There was no thought or question of the control I had displayed with Fran and Connie; I wanted only to empty my bursting balls of every last drop of hot spunk. My cock spasmed as jet after jet drenched her cunt and with another gasping cry Alicia heaved under me as she attained some even greater height of ecstasy.

As I lay there finally satisfied, my cock still inside her, I realised that the rain had stopped and somehow everything seemed very still. Alicia was, of course, utterly limp and motionless, breathing shallowly and gazing upwards with glassy eyes. I whispered in her ear that she was wonderful, that she should lie here quietly for a while and recover, while I would talk to her later. She gave no sign of recognition or response but from what Fran had told me earlier I knew she could hear me. When I had got dressed I put her under the bedcovers, kissed her, and went down to join Wendy.

"Well," said Wendy indulgently, "you look happy. I hope you've some left for me."

"Of course, darling, always," I replied. Since it was obvious that Alicia would be unable to join us for some time we sat down to dinner. I told Wendy with some pride how well I was getting "my ducks in a row". As Fran lived near to work and needed a new flatmate, I planned to move Connie in with her ("It's rough on Tommy," I said callously, "but that's life."), while Alicia would be coming to lodge with us and Kylie was handy next door.

"That reminds me," Wendy interjected, "Betty said to thank you for talking to Kylie. She says it's made a huge difference. She says Kylie thinks the world of you." She added teasingly, "I simply can't think why that would be." 

I was filled with joy to see Wendy this way. I remembered it was her impish smile and sense of mischief that had attracted me to her in the first place. I reflected sadly how these qualities had slowly faded over the years. It felt good to have them back. 

Wendy congratulated me on getting a grip on things and then changed the subject. "Darling, what should I wear tomorrow night?"

Tomorrow night? I looked at her blankly. "You know," she reminded me. "Dinner. The Marjoribanks. It was you that fixed it up, darling."

Recollection flooded over me. Was it really tomorrow night? Just when I was getting on top of the situation, I thought, something else to cope with.

About a fortnight before, George Marjoribanks, who was a big noise in the City and now managed the UK operation of a large American bank, had taken me aside at the end of a meeting and invited me for dinner at his house. George and I had been contemporary at Oxford (one of the less prestigious colleges) and in the same circle of friends, although we were not particularly close and had not stayed in touch. The main things that stuck in my mind from those days were his silly upper-class surname (pronounced "Marchbanks") and the fact that in our final year he had acquired a spectacularly lovely girlfriend, Sue Henshelwood, my lust for whom had been, sadly, entirely unrequited. 

I heard he married her a couple of years after graduating but apart from that I knew only what I had seen in the financial pages of the newspaper, in which he had featured with increasing frequency as he made his way to the top. He had re-entered my life only in the last few months when his bank, which was expanding its London operation and wanted a tie-in with a UK insurer, had opened negotiations with my company. When I had mentioned to Brian that I knew George Marjoribanks from way back, he had co-opted me onto our negotiation team. George greeted me like a long-lost buddy and amused himself by finding a dozen little ways to remind me how much higher than I he had ascended the business ladder. One such method, of course, was to invite Wendy and me to his doubtless vast house in Surrey, which he did by way of celebration when the deal was finally agreed. I wanted to refuse but Brian told me I had to go: it was essential to keep on the right side of such an important new business partner.

Appalled to find that this dinner commitment had crept up on me while my attention was elsewhere, I now confessed to Wendy how I had craved George's wife all those years ago ("Before I met you, darling," I hastily assured her).

"Funny how you forgot to mention this when you first told me about this dinner date," she teased.

I explained that it had not mattered before; Sue would undoubtedly have treated me with the same indifference she had shown when we were students. But now, FUCK meant that if I still fancied her she would fancy me right back and would chase me for sex until she got it. It was hardly going to help our business relationship with George's bank if I shagged his wife. But on the other hand Brian, who knew I was reluctant to go, would be deeply suspicious if I conveniently fell sick at such short notice. Wendy reassured me by pointing out that all the women FUCK had affected, with the exception of herself ("and I like to think I'm a special case," she smiled), were young enough to be my daughters. Sue must be about forty-seven or -eight and surely would be safe. So, with deep misgivings, I agreed there was nothing for it but to go and I helped Wendy choose a nice summer dress.

Wendy teased me about Alicia, saying that she was much lovelier than I had led her to expect, "And you certainly didn't let on she was so, well, fulsome, did you darling? She must be very popular with the boys."

This reminded me that I had failed to tell Wendy what I had discovered about our guest's pristine state. 

"I expect she is," I replied, "but she's never let them near her." Wendy's eyes widened as I confessed, "She was a virgin. I was the first."

"James!  You old dog!"

I felt a bit touchy to be baited on this subject. "I'd better see how she's getting on," I said hastily.

Alicia was still lying just as I had left her over two hours before, except that her eyes seemed less glazed and they followed my movements as I entered the room. I sat on the bed and looked at her fondly. After about ten minutes there was a light tap at the door and Wendy opened it a crack and looked in inquisitively. I motioned her to come in quietly. After looking down at Alicia for some time Wendy asked in a low voice whether she could hear us. I said I was sure she could so we stayed there in silence, I sitting on the bed and Wendy pulling up a chair, looking at this innocent young girl whose life would never be the same again. Finally Alicia made an effort to raise her head; failing in this attempt, she drew in a deep breath which she held a moment and slowly expelled. 

"Welcome back, dear," said Wendy in a kindly voice. "Are you all right?"

Alicia nodded feebly.

"Would you like me to fetch you something to eat?" Wendy asked. "We ate ages ago, I'm afraid, but I put something aside for you if you"d like it."

I was surprised Alicia was ready for food but I suppose the poor child had used up a lot of energy earlier. At any rate, she seemed to think about it for a moment, then she gave another weak nod and Wendy, ever the perfect hostess, hurried off to the kitchen. While she was gone I got Alicia half-sitting up in bed. As I did so she murmured incoherently in my ear. "James ... so wonderful ... so strong ..."

Wendy returned with a large plate of food on a tray. Alicia picked at it a little at first but as she ate her appetite came back and she looked a lot brighter. At one point she stopped eating to announce to neither of us in particular, "It's so lovely. I feel so warm and tingly and happy all over." She looked so blissful and contented it was impossible not to feel good for her. I clasped her arm affectionately, Wendy smiled benignantly, and she returned to her plate of food. 

She finished the whole plate and still looked hungry. "Thank you, Mrs Walker, that was delicious."

"Wendy", said Wendy firmly.

"Wendy," echoed Alicia, holding out the tray hopefully and adding; "may I have some more?"

"Of course, dear," smiled Wendy, as always treating such a request as a compliment to her cooking. "I'll be right back."

When Wendy was gone Alicia, blushing a little, leant forward to me and whispered in my ear, "James, may I have some more?"

I too took the request as a compliment. "Of course, dear," I replied, mimicking Wendy, "but first you must build up your strength and then we must have a little talk."

Wendy returned with another helping and went back downstairs to wash up. Alicia was much stronger now and sat up properly in bed by her own efforts. This meant that the bedclothes no longer covered her breasts but she gave no sign of embarrassment; in fact she looked pleased at my evident inability to stop staring at them. 

While Alicia tackled her seconds I reminded her about moving in with us and of course she said she would love to. I asked about her parents and the friends of theirs she was lodging with and she said she would sell it to everybody somehow. She also readily agreed it was getting late to travel home so as soon as she had finished eating she made a call to say that she had ended up dining rather late and the friends she was seeing had asked her to stay over (all strictly true, I noted). The male voice at the other end seemed surprised and not best pleased but she agreed to ring in the morning to confirm she was fine. As soon as she rang off she gave a squeal of surprise and delight as I stripped off without more ado and jumped into bed with her. It was another sublime fuck, the new cum mixing with the old. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 16



XVI

"Just like Sue"

I allowed myself to fall asleep next to Alicia knowing that sexual desire would awaken me in the small hours. When it did, instead of turning for relief to the gorgeous and compliant little creature next to me I went to the main bedroom where Wendy was sleeping. She was my wife, after all, and had been wonderfully understanding and supportive all evening. There are wives in this world, I reflected, that might object if their husband brought home a big-titted eighteen-year-old and shagged her senseless in the spare bedroom while the wife was busy in the kitchen. I wanted to show my appreciation in the best possible way so I slipped into bed and after gently waking her I slipped into Wendy.

We had our usual repeat in the morning, of course, and as we were getting over that there was a knock at the door and Alicia appeared with cups of tea.

Alicia had obviously had what must have been a desperately-needed shower and had found an old dressing-gown of Wendy's in the spare room wardrobe. She looked terrific. It was not just her sparkling eyes and radiant smile; there was a satisfaction and fulfilment about her that had not been there before and it seemed to convert her extreme prettiness into a glowing beauty.

"Why, thank you Alicia," said Wendy, taking her tea. "How very thoughtful of you."

"James asked me to do it," beamed Alicia, looking at me with frank adoration. (It was the night before, as we had been about to get down to our second bout, that it had occurred to me to suggest that morning tea in bed would be most welcome.)

I motioned Alicia to sit on the bed and the three of us made plans. Alicia said she would talk to her parents and the friends of theirs she was lodging with and somehow she would get clearance to move in with us. She hoped she would be able to move on Saturday.

"Would you like a hand moving?" I offered.

Alicia looked doubtful. So did Wendy: "Er, James darling, maybe that's not such a great idea," she advised. "Won't this couple Alicia's lodging with feel a bit uneasy if this bloke turns up to help her move?"

I was ahead of her. "No they won't," I replied, "because you're going to do it."

"Oh, very clever, darling," acknowledged Wendy appreciatively. "They won't be worried about a woman."

"Exactly, especially if you charm the socks off them the way I know you can. And Wendy, I'm not asking you to lie to them but unless they ask straight out there's no need for you to mention you've even got a husband. You too, Alicia," I added. "Tell them all about Wendy but don't mention me if you can help it."

Looking back on it now, I squirm with embarrassment about the smugness and self-congratulation I was displaying at this time. It seems incredible but I really thought that I had the measure of FUCK, that if I managed things carefully and avoided any more silly mistakes I was going to get on top of it. How little did I know.

Having been royally fucked Alicia was now, of course, safely under control and I could travel with her into town knowing that she would, however reluctantly, obey my instructions to ignore me on the tube. At work, still confidently arranging my ducks, I asked Fran and Connie to see me. I had to tell them that because of this wretched dinner party I could not see them tonight, and I ruled lunchtime out too because colleagues would notice if the same three people were always out for long lunches on the same days. But my main purpose in seeing them was to sort out future living arrangements. Fran, of course, instantly agreed that Connie would be a wonderful flatmate. It was comical watching her enthusiastic response to a suggestion that she would have treated as a bad joke until a few days ago.

I turned to Connie. "This means Tommy has to go, I'm afraid."

"Fine, James, I'll do it tonight but," she gave me a puzzled look, "I thought you weren't jealous."

I explained that it was not a matter of jealousy. It was simply that her living with a boyfriend meant she might not be available when I wanted her. But I stressed -- "and this goes for you, too, Fran" -- that there were bound to be times when she knew I would be otherwise occupied and on those occasions I was happy for her to enjoy herself elsewhere. I was, frankly, slightly taken aback to hear myself so unsentimentally explaining the logic of the situation but the girls seemed to accept it as a matter of course, although Fran, much the more empathetic of the two, did spare a thought for the innocent victim.

"Do what you have to with Tommy, Connie," she said, "but don't be too hard on him. He's bound to be upset."

Connie shrugged. "He's young. He's nice-looking. He's good in bed," she said matter-of-factly. "He'll get over it."

After that the day passed with nothing worthy of report except frequent reminders from Brian to suck up to George at dinner that night. Towards the end of the working day reception rang to tell me that Wendy had arrived.

A midweek evening commitment in Surrey was a bit of a logistical problem. We needed to drive because public transport would have got us home ridiculously late so Wendy left work early and drove in to meet me in the City. She welcomed the opportunity, in these new circumstances, to see Fran again and meet Connie, and we all gathered in my office. They both looked a bit nervous about seeing Wendy but she, of course, put them instantly at ease. "It reflects so well on me, don't you think," she asked them rhetorically, "that my husband has such lovely admirers?"

Wendy looked great in the outfit we had chosen but I thought it looked a little tight here and there. I mentioned this as we fought our way through the South London traffic towards George's place and she agreed she had put on a little weight lately: did it bother me? Not at all, I assured her.

To be honest I was more worried about Sue Marjoribanks. What if Wendy had been wrong? Suppose I still fancied her: what then? As we neared our destination my feeling grew that something was bound to go horribly wrong. Just as we found the turning my cellphone rang. Wendy took it: it was Alicia, reporting with great excitement that she had spent much of the day on the phone to her parents and had swung it; she would move in on Saturday. 

George's house was reached by a long country lane and turned out to be even bigger than I had feared, with acres of grounds. It was not in the stately home category but it was a most handsome and imposing nineteenth-century pile, originally built for (here I am guessing) some prosperous mid-Victorian City gent and now occupied by his twenty-first century successor. We drove through the gateway and up the immense drive. Our hosts must have been watching for us, because before we reached the house the front door opened and George stepped forth proudly, very much the monarch of all he surveyed. I pulled up. "Sorry we're late, George; the traffic."

George shook my hand warmly and kissed Wendy's graciously as I introduced her. "And of course you know Sue," he said as his wife emerged from the house. I looked at her nervously. When I had last seen her we had been students together and I had yearned for her desperately. It was with huge relief that I saw that the intervening quarter century or more had not been kind; it is not that she was ugly or grotesque but she had acquired a fair amount of weight and a lot of wrinkles and overall everything just seemed to have, well, sagged a bit. The raving beauty I remembered from my youth had turned into a thoroughly unremarkable woman approaching fifty and I was delighted to find that she was not at all fanciable.

"It's all right," I muttered to Wendy as I followed George into the house, a weight lifted from my mind. 

My relief lasted for as long as it took George to lead us across a vast hallway into a handsomely appointed sitting room where he announced, "And I don't think you know my daughters.

"James and Wendy Walker," I heard him say as if from a great distance; "Vicky and Simone." I did not take in which was Vicky and which Simone, nor would it have made much difference if I had, for no two peas in the proverbial pod could have been more alike. Only now did I faintly recall reading a few years ago in an article about this rising star of the banking world that he had twins at some posh girls' school or other. But it was not their unexpected presence at the house that unmanned me; nor was it their being so utterly alike down to the last detail of makeup and attire; nor even their startling beauty. It was the fact that they resembled not only each other but also, with uncanny precision, their mother as she had been at the same age.

It got worse. As I feebly kissed their politely proffered hands, I heard George say, "Of course you don't mind if Vicky and Simone join us this evening? They're just down from Cambridge for a few days. It's their twenty-first on Sunday -- you appreciate they're twins?" he asked, as if anyone could have overlooked the fact, "-- and I'm giving a bit of a garden party for the occasion. It's going to be quite a big do, and there's a lot of preparation."

"All our friends are coming down from Cambridge," smiled the gorgeous Vicky (or it may have been Simone). "It'll be such fun." Even her voice and the way she moved exactly recalled her mother.

I sidled up to Wendy. "We've got to get out of here," I whispered.

"We can't," she hissed back. "We'll just have to get through it as best we can. I know they're lovely but can't you resist? Think of cricket averages or something."

"You don't understand," I told her. "They look just like Sue used to."

Wendy gave a sharp little intake of breath as the significance of this sank in but she had no time to reply because Sue appeared and announced that dinner was ready. Before following everyone into the dining room, I found my way to George's loo for a quick wank, mostly because I needed to but also in the hope that it might reduce my sexual magnetism. When I emerged the others were finding their places in the dining room. The table, a solid oaken structure, obviously an antique, was long and relatively thin and in deference to the informality of the occasion the prime positions at the head and foot were unoccupied. Instead there were three places set on either side. George had to sit facing Wendy, of course, with me opposite Sue (there are rules about these things), which left the twins to face each other on the middle two seats.

This arrangement meant that Wendy and I could speak to each other only if we were willing to be heard by the table at large. It also meant that one twin was next to me (George addressed her as Vicky -- "How can he tell?" I wondered) and the other faced me diagonally. They were surely, I thought gloomily, both well within range. 

The food was good but came with long intervals between courses during which wine and chatter flowed freely. Sue, facing me, talked about nothing but her geraniums and the prizes she was going to win with them. I remembered now that her conversation at university, although not so unrelentingly horticultural in those days, had been equally boring (not that it had put me off at the time). George, meanwhile, kept casually mentioning his various badges of success: the house, the cars (three), the holiday home in Tuscany, the apartment in Manhattan, the skiing holidays in Davos. I wanted to kick him but Brian would never have forgiven me and in any case he was too far away. 

I had a side view of Vicky and a three-quarter-face view of Simone. It was impossible to avoid looking at them as they gaily chattered away; nor could I fail to be reminded of Sue as a young woman and how desirable she had been. The twins had the same perfectly proportioned faces that their mother had had, with rich, healthy-looking honey-coloured complexions and beautiful ethereal grey eyes set off by ash-blonde hair, which they wore rather longer than Sue used to. They looked about five foot five with excellent figures, maybe having a little more on the chest than their mother had had (so they have even, I thought ruefully, improved upon perfection). Although their conversation was trivial and tiresome, all "Daddy this" and "Mummy that" and routine gossip about university friends, their overall manner was the picture of youthful vivacity.

At one point Simone told a story about their schooldays and mockingly used the full name of the establishment: "And of course they couldn't possibly allow that sort of thing at Cheltenham Ladies' College."

Something connected in my brain: "Ladies!" I exclaimed, and everyone looked at me quizzically. "Sorry," I said. "I just remembered something. Please go on."

The meal had been under way for nearly an hour when the first alarm bell rang. While George had gone to fetch more wine, Vicky left her place, allowing Wendy to lean across and mutter, "It seems all right so far."

"I'm not so sure," I replied. "Look."

She followed my eyes. Vicky had walked round the table to whisper something in her sister's ear. Both girls giggled and kept shooting surreptitious glances at me.

George returned and Vicky came back to her seat. As she walked behind my chair she brushed against me, although there was ample room to pass. It could have been an accident; both girls had been working their way freely through George's wine. But it was no accident a few minutes later when I felt an exploratory toe against my calf. I could not blatantly look under the table to see who it was; I looked at Simone but she had gone quiet and was sitting apparently passively (but her eyes were resting in my direction, I noted). Vicky was also quiet but had a more focused expression on her face; when she saw I was looking at her she gave me a little smile and the rubbing against my leg grew stronger.

I moved my leg away and cranked up the conversation. I deliberately kept to neutral topics -- City talk, political gossip, that sort of thing -- in which the twins had exhibited no interest but they seemed to be hanging on my every word and when I ventured on some mild joke they both collapsed in fits of giggles. Even George noticed. "It wasn't that funny," he said (accurately but, I thought, rather ungraciously). 

Finally the meal came to an end and George ushered us all into the drawing room (which was different from the sitting room, of course). More alcohol flowed, although not in my direction since I still had to drive home. The twins, well oiled by this time, showed signs of becoming gushing on the subject of me. A delighted, "Oh, Daddy, James is so funny and clever, isn't he?" followed some perfectly innocuous remark of mine, and I saw that George was beginning to look put out. To please him, and change the subject, I encouraged him to expand on his affluent lifestyle. It was a good move; plainly this was his favourite theme and the twins, who had obviously heard this sort of thing many times before, looked bored and subdued and just sat there staring at me. 

George got onto the subject of the house. "The grounds are at their best at this time of year," he told us. "It's a shame you had no time to look round before dinner."

"Yes," agreed Wendy politely. "Some other time, perhaps."

One of the twins (Simone? I had lost track) suddenly spoke up. "Daddy, James and Wendy could come to our party! James, Wendy, do come!"

"Oh, yes!" chimed in the other. "Daddy, wouldn't that be lovely?"

George looked surprised and slightly embarrassed that his daughters wanted this middle-aged couple among their fashionable young friends but it would have looked very mean to refuse so he said he and Sue would love us to come. "You could have a good look round the grounds," he added, offering us a more grown-up reason to attend.

I was still formulating a polite refusal when Wendy, who to tell the truth had always rather hankered after the kind of lifestyle George was describing, got in first. "It is a beautiful place you have," she replied -- noncommittally, but with the distinct air of one willing to be persuaded. "Ow!" she added as I gave her a sharp kick.

"Sorry," I said. "Touch of cramp."

At this crucial juncture whichever twin had first invited us most providentially dropped her glass and red wine went all over what looked an expensive settee. As George and Sue hurried to clear up and everyone's attention was on the spillage, Wendy and I had a furtive conference.

"We mustn't go," I whispered.

"But darling," she hissed back, "the damage is done, surely. They've hardly taken their eyes off you for the last hour. And they are lovely," she added, with this strange connoisseurship she was developing for my girlfriends.

"It's not the twins," I muttered. "We'll just have to sort them out later. It's all the others."

"Others?" She looked puzzled. "What others?"

"Think, Wendy," I replied with some asperity. "The place will be full of girls from Cambridge and you can bet some of them will be irresistible."

She got it at last. "I must have had too much of this excellent wine," she said apologetically. "You're right. What can we do?"

George looked up from his dabbing. "Damage contained, I think," he reported. "Well, James, Wendy, we'd be delighted if you'd join us on Sunday. Will you come?"

Wendy brought out her most charming smile. "Oh, George, Sue, thank you so much for inviting us, but I've just remembered we've got someone coming to stay with us. She's moving in on Saturday. We can't go off and leave her on her own the very next day, she'll think it odd."

I wanted to kick her again. I knew she meant well, but how could she give George an opening like that? He looked at me in all his patronising smugness. "Paying guests, James?" he teased. "Times aren't that hard, surely?"

Wendy, realising her gaffe, shut up and stayed shut up while I made the best I could of it. "George, you know perfectly well it's nothing like that. But we've got more space than we need and she's a lovely person and excellent company and she needs somewhere, so it just made sense."

"All right," said George expansively. "Bring her along as well."

My refusal was polite but firm. George and Sue pressed me as hard as they decently could, and the twins begged me to change my mind and gazed at me imploringly with those beautiful grey eyes, but I held my ground.

It was well after midnight when we left. I courteously held the car passenger door open for Wendy so I should have an opportunity to kick her again as she got in. "I know, I know," she said, rubbing her leg ruefully as we drove off. "Too much wine." With that she yawned and fell asleep and left me to drive home in silence wondering how to manage the now smitten twins.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 17



XVII 

"Thanks, Albert"

Next morning at work I got a call to come and see Brian. As I entered his office I thought he looked worried. "No calls," he told his secretary, and closed the door firmly.

"How did it go last night?" he asked.

"Fine, I thought," I replied guardedly. "Everyone had a good time. I gave George plenty of chances to tell us all how successful he is so he should have been happy."

"Mmm," said Brian absently. "I've just got off the phone to him. We had a few bits of business we needed to sort out." 

Of course I knew this was a lie. Brian had rung George for the specific and sole reason of checking up on last night.

"He mentioned his girls were there," continued Brian.

I shifted in my seat uneasily. "Yes," I replied in what I hoped was a relaxed voice. "Twins. They were charming. You know, I'd forgotten that he even had daughters."

"Apparently he wanted you to come to their birthday party on Sunday."

"Er, yes he did."

"… And you refused." He looked at me accusingly. Clearly I had let him down.

"Well, it's short notice and it would have been a bit awkward," I tried to explain.

He suddenly came over all friendly and confiding. "James, I think there's something you don't understand." Without another word he unlocked a drawer in his desk and handed me a folder marked CONFIDENTIAL in red letters. I leafed through. It was a series of company financial projections that he had somehow forgotten to mention when we were negotiating the deal with George's bank. They were grim.

"If we pull in the extra business we're hoping for from the tie-in with the bank," said Brian, "we might, only might, get through this. But if we don't, if George's people don't send business our way …" Without finishing the sentence he sat back with a hopeless expression. "So you see, James, we just can't afford to upset him.

"George told me," he continued, leaning forward again, "that his girls kept him up till after two in the morning begging him to get you to change your mind. He said you seemed to have made a huge hit with them. So James, and I'm asking you not just as your boss but also as your friend, please get back to him and say you'll go on Sunday."

When I hesitated – apart from the pressure he was putting me under, I was appalled that he had the effrontery to call himself my friend – he added, "And you'll find the company knows how to reward that kind of loyalty, James."

I had worked for the company for many years, well and conscientiously I think but without developing any particular loyalty to it. However, I did not want it to collapse for I had no relish for job-hunting at my time of life; also, I thought Brian's proffered bribe might come in handy. What would happen on Sunday I hardly dared imagine, but all my options were closed off and I promised to ring George.

George sounded delighted when I gave him the news; I imagine he was relieved that the girls would be off his back. I told Wendy, too, explaining that I had no choice. 

Then Connie came to see me to report mission accomplished with Tommy. She had manufactured a furious row out of nothing last night and after they had called each other every name under the sun she had said she never wanted to see him again and stormed out. She had spent the night at Fran's. "He was really upset," she added pensively. "I hadn't realised he was so sweet on me." Then she suddenly brightened up. "You are still coming round to Fran's after work, aren't you James?" I told her I was and she grinned with delight, poor Tommy completely forgotten.

I arranged with Fran and Connie that they would leave work before me so that I should not be seen going off with them. "You can get ready," I said, meaning strip and get in the bed. So when I arrived I was surprised that Fran opened the door still fully clothed and still more surprised when she pulled away from my attempted embrace. Her worried eyes looked urgently in the direction of the front room door, and I realised there were half-packed boxes around the place.

"Gabriella's here," she whispered. "She's moving her stuff out. We've been helping but it's still not finished." 

At this moment the front room door opened and Gabriella appeared, struggling with a big box of clothes. I had never met her before. Fran had talked about her, of course, saying she was tall and slender, but "slender" does not really do it for me and I had not paid much attention. But I had to admit she was a striking young woman, maybe five foot ten or eleven with lovely olive skin, big brown eyes, and long black hair. I knew from Fran that she worked for a public relations firm but she could have been a fashion model, I thought, although at the moment she was dressed sensibly for packing in a shirt and shorts. I hastily took the box from her and put it with the others. She thanked me prettily and looked quizzically at Fran.

Fran introduced us and I offered to help pack. The sooner this was done, I reasoned, the sooner I could get down to business with Fran and Connie. With similar motivation they also set to with a will. Many hands make light work and in less than half an hour all Gabriella's stuff was piled in boxes in the hallway of the flat. She rang a taxi firm to send a big car to move it. 

"Fifteen minutes," she announced as she rang off. She flopped into an easy chair with a swivel base, languorously draping one long leg over the side and rocking the chair very slightly from side to side. It was another warm, muggy day and she was hot and tired, the sweat shining on her olive face and never-ending legs. Languidly she reached for a magazine and gently fanned herself. Her hair moved slightly in the breeze from the magazine. She looked gloriously sexy. 

Fran and Connie looked at each other, then at me. I think they both suspected what was happening. So did I, and I wanted it. "Er, James …" Fran began nervously, but I held up a hand to silence her. 

I crossed the room to an upright electric fan that stood in the corner. Gabriella, her brown eyes half-closed, looked at me from under her long eyelashes. "Here, let me," I said. I stood behind the fan, directed it at her, and turned it on at a moderate setting. I was testing a theory. I had decided that FUCK must work by causing me to give off some special scent, not noticeable at any conscious level but irresistible in its effect on its chosen victim. I still had no idea how such a scent could affect only some people and leave others untouched, but I wanted to see what effect it would have on the delicious creature before me. I reasoned that if I stood directly behind the fan, in the area from which it was drawing its air supply, she would get a full dose.

She put down the magazine and relished the flow of air from the fan. It picked up long tresses of her hair and tossed them about. It also ruffled her shirt, and she undid another button to feel the cooling effect on her chest. "Oh, that's beautiful," she murmured. I increased the power a notch. As the breeze caressed her, she slid deeper into the chair and swung it on its swivel base so that she was facing me directly. By imperceptible degrees her movements became ever more suggestive and she began to move her hands sensuously about her body. She splayed her legs wide so that the breeze would play on her glistening inner thighs and moved her hands down so they focused attention on the open crotch that she was pointing straight at me, her modesty protected only by the flimsy shorts. By now her hips were gyrating in a blatantly sexual way and a throaty moan escaped her.

The doorbell rang. I grabbed the wallet from my pocket and flung it towards Fran and Connie. Fran was staring at Gabriella in amazement and failed to react, but Connie caught it deftly. "Get – rid – of – him," I silently mouthed at her and she nodded and ran out of the flat to the building entrance, where I could faintly hear her telling an irate cabbie that we were not ready and giving him money to go away.

Connie scampered back and stood next to me, agog to get a James's-eye view of the show. Fran still sat stupefied, her mouth hanging open and her eyes fixed on her flatmate, now writhing and moaning with brazen longing. Finally in a low hoarse voice full of passion and desire Gabriella twice called out my name: "James! James!" I judged that the treatment was complete and switched off the fan.

"Wow," said Connie as its whirring died away.

"Well, Fran," I said; "you were asking for a demonstration I think." 

Fran was unable to respond but Connie whispered, "James, that was amazing. It's made me feel so fucking horny. What are you going to do with her?"

"I've narrowed it down to one option," I muttered back. 

I walked over to Gabriella and leant over her. Those big brown eyes opened wider at my approach and she murmured, "James, James, I need you so much."

"I know," I said reassuringly and bent lower and tenderly kissed her. I slid one hand behind her back and the other under her knees and gently lifted her. She sighed contentedly and a long languid olive-coloured arm wrapped itself round me. I carried her towards Fran's bedroom. Connie saw where I was heading and rushed ahead to open the door; this sudden movement seemed to snap Fran out of it and she followed behind without a word, her eyes still popping.

By the time I got to the bedroom Connie was already naked to the waist and undoing her jeans. I saw Fran also start to undress in a dazed, automatic way as I put Gabriella on the bed and tenderly removed her shorts and knickers, while the now naked Connie unceremoniously relieved her of her shirt and bra and I rapidly stripped off myself.

In the midst of all this activity Gabriella seemed scarcely able to move or speak. 

Although Fran's was a good size double bed it was a bit crowded with four, but we managed somehow. Three girls at a time was a new challenge but I felt increasingly confident of my control and it did not let me down. Connie seemed surprised that I turned to her first. I slammed up and down inside her as those great chocolate buttocks writhed in ecstasy and I energetically tongued Fran's moist cunt so that she was ready for action as soon as I spunked inside Connie. After splattering Fran's insides too I moved on finally to Gabriella. 

I was feeling a little tired by this time so I managed to manoeuvre her on top of me as I lay between the near-comatose Connie and Fran. As she straddled me her sexual instinct suddenly blazed forth; she forced her lips down on mine in a kiss of massive Latin passion and her hips began to buck as her hungry cunt sought my cock. As soon as the organs touched she forced herself violently downwards and drove my shaft deep within her. Then she pulled up a little only to power down again. She was fucking me. As I began to respond her movements became more extreme still, her athletic torso straining and contorting to force me as far inside her as she could. At each thrust she gave a moan of effort; then she came. Yet it hardly seemed to stop her. She was a tigress. By now her thrusts were so violent the impact on my own groin was painful but this served only to increase my own desire. As my answering thrusts became faster and more powerful she emitted a sudden series of high-pitched gasps then she came again, overwhelmingly, as I squirted hot spunk inside her.

As our frenzy faded I became aware that Connie was already coming down and had been watching us with a huge grin of delight. "Wow, James," she smiled. "That was really hot."

I worked my way out from under Gabriella and stood unsteadily beside the bed. As I looked down at the three of them, side by side, all mine, all oozing with my juice, I felt a huge warm glow of pride. 

Needing to replenish fluids as seldom before I staggered off to the kitchen and Connie dragged herself off the bed to follow me. As I stood at the fridge drinking a pint of milk in a single draught, she leant in the doorway looking at me with that twinkle in her eye, stark naked, her thighs slick with spunk. She looked sexier than ever; in fact, her mighty thighs and hips seemed to have grown still bigger, and even her modest breasts looked a little fuller: but I must be imagining it.

"James," she beamed. "You are unbelievable. You are a fucking machine. I'm so lucky; we all are. When you used the fan to blow your fluence on Gabriella, that was just so hot. And she's one of us now, isn't she James? One of your girls."

"You're sure you don't mind, then?"

She looked genuinely puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"Well, you must realise that the more of you there are, the thinner I have to spread myself."

She looked shocked. "Oh, but James, you can't think I'd be that selfish! How could I get in the way of your happiness like that? I'd feel so awful! It's your happiness that matters to me, my sweet precious James; that's all that matters."

"So it's fine by you that I use this, er, this power I've acquired to have so much sex with so many partners? Be honest with me, Connie."

"Well, James, if you want me to be honest," she replied with a wicked glint in her eye, "if I'd acquired it it's what I'd have done with it, so why should I mind?"

I thanked her for her reassuring words and kissed her warmly. I had to be on my way; I should already be late home. On the train I reflected on the evening; Gabriella was a new departure for me, not at all my usual type, and her seduction, or capture, or whatever it was, had been done on impulse, but I had to admit I had enjoyed it hugely. "Thanks, Albert," I muttered as the train carried me home. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 18



XVIII

"l-a-d-i-e-s"

The next day, of course, Alicia was due to move in, so it was the last night Wendy would have me to herself and we made sure it was a good one. In the morning we shared an unhurried breakfast and she got ready to go and help Alicia with the move as promised, while I prepared to go to Uncle Albert's.

Just after Wendy had left, the phone rang. It was Fran. I could tell right away that she had recovered her poise after her astonishment the previous night. In fact, she thanked me for the demonstration: "It was very impressive." She also brought me up to date on last night's developments after I left. At about eleven o'clock, Manlio had rung to find out what had happened to Gabriella.

"I tried to stall him," she explained, "because Gabriella was still a bit, well, you know -- "

"Dazed?" I suggested.

"Yes, but Manlio started to get all Latin and hot-tempered with me and I was getting flustered because he was talking so fast, then Gabriella suddenly appeared and grabbed the phone and gave him a piece of her mind. In the end she told him to eff off in four languages at least and hung up on him. James," she added pensively, "this thing of yours, what Connie calls your 'fluence', it's hell on relationships, isn't it? Except yours, of course, James darling."

"H'm," I said. I supposed I ought to feel guilty that another love affair had bitten the dust on my account but somehow I could not muster the energy. 

"Anyway," Fran went on, "Gabriella stayed in her room last night and Connie's miffed because she was going to have it. She didn't appreciate sleeping on the sofa, and she wanted to move her stuff in from Tommy's today. They've been arguing about it all morning." And now she mentioned it, I could hear raised female voices in the background.

I felt this was an easy call. After all, it was Gabriella that had changed her mind about moving out. (True, she had had some prompting from me but I failed to see that that had anything to do with it.) "Connie ought to have the room," I pronounced.

Fran did not reply, at least not to me. "O Gabby," I heard her call in her sweetest butter-wouldn't-melt voice. "Could you come to the phone a moment please?"

This was followed by the sound of approaching footsteps and Fran's voice announcing my name.

"James, lover," Gabriella purred.

"Good morning," I replied cheerfully. "Gabby, Connie gets the room." That was it: no explanation, no discussion. Yet the fiery Latin tigress took it like a lamb.

"Of course, James lover."

"Also, give her a hand moving if she needs it. Go and tell her now, and put Fran back on."

"Yes, James. Anything you say, lover." And as her footsteps receded I heard her say, "Connie, Connie darling ..."

Fran thanked me for sorting out a dispute that had been driving her mad all morning, and I admitted to her that I was beginning to relish this power that Albert's invention had given me. As she rang off I decided to use it again. It was now a couple of hours since I had fucked Wendy, so I called Kylie next door and she came running. Applying a fresh coat of spunk to her insides was just the boost my morning needed.

I had to admit that having this kind of facility on tap made life's burdens easier to bear, and I caught the bus to Albert's feeling pretty good about things. My smugness would have increased still further had I been able to witness events a few miles away at Alicia's old lodgings, where Wendy was giving a faultless impersonation of a respectable widow, left comfortably off financially but lonely. She never lied to Alicia's former hosts, she assured me; she simply played the part so well that there was no need to. In fact, she charmed them to such effect that it was only with difficulty that she was able to turn down their invitation to stay for lunch.

Another consideration that put me in a good mood was the thought that today, at long last, I should be able to find out for sure what Albert had done to me. I entered his house and switched on his computer. I completely ignored the piles of dirty books and assorted rubbish waiting to be cleared; after all, I reflected with the cynicism that I had noticed was becoming characteristic of me, I now had a corps of willing volunteers that would be only too happy to take this unpleasant task off my hands.

Albert's computer gave me the same screen as when I had tried to access it before, blank except for a dialogue box demanding a password in which I had entered every crude sexual vulgarity I could think of, all in vain. This time I confidently typed l a d i e s. 

Instantly the screen came to life, offering me a bewildering array of files and documents. I checked through a few at random. Many were in mathematical or statistical formats and were stuffed with information of which I as a layman could make nothing. But others were in ordinary word processing formats and as I opened these I found to my relief that Albert had written up his work.

I resisted the temptation to read them there and then. Instead I found a box of discs and copied file after file so I could study them on my own machine at home. It took quite some time; when I got home it was to find that Kylie had gone but Wendy and Alicia were unpacking. Naturally, I had to welcome Alicia to her new home in the only possible way (the poor child would have been so disappointed otherwise). That done, I left her on cloud nine and made for the boxroom I used as a study. At long last, I was about to learn the truth.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 19



XIX

"An irresistible chemical assault"

Over the next several hours, with brief breaks only for food (once) and sex (twice), I was to learn more about human physiology and neurology than I had in the previous forty-nine years. I also learnt more about Uncle Albert than I had ever suspected before; more, indeed, than I wanted to know, for overall the picture that slowly emerged was not a pretty one.

It became evident that Uncle Albert had devoted virtually his entire adult life to this project. The electronic record went back only twenty years or so, but it contained references to ideas he had developed and experiments he had carried out as far back as the nineteen sixties. What also became clear was that no one had even come close to appreciating either the scale of his genius or the ruthless single-mindedness with which he had dedicated himself to his goal.

And the goal he pursued was sex. Nothing else mattered. 

He had nothing but contempt for financial reward or academic honours -- "baubles", he called them. All he wanted was to be given the resources he needed and to be left alone to pursue his work. The company met his requirements exactly. Every now and then he would let his bosses have some minor byproduct of his research that lent itself to commercial exploitation; in exchange they paid the bills and let him be.

Albert had clearly understood even as a young man that he was not what most women would want. Doubtless if he had cleaned himself up a bit and changed his clothes more often he could have found himself a partner, but he was not the man to genuflect to social conventions he despised, and in any event "a partner" was not what he wanted. He craved sex, endless promiscuous sex with hosts of voluptuous and willing "young ladies". A common enough male fantasy, it might be said; what made Albert different was that he thought he could achieve it.

What I hoped I might discover was any glimmer of recognition that these "young ladies" Albert so lusted after were autonomous individuals with their own intellect, their own hopes and fears, their own lives to lead. I never found it. To Albert, it seemed, they were nothing more than objects of carnal lust. Even when he incorporated into his project something that might appear to be to their benefit, his motives were always wholly selfish. And what depressed me most about this was that I was unable to deny that, post-FUCK, a similar trend was becoming evident in my own conduct.

Albert's earliest work had apparently focused on the sexual potential of the male. Experimenting on the company's laboratory monkeys, especially chimpanzees, he had developed drugs that increased both capacity and desire. In fact, he had a superior version of Viagra at least thirty years before anyone else. But, as with all his sexual discoveries, he had kept it to himself. In any case, it was only a beginning, so far as he was concerned; he did not want to administer drugs, he wanted the body to synthesise them itself. For this he had to enter the brain.

I could grasp Albert's work on the brain only in the sketchiest outline. But he was convinced from the start that it contained the potential to give him what he wanted; that it had abilities that lay dormant and unused, waiting only to be awakened.

Even bodily functions that appear wholly automatic, like sweating in hot weather, are controlled by the brain. Sexual functions are no exception. Albert dissected human and simian brains, studied brain scans, and experimented pitilessly on the company's unfortunate monkeys until at last he began to understand which parts of the brain controlled the sexual functions in which he was most interested and, especially, which chemical triggers would stimulate them. A crucial discovery was that the right chemical and hormonal trigger would not only cause a particular response; it would, so to speak, programme part of the brain to remember the response and repeat it without further external stimulation.

This process -- "fixing", he called it -- became central to his work. As he came to understand better the workings of the brain he found that he could target the "fixing" agent with great precision, then he found that he could "tie" to the fixing agent the chemical or hormone he wanted the brain to generate.

The cocktails of chemicals and hormones that constituted his "fixes" and "ties" could be taken orally or injected directly, although he was also interested in less conventional delivery mechanisms.

The first of these was by smell. It was well known that many animals have scent glands emitting special hormones called pheromones that produce a sexual response in potential mates. Human beings produce them too, but their effects were thought to be slight; moreover, the "vomeronasal" organ in the nose, which in many other animals is particularly sensitive to pheromones, was believed to be merely vestigial in humans.

Albert was convinced that the vomeronasal organ possessed immense latent power. Further experiments on the poor monkeys showed that the primitive parts of the brain with which it seemed to be connected could stimulate some elemental sexual responses, particularly in females. But, to his frustration, he could not manufacture any stimulant that would reliably generate such a response; it seemed that the chemical trigger was different from one individual to the next.

At the same time as Albert met with failure in this area, he achieved spectacular success in another. The company wanted him to work on new techniques to improve transplant surgery and in particular to overcome the tendency of the body to reject unfamiliar tissue. At first he regarded this as a distraction, and resisted it bitterly; then some initial results suggested ways in which this work would serve his purpose, and he pursued it with enthusiasm.

His approach was this: if the body would reject alien tissue, the solution was to stimulate it to grow the new tissue itself. Even Albert could hardly persuade the body to grow itself a fresh heart, but he could, and did, develop artificial hormones that would not only stimulate the production of relatively simple tissues such as body fat, but even instruct the body where to store them. The commercial potential of this was simply staggering but, as usual, Albert kept it to himself.

He also (and without their knowledge or consent) developed his colleagues' work on suppressing the immune system so that patients would be less likely to reject implanted tissue. His approach to tissue growth meant that rejection was no longer an issue, but the value to him of his colleagues' work was that he realised that the same techniques that they had devised to weaken the immune system could be applied in reverse to strengthen it considerably. Why, I wondered, was this so important? Was it, as I naïvely hoped at first, because he compassionately wanted to protect people from disease? 

While Albert had difficulty in understanding the female response to pheromones, he had more success in stimulating the male brain to manufacture them. They would be produced within the lymphatic system and issued into the atmosphere through the apocrine glands in the form of sweat. (These are the glands, located mainly in the armpits and groin, that generate fat-rich (therefore smelly) sweat, as opposed to sweat glands elsewhere on the body, which emit almost odourless salty sweat. I had no idea of any of this until I read Albert's notes that day.)

By the early nineteen nineties Albert could administer hormones to male chimps (he preferred chimps because they share ninety-five per cent of their genetic code with us) that would cause them to emit pheromones, but, disappointingly, there would be no noticeable effect on female chimps in general.

On the very rare occasions, however, that the pheromones did generate a sexual response from a female, it would be spectacular. She would pursue the male relentlessly for sex and on mating with him she would apparently experience an overpowering climax far exceeding anything normally found even in the most sexually receptive females. And afterwards, she would always be fixated on that particular male, not necessarily to the exclusion of others (for her sexual responses appeared to be permanently enhanced) but in the sense that she wanted always to be near him and would enthusiastically mate with him at any opportunity.

As I read Albert's notes I could sense his excitement; after years of labour, he was within touching distance of his goal, if only he could discover how to generate this response reliably and predictably.

He also wrestled with the problem of what he contemptuously called "rejects"; that is, women he did not desire. It would be a nuisance if old and ugly women were constantly attracted to him, yet there seemed to be no half measures with the pheromonal stimulant: in a few cases it worked comprehensively and apparently irreversibly, but otherwise it did not work at all. Again and again he wrestled with the problem: how could he control the effects?

And then, in the space of a few weeks, he made two vital discoveries that solved his problem. 

The first came with the discovery that when a male in which pheromone production had been "fixed" was exposed to the scent produced by a particular female, he would tend to produce pheromones that would affect that female specifically. However, this was only a trend, not a general rule; Albert could not work out why it would occur in only in some instances but not others.

The second discovery, and the vital piece of the jigsaw, came when he reviewed some old work about the nature of sexual attraction: what happens in the male brain when it feels lust? With great excitement he realised that the effect that he had been trying to produce artificially was one that nature could provide for itself given the right circumstances. When the female was one that the male desired, somehow he manufactured the right pheromones. Albert eventually showed by experiment that lust for a particular female triggered the vomeronasal section of the male's brain to identify and analyse her unique individual scent and generate through the lymphatic system a pheromone tailored to stimulate an overwhelming sexual response in her, and in her specifically.

That was it. Albert's notes recorded triumphantly that the males in which pheromone production had been "fixed" now enjoyed any female they desired but were ignored by those they did not desire. All that remained was to generate the right chemical and hormonal cocktail in a form in which he could administer it to himself.

This proved to be easier said than done. Not only did he have to take account of the five per cent difference between humans and chimps; he also had to add certain components to the formula so that he would get full benefit from his discovery. For instance, there was no point in attracting sexy women unless he had the strength to take advantage, and by this time he was well into his sixties. This meant developing a hormone that would "fix" part of the brain to generate the enhanced sexual potency and desire he had worked on decades before.

Nor was he blind to the danger of sexual infection. This is where his work on the immune system came back into play as he developed a "fix" that would hugely boost his resistance to disease. 

He also realised that he would have to manage the women. It was not enough for him to attract them, to fuck them, and to have them devoted to him. He also needed to "fix" new routines in their brains.

One reason for this was the need to maintain secrecy. I do not think he had any clear idea what the authorities would do if his activities became known, but he had no wish to find out. And although he showed no interest or concern about his women except as sexual playthings, he was realistic enough to know that they would have friends and family from whom the nature of their relationship with him would have to be concealed. He thought that any concerns would be minimised if his women were transparently happy, so he would "fix" their brains accordingly.

In addition, he gave them the same immunity boost that he planned for himself. This was not for their welfare but so that they would have no occasion to visit doctors, thus avoiding the risk that medical tests might bring his activities to light.

He also worried about women's monthly cycle, which altered their hormonal balance in ways that might upset the delicate admixture of chemicals he intended to introduce into their system. Moreover, he felt that getting women pregnant might unnecessarily complicate his life (his notes betrayed no concern about the impact on anyone else). His solution was simple: he would "freeze" the menstrual cycle, not by "fixing" the brain this time but by a one-off injection of hormones similar to those in contraceptive implants. For good measure these same hormones would magnify still further the enhanced sex drive caused by the pheromones. 

My heart stood still when I read this. On the one hand, I had been worried, when I allowed myself to think about it, that all this unprotected sex would lead to constant pregnancies. So part of me was relieved that Albert had foreseen this problem and dealt with it. On the other hand I was distraught to think that thanks to me Fran and all the others had lost all prospect of having families in the future.

It was with great relief that I went on to read that Albert calculated that the "freezing" effect would last about eight to ten years, following which the cycle would resume, normal fertility would be restored, and the sex drive would moderate somewhat.

Albert had one final thing in mind for his "ladies". Not content with their sexual enslavement, he would remould their bodies too. He was, as the contents of his house made clear, a keen student of female anatomy, particularly in its more generous aspects. He had plotted in minute detail exactly where body fat had to be distributed to produce the most pleasing effect, and he knew how to "fix" the brain to deliver the result he wanted. The documents in which he outlined these plans contained a couple of tantalising references to "further refinements" but I could not find any file that explained what this meant.

It remained only to introduce the requisite cocktail of "fixing" agents into the chosen victims. Some, to generate the initial attraction, would be introduced vomeronasally -- he called this "priming" the subject. I am sure he could have delivered the second package of chemicals and hormones in the same way, or failing that he could have induced the victim to take them orally. But that would be unworthy of his genius: Albert's final touch, which he appeared to consider his master stroke, was in the unconventional delivery mechanism that would effect final "capture".

For this he returned to the male brain. He already planned to "fix" it to generate hugely increased quantities of seminal fluid (and I could vouch for his success); he would now programme it to manufacture his chemical cocktail as part of the already rich biochemical brew that makes up human ejaculate. It would then be absorbed into the victim's bloodstream through the lining of the vagina and womb. Thus, with the woman already softened up by the initial vomeronasal assault, the final chemical hammerblow would be administered in the act of copulation itself. 

And with that his forty-year scientific odyssey was at an end. Albert was now satisfied that he could convert his own body into a sexual weapon that would launch, in his words, "an irresistible chemical assault" on its chosen victims.

Over the last few weeks he had laboured night and day to manufacture the huge range of compounds that he needed and blend them together in a form that he could ingest. His last entry, dated the morning of the day he died, noted that he would be leaving the serum to "cook" at somewhat over room temperature for sixteen hours; at midnight he would take it, and the prize would be his.

And then I saw his final note. It was a sickener. For several minutes I simply sat there, unable to speak or think, my head buried in my hands. Finally I looked at the screen again, hoping I had somehow misunderstood. But no; it was just the same. 





Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 20



XX

Walk this way

I was stunned. I had not sipped the serum; I had quaffed it off. My initial reaction, one of powerless rage against Albert for not briefing me properly that night at the hospital, lasted only until I reflected that the man had been dying in agony and could hardly be blamed for failing to make his meaning entirely clear. No; the responsibility was mine, and it was for me to decide what to do about it.

And first of all, of course, I had to negotiate the garden party. I had made plans for this, and that night and the next morning between wild fucking sessions with Wendy and Alicia I told them what I wanted them to do. They were to keep a close eye on me throughout; they should leave me alone when I was talking to men, to unfanciable women, or to the twins (since with them the damage was already done). But they were to intervene and drag me away if any remotely attractive woman was close to me for more than a few moments. And although alcohol would undoubtedly be flowing freely, they were to stick firmly to orange juice and tonic water; I needed them to have their wits about them. At this I gave Wendy a sharp look to show I had not forgotten Thursday night. She looked suitably abashed and they both nodded obediently.

While Wendy and Alicia got ready I called Kylie round so I could empty my balls into her, mainly because I wanted to but partly in the hope that sexual satiation would lessen the effect of FUCK. As Kylie got undressed (not that she was wearing much to start with) I thought I detected an increase in weight and asked her about it.

"Yes," she replied gleefully. "Me mum's been moaning about it but I took no notice of her because you told me not to worry about me weight. It's lovely, innit? Look," she beamed, unhooking a bra that was at least a cup size too small for her, "it's all gone on me tits." And she gathered them up in her hands and pointed them joyfully at me.

They were an undeniably awesome sight, and I told her so. I did not add that I thought she was also carrying a little more on the hips and backside; nor did I tell her about FUCK's body-moulding capabilities. As I contemplated her, barely sixteen and so young and fresh yet with voluptuous curves that it would normally take years to acquire, part of me reflected how easily I could have told her that I had changed my mind and that she ought to listen to Betty about her weight. But it was the other part that I listened to, the part that ogled lustfully at those vast breasts and wondered how they would look with a little more fat added (or indeed a lot more). So I told her she looked sexier than ever, and fucked the living daylights out of her.

On a Sunday the roads were much clearer than they had been in mid-week and we got to George's in good time. People were starting to arrive but he made time to give us a rapid tour of the grounds, which were impressively spacious and beautifully laid out. As we returned to the house, we found that many more guests had arrived so while George went off to be a host and Alicia also wandered off (but not too far), Wendy and I surveyed our fellow revellers. 

Apart from a smattering of Marjoribanks family members, who looked equally out of place, we seemed to be the only guests over twenty-five. The place was swarming with Bright Young Things -- that is, assorted offspring of the upper and upper-middle classes. Women outnumbered men by at least two to one and with few exceptions they were fresh, lively and attractive. This was not going to be easy.

When the twins caught sight of me they ran up and kissed me. Decorum, reinforced by the fact that Wendy was by my side and George not far off, restrained them to the extent that their kisses were planted on my cheeks, but they got as near my mouth as they could and held the kiss as long as possible while they rubbed their bodies against me. They gushed enthusiastically about how glad they were that I had come and how the whole day would have been spoilt had I not made it. They also started to make suggestions about getting away from the party later and showing me the house. "Wouldn't you like to see upstairs?" asked one of them, adjusting her top to show more breast. "Yes," agreed her sister, following suit and leaning forward to give me the best possible view. "I'd love to show you everything," she added, with a sly smile and strong emphasis on the last word.

I had expected something like this and was ready for it. The twins were irreversibly "primed", I recognised that, and I knew they would persist until they got what they wanted. Nor, frankly, had I any wish to deny them. They were young, they were beautiful, they oozed sexuality, and best of all they were the spitting image of the woman I had lusted after fruitlessly more than a quarter of a century before. After all these years, I thought, I was going to get what I wanted, and in duplicate.

But I was not so blinded with lust that I would bonk them into oblivion upstairs in George's house in the middle of their birthday party. So I told them to behave and say nothing to anyone, and I promised they could come to London and see me in the week (it is less than a couple of hours by train from Cambridge). Meanwhile it was their party, I told them, and they must circulate among their guests, and so I sent them reluctantly on their way with (having quickly checked that George's eyes were elsewhere) a hearty slap on their backsides.

After that I circulated too. I kept clear of young women as much as I could. One of the male students turned out to be involved in University cricket so I talked to him for a while, then I let Sue drone on about flower shows for as long as I could bear it, and I spent at least half an hour safely engaged with George's mother, who was over eighty and entertainingly ga-ga. At one stage a BYT that had been standing quite close to me while talking to some darkly handsome boy suddenly broke off her conversation with him and turned her attention to me, but Wendy appeared from nowhere and shepherded me away.

"Thanks for pulling me out of that," I said.

"Any wife would do the same," she smiled.

The event had been in full swing for over two hours now, with at least two hundred guests happily drinking George's wine and eating his food (both excellent). In the large tent that had been erected on the lawn the caterers had set out a lavish buffet but as an added precaution against anyone's dying of hunger or thirst George had arranged for pretty waitresses to wander the grounds with trays of food and glasses of wine. Wendy and I took stock of the situation.

"Touch wood," I said hopefully, tapping my forehead, "I think we might get away with this."

"James, darling," she asked irrelevantly, "you do like black girls, don't you?"

"Yes," I acknowledged frankly (why should I lie?), "but there aren't any here."

"Think again," she replied. Following her look, I saw one of the waitresses approaching with a selection of cold meats. A badge on her chest announced her as Yvonne. I had noticed her before, when I first went to get some food, but my mind was on the party guests and I had not, at the conscious level at least, paid her much attention. Black, of average height, she looked about eighteen or nineteen, and she was simply adorable. It was not that she had huge breasts (they were good but not outstanding) or a magnificent African ass (although it curved very nicely); it was not her overall physique, which was remarkable not so much for voluptuousness as for the exaggerated shapeliness some African women have; it was not even her outstanding looks with huge eyes in a milky chocolate face. It was the total package.

"She's been hanging round you for the last half-hour," whispered Wendy. "Hadn't you noticed?"

I had not; I had been too worried about the other guests to give the catering staff a thought. But, having arrived at a rapid decision, I was not displeased. Capturing a waitress was nothing like such a risk as seducing half the BYTs in Cambridge. It was far less likely anyone would notice it or be particularly bothered by it. Besides, she was gorgeous. So I gave her a welcoming smile and helped myself to some smoked salmon. My wife, standing by my side, might have expected also to be offered some food, but Yvonne had eyes for me only and simply stood there gazing at me until Wendy emitted a sharp cough. 

Yvonne snapped out of it and held the tray up to Wendy. "Sorry, madam."

"That's all right, dear," said Wendy kindly. "Is that Parma ham?" At the same time she made a face at me that asked whether I was all right about this. I nodded decisively, and she tactfully slid off while I led Yvonne out of sight of the party and engaged her in conversation. I was getting used to this kind of situation and before I let Yvonne go I had her telephone number and had promised to ring her in a day or two. I should have liked to take her there and then behind George's rhododendrons but I contented myself with a passionate kiss to seal our understanding.

I returned to the party, trying to avoid looking at all the girls and to locate Wendy. She was in the tent talking to George; I walked over and was about to butt in when someone tugged my sleeve and I found myself looking at a very pretty girl, all bright and breezy, to whom one of the twins had introduced me earlier. Gushing all over me, she asked what I did.

"Oh, insurance," she cried, as if I had told her I was an MI6 spy or something; "how fascinating!"

"No it isn't," I said, but it was no good. She kept a firm grip on my sleeve and chattered away brightly. I must have imagined it but I thought I saw her nose twitch as her vomeronasal organ sprang to life and sucked up the pheromones I could almost feel myself emitting. 

I wanted Wendy to rescue me (or did I? I hardly knew) but she had her hands full with George, whom I could hear saying, "Your James has made the most extraordinary impression on my girls, you know. They've talked of nothing else these last few days. It's almost as if they --" He broke off, apparently feeling that what was in his mind was too ridiculous to be expressed, and this allowed Wendy to offer some bland and reassuring remark.

So I could see Wendy was busy, but where the blazes was Alicia? Last time I had seen her, not long before my encounter with Yvonne, she was looking very much at home in this new milieu, and despite apparently being chatted up by the cricket-playing student I had met earlier (who I was sure had arrived with some other girl on his arm) she had been keeping a watchful eye on me as instructed. But now, when I needed her, she was nowhere to be seen.

It was too late anyway. My present companion, whose rather pretentious name was Elspeth, was clutching my arm as if her life depended on it and gazing raptly into my eyes. She was giving me her views on relationships, explaining with great animation that in her opinion there was much to be said for affairs between young women and older men, who were, she felt, more experienced and sophisticated than "boys". She was sure a lot of girls must feel the same way; an attractive older man (and her adoring gaze was briefly replaced by a more meaning look) must receive a lot of interest, and it would be only human for him to -- 

Suddenly she had stopped talking and was looking at the entrance to the tent. So, I realised, were quite a lot of other people, especially the males. For there stood Alicia, and the reason she had attracted so much attention was that her huge bosoms were contained only by the thin white fabric of her summer frock. The material was slightly see-through in any event, but she was sweating in the hot weather and this made the fabric cling to her form so that her areolae were clearly visible, and from the centre of each a nipple jutted proudly. Her face (not that anyone was really noticing her face) was uncharacteristically red and her lip was trembling as if she were on the verge of tears. The poor child was the picture of consternation and embarrassment.

She walked up to Wendy and me. With every step her breasts heaved against the flimsy dress. When she reached us she dropped her eyes as if in shame and stammered, "M-my bra broke. I-I'm so sorry. It's been very tight all day and when I sat down it suddenly broke. I went and hid in the loo to see if I could mend it but it's no good. I didn't know what to do."

"Never mind, Alicia dear," soothed Wendy consolingly. "It's just an accident. Maybe someone can --" She stopped. I deduced she had been about to say "lend you a replacement" but had realised in mid-utterance that no other woman at the party could begin to rival Alicia's proportions. As Wendy hesitated I decided it was time to intervene so I asked Alicia to walk with me.

She complied without question, of course, but she looked totally dejected and I could see she wanted to go home. Such an early departure would, however, have got me in trouble with George (and therefore with Brian) so I had to come up with some other solution. So I told her, entirely truthfully as it happened, that she looked extremely sexy and should let her arms hang normally at her sides instead of trying to cover her chest.

"But I feel so awful," she said, stifling a sob. "Everyone's looking at me."

I could hardly deny it. I was leading her away from the busy area near the food but there were still eager male eyes following every quiver of those mammoth mounds. So I asked, "How do you think that makes me feel?"

She flushed even deeper. "Oh, James, you must be so ashamed."

"I feel proud," I told her; "and you should too". 

She looked blankly at me. "Proud? But all those men --"

"All those men, Alicia, are looking at you for one reason, and one reason only. They want you. And the reason they want you is that you're so beautiful and desirable, so don't you be ashamed when they look at you. Treat it as the compliment it is."

She still looked doubtful so I went on, "That's how I see it too. They all want you, but they can't have you because you're mine. If they knew what we've been doing these last few days and nights they'd be sick with envy. So it's a compliment to me too."

"James, is that really true? It pleases you when men look at me that way?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "I promise you," I assured her.

"Right then," she said resolutely, and with that she stood up straight and took a deep breath, throwing back her shoulders and pushing her tits forward so forcefully I thought the dress must give way altogether. A young party guest that happened to be approaching us from the opposite direction stopped dead in his tracks and dropped his drink. I laughed aloud at his reaction and even Alicia managed a nervous titter.

I led her back toward the refreshment tent. As we reached the lawn where most of the guests were milling around, more and more eyes focused on Alicia. Sensing my pride and approval as I walked beside her, she grew more and more confident. By the time we reached the tent, the shy, embarrassed, almost cringing girl that had left it fifteen minutes before had been transformed. No longer did she hunch forward and raise her arms protectively in a vain attempt to conceal the obvious; upright and assured, she was projecting those tits before her like a battle-standard. Men ogled this suddenly proud beauty with even greater lust than before, while women, many of whom had regarded her with obvious sympathy when she had left the tent, now looked at her with undisguised envy.

Wendy's look of sardonic amusement was the only exception. "Well,' she told Alicia as we approached, "you look a lot happier, young lady. What did that husband of mine say to you?"

Alicia shot me an adoring smile. "James told me he feels proud when he sees that men want me," she explained, "and that makes me feel so happy."

"Well, Alicia dear," replied Wendy, who plainly found the situation highly entertaining, "let me give you some advice if you really want to make a stir." For a moment I thought she was about to suggest that Alicia lose the frock altogether, but instead she relayed the contents of some long-ago deportment class she must have attended. "Walk slowly, and cross your legs with every step. It makes your hips swing, and that makes your upper body swing, and it accentuates your curves. And you anchor the whole effect by keeping your head steady; imagine you had a book balanced on it. Like this." With that Wendy sashayed with incredible elegance across the tent and back again. "Now you try it."

The result was little short of sensational. As Alicia slowly strolled to the far side of the tent, her upper body swayed in time with her gait and her breasts rolled massively and lazily to and fro across her chest. She looked good enough from the rear but when she turned and walked back toward us the effect was stunning. I was dumbstruck, so it was left to Wendy to comment. "Very nicely done, Alicia dear. Remember to keep your head steady."

Bolstered by Wendy's advice and my approval, Alicia promenaded slowly around the tent, revelling in the attention. "Well," commented Wendy after we had watched her for a while, "I suppose it takes a man to think of this as a way of solving Alicia's predicament, but it seems to be working. She'll be featuring in quite a few young men's dreams after this display."

"Not just young men," I replied, cautiously drawing her attention to the almost-drooling George. As we watched we saw Sue, standing beside him ignored and with a face like thunder, pick up a handy fork and jab him quite hard in the buttock.

Alicia did not allow all this attention to distract her from her duties. When Elspeth tried to latch onto me again she imperiously cut across her. As I passed by in Alicia's wake, however, Elspeth stuck out a hand and slipped something in my pocket. 

With both Wendy and Alicia to keep me from harm I think I might have got away with only two new recruits (one of them intentional). What thwarted me was the English summer. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 21



XXI

 "Far too many" 

The day had started warm and it got steadily hotter and muggier as the afternoon wore on. I filled in time until we could leave without giving offence, allowing George to tell me some interminable story about the difficulty of getting his American bosses to pronounce his surname correctly. After this I thought I ought talk to Vicky and Simone and say thank-you for leaving me alone and contenting themselves with only the occasional yearning gaze in my direction. Before doing so, however, I took pity on Alicia, who was clearly beginning to suffer in the oppressive conditions in the tent, and told her that she could follow the example of most of the guests and go out for some slightly fresher air. So off she went to turn more male heads outside.

I let the twins back me into a corner and jabber away excitedly. They still looked incredibly fuckable but as conversationalists they favoured quantity over quality; I reflected, however, that in a few days I should be able to shut them up at will. I was happily imagining them naked, at my sexual service, and blessedly mute when it struck me that all of a sudden it had got very dark outside. I was about to remark on this when there was a blinding flash of light and a huge thunderclap and the heavens opened.

Instantly the tent began to fill with laughing and bedraggled guests. Some had been standing nearby and were not too badly affected but most of them had apparently been wandering farther afield because by the time they were washed up at the tent they were drenched. Alicia looked amazing; her light frock, wet through, was almost invisible as it clung lovingly to every contour of her huge bosoms.

But it had to be said that the cloudburst had worked wonders for the appearance of many of the other guests too; rainsoaked summery clothes adhered tightly to young female bodies and revealed shapely buttocks and nicely formed breasts wherever the eye rested. 

Conditions in the tent had been uncomfortably hot and stuffy even when it was relatively empty. Now, as more and more soaking wet revellers crammed inside, the temperature and humidity increased alarmingly. Faces and bodies glowed with an admixture of rainwater and sweat that ensured that clothing remained sodden. The tent was filled far beyond its intended capacity and as people milled about they were forced to squeeze past each other's sweaty, clammy bodies.

In the midst of all this I had the most enormous erection. I had, of course, been sneaking to the toilets at intervals during the day to relieve my needs and I had intended to do so again before leaving, but now I was trapped. One young woman I had hardly noticed until now, but looking very sexy with her long wavy dark hair matted down with moisture and her happy, slightly tipsy face aglow with rain and sweat, began to press against me. When she politely allowed someone to pass she made sure she backed into me far more forcibly than necessary and her buttocks pressed hard against my groin. She giggled with surprise and delight at what she found there and pressed back even harder, with a quick wiggle of the hips thrown in.

I tried to back away but in doing so found myself jammed against other sweaty bodies. One of them belonged to a delicate-looking girl, not my usual type but very pretty with her long blonde hair and big beautiful eyes.

Suddenly I felt a movement in my pocket. Thinking for a moment that someone was trying to rob me (hardly likely, given my surroundings), I made a grab and found I had hold of yet another girl, who smiled flirtatiously at me and blew me a kiss before pulling her slippery wet hand from my grasp. Hardly had she disappeared into the throng than I felt another hand, this one surreptitiously but determinedly feeling its way down my lower abdomen. It belonged to the delicate girl, who was carefully looking the other way with an expression of faraway innocence as her fingers explored my groin. When they found their quarry they grabbed it firmly through my trousers and her face assumed a look of almost blissful wonder.

And so it went on. As I tried to navigate my way to where I had last seen Wendy, I forced my way past female bodies pressed against me and hands touching me everywhere and occasionally reaching into my pockets. I was terrified of what was happening but also highly aroused; my cock was throbbing with desire and demanding that I strip off and tell the girls to form an orderly queue (or, better still, a not-at-all orderly queue). 

After a while I realised with relief that the rain was stopping and some guests were escaping the overcrowded tent. I was now able to reach a very concerned-looking Wendy. "James," she began, "those girls --"

"I know," I interrupted. "God knows what we're going to do now."

"Get out of here," she suggested, "before things get any worse."

This was good advice. I asked her to go and detach Alicia from the ardent young men surrounding her while I made my excuses to George.

Our goodbyes said, the three of us headed for the car and I checked with Wendy that she had been keeping clear of the alcohol. "Of course," she replied, clearly shocked that I should think her capable of disobedience.

"Good," I said, thrusting the car keys into her hand. "You're driving."

My companions both seemed surprised when instead of getting in the front I climbed in the back with Alicia, but it took only a moment for the penny to drop with Wendy. "I'm desperate," I whispered hoarsely by way of excuse (not that I needed one). "I can't possibly wait till we get home."

"Do you think you can contain yourself until we get to the end of George's drive?" asked Wendy with that knowing, indulgent smile she was getting so good at.

I said I thought I could manage. Anyway it took longer than that for me to unzip my fly and unleash my cock and for Alicia to struggle out of her knickers and hitch up her soggy frock.

Tastes change with age. Sex in cars, I have decided, is a case in point; in my twenties I relished the excitement of it but as the years have gone by I have come to prefer the comforts of a bed. The fuck with Alicia met my immediate needs but it was too cramped and uncomfortable to be entirely satisfactory and as I put her gently to one side to recover I promised myself a repeat later on at home. 

As I sat next to her, reflecting on the garden party and dully wondering what the harvest would be, I absently felt in my pockets. My fingers found a screwed-up piece of rather damp paper; then another. My pockets were full of scraps of paper, bits of card, stuff like that. I pulled one out and examined it.

There was scribbled writing on it. "Kathryn," it read, followed by a cellphone number.

I reached for the next. It was a piece of card torn from the corner of a menu or some such. "Please, please, please call me. Your Sara," and a number again. I felt in my pocket again; the next was also card but seemed more regularly shaped. It was a passport-type photograph of the delicate otherworldly-looking blonde girl. On the back was written, "Fuck me." There was no name, just a number.

"What have you got there, darling?" asked Wendy.

I explained and she let out a low whistle. "How many?"

I rummaged in my pockets. "Plenty," I said. "Far too many."

After going through my pockets thoroughly, I laid out the notes as best I could on the parcel shelf. They varied from tiny scraps of paper to a large folded card. Each of them included a cellphone number. Except for the blonde girl's, each gave a name too, although with one or two exceptions, such as Elspeth, they meant nothing to me. Most contained a message, usually only a few words in tones varying from loving ("Yours, yours, for ever yours," for instance, or, "You are my dream, my destiny") to graphic ("I fuck for England" or, even more bluntly, "Your cocksocket"). The longest note was from Tammy (which was she?) giving a frighteningly explicit account of what she wanted me to do to her ("I wish I had more holes to offer you" was one of her milder sentiments), and there was one brief but cringeworthy poem that I cannot bring myself to quote.

I counted the notes. There were twenty-six of them. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 22



XXII

"Everything you do"

"Well, James darling, I think even you are going to have your work cut out with this little lot."

It was Wendy that said this. She, Alicia and I were sitting at the dining table at home, reviewing the day's events and surveying the twenty-six notes, which I had carefully laid out in alphabetical order. (It must be the bureaucrat in me.)

There seemed to be little doubt that all these girls were "primed". If so, Albert's theories suggested and experience demonstrated that they would not rest until they fucked me. And it had to be done: not until the "capture" was complete could I reduce them to obedience and be sure they would not approach me in some embarrassingly public way; nor (nasty thought) could I be sure of their discretion. For all I knew they might be back at Cambridge at this moment telling all their friends about this gorgeous bald fat middle-aged married man they wanted to fuck the daylights out of.

So somehow I had to work my way through twenty-six women, or twenty-nine counting the twins and Yvonne. I looked at Wendy and Alicia helplessly.

"You can do it, darling," said Wendy encouragingly. "I know it will be awkward to arrange, but you'll enjoy it too. And we'll help, won't we Alicia?" Alicia nodded eagerly. 

"You think I'm doing the right thing, then," I asked Wendy, "in capturing all these girls?"

"Everything you do is right," she replied.

She spoke these words in a tone so casual and matter-of-fact, as if they expressed a truism hardly worth the utterance, that it was a moment before I took in her meaning. "Wendy --" I began before words failed me.

She appeared puzzled by my reaction. Then it seemed gradually to dawn on her that she had in fact said something remarkable.

"James, darling, this FUCK is powerful stuff, isn't it?" she said eventually, slowly shaking her head in awe. "But it's still true, what I said. Even though I know it's the serum, I still think, in fact I know beyond a doubt, that everything you do is good and right."

"Just because I do it?"

"Just because you do it," she confirmed.

"Supposing," I suggested, "I were to dress up in top hat and tails and dance the boogie-woogie on top of Nelson's Column."

Wendy smiled and raised that sardonic eyebrow of hers. "You'd fall off," she observed drily. 

"Never mind the practicalities," I persisted. "If I did it, it would be the right thing to do, would it?"

She pondered this. "Well, yes, I suppose it would be. I mean, unless it were right you wouldn't do it, would you?"

I looked queryingly at Alicia. She nodded her eager agreement to everything Wendy had said.

I could not get to grips now with the implications of this; tomorrow was Monday and we all needed a good night's sleep and generous helpings of hot rampant sex. But first I had to congratulate Alicia on a wonderful performance.

"Thank you," she blushed with an incongruous shyness. "It was lovely once I got used to it. Just think -- all those handsome young men, and they all wanted me. And thank you, Wendy, for showing me the walk. I can't wait to try it at work tomorrow. And I'll feel so much cooler and more comfortable without a tight heavy bra."

Wendy and I exchanged anxious glances. "Er, Alicia dear," said Wendy, "I'm sure everyone will love the walk but I don't think you should go without a bra in the office."

"But I must," she replied. "You see, after I showered when we got home I went through my bras and they're all too small, even the one I bought last week. I must have got bigger. Aren't they lovely?" And she thrust her chest out so that her tits burst free from the dressing gown that had been straining to hold them.

She was right beyond a doubt. The difference was noticeable even in the few days since I had first weighed those mighty orbs in my hands. "I've been eating so much, you see," she went on. "I've never had such an appetite."

"I've been eating more too," Wendy agreed. "All my clothes are snug. It must be all the love and attention we've been getting," she suggested, putting her arms round me and kissing me; "but Alicia dear, you can't work in a City office with a chest like that and no bra. Come with me and we'll see what we can do."

They went upstairs to fiddle with Alicia's bras and left me to ponder the implications of "Everything you do is right", to say nothing of how I was going to manage twenty-nine women.

I thought I should at least have a quiet day at the office to work out what to do, but no such luck. It was barely half-past nine when the first call came. The switchboard operator told me that an Emma Downham was on the line. 

One of the notes had been signed "Emma" but I failed to make the connexion. "Are you sure it's for me?"

"Yes, Mr Walker. She asked for you most particularly."

"All right, put her on." There was a slight click as the call was switched through. "James Walker," I announced.

There was no reply as such; just a kind of nervous gasp. Only then did the penny drop. 

I tried to keep my tone casual. "Hello, Emma, it's James here."

There was a sound of deep regular breathing as if the caller were making a huge effort to compose herself. "James, I -- oh god, it's really you -- er, it's Emma here -- did you get my note?"

Trying without success to think which one Emma might be, I thanked her politely for the note and assured her I had been going to ring her, but I told her very firmly that I could not talk to her from work. I could not resist asking how she had managed to track me down so quickly. She explained that she had gathered from overheard snatches of conversation at the party that I was a business associate of George's and was in insurance. So she had surfed the net, found the website of George's bank, read the press release about the tie-in with my firm, and followed the link to our site with its contact details. Then she had simply rung the switchboard and asked for me. It was childishly simple; anyone could do it. In fact, four further callers during the day had done the same, with slight variations, and they all got the same response that I gave Emma.

I had, I told them, received the note and was very grateful for it; but no, I could not see them today. I wanted to see them, too, but I had to make arrangements. I would be in touch as soon as I could with more information but meanwhile they were to say nothing about this to anyone and sit tight and wait for me to call. Yes, I can hardly wait either. Yes, really, I will call very soon. I promise. I'll be thinking of you as well, but I have to go now, really. Yes, I love to hear your voice too, but really I have to go. Yes, I'll call. 'Bye. No, I'm sorry, I really do have to go now. 'Bye. Goodbye.

I said nothing about the number of notes I had received, although a couple of the girls -- that would be Lucy and Charlotte (I was taking notes) -- mentioned that they had got the idea of the note from seeing another girl slip something into my pocket, so some of them at least must have had an idea that they were not alone. However, I did not want them gossiping about it even to each other (walls have ears) so I swore all of them to secrecy. I remained, however, profoundly uneasy. I knew that mere priming was not enough to guarantee respect for my wishes; for that they had to be fucked into obedience.

Some wonderful sex after work with Fran, Connie and Gabby left me feeling a bit better. Albert's brew was causing me endless worry, I reflected, but boy, did it have its compensations. 

I got home and set to the task of calling the twenty-one girls still outstanding. I started with the nameless blonde in the photograph, who turned out be called Arwen. ("My mum and dad met at the Tolkien Society at Oxford. My dad's read The Lord of the Rings thirty-seven times and thinks Shakespeare is rubbish by comparison," she told me with the weary air of someone that had been explaining this to people all her life. I told her it was lucky she was not a boy or they would have called her Bilbo Baggins.) I then methodically worked through the remaining girls in alphabetical order from Abigail to Zoe, giving each of them, like Arwen, the same message as Emma and the others had received during the day.

About half-way through it struck me that something was odd: here I was, calling the cellphones of bright and attractive young women aged around twenty, doubtless enjoying full and active social lives, and each and every one of them answered within two or three rings at the most. I had no missed calls, no "divert to voicemail", no "please try later". All of them, I realised, were waiting for me; presumably they had been waiting ever since they left their notes.

It was a scary thought. I determined to talk to the twins tomorrow to set in motion the plans I had made to control the situation.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 23



XXIII 

Twins

In fact they beat me to it. The following morning Vicky rang me at the office to tell me that she and Simone could not wait any longer to see me and were coming to London; they were already on the train and would reach Liverpool Street soon after midday. For a moment I was going to tell them to get off at the next stop and go straight back to Cambridge but then I reflected that this sudden visit was exactly the kind of unpredictable behaviour that so worried me. I decided I should take the opportunity to put a stop to it.

The idea of fucking the brains out of the gorgeous twins had nothing to do with it, of course.

So I hastily borrowed the keys to Fran's flat (she handed them over instantly, neither seeking nor receiving any explanation) and rang Vicky back with the address. I got there and let myself in only a few minutes before a cab arrived and the twins got out, looking excited but nervous.

It was nearly three decades since I had first set eyes on their mother Sue but the memory had never left me. I had fallen instantly in lust. The ash-blonde hair, those wonderful grey eyes set in a face that was flawlessly proportioned and richly complexioned, the perfect figure, the overall sense of bubbly vivacity, the sheer sexuality -- these are things a man will remember as long as he draws breath. And now, the same vision was before me not once but twice, and I was to have after all what I had so long desired.

When I opened the door the twins literally threw themselves at me and I was lost in a sea of eager lips seeking mine and fingers enthusiastically exploring anything they could reach. And all the time they were prattling away, James this and James that. I recalled how their mother too, on the rare occasions I had had a chance to talk to her alone, had always proved to be a stupefyingly boring conversationalist, chattering away nineteen to the dozen on the most trivial subjects. I had once travelled by rail to London with her, a journey to which I had much looked forward, but one that she had spoilt by incessant twitterings about nothing; I spent the whole time wishing she would shut up and let me admire her beauty.

Obviously Vicky and Simone had inherited more from Sue than her looks; but this time I was able to console myself not only that I should be fucking them senseless in a few minutes but also that thereafter I should be able to shut them up whenever I liked. 

Almost before I realised it we had staggered to Fran's bedroom, losing most of our clothing along the way. As more and more of their bodies was revealed I could see that they were not only perfect but utterly identical down to the minutest detail. The last vestiges of underwear disappeared and Fran's bed groaned under the weight of our three bodies. I could not tell which was Vicky and which Simone and to be frank I did not much care but as I climbed on top of one of them and lined myself up to enter her I felt compelled to check (for record purposes? I have no idea) so I took a fifty-fifty chance and murmured "Vicky." But it was the girl clinging to me from behind that made some kind of acknowledgment, so I knew it was Simone that I was taking first.

I had been waiting well over a quarter of a century for this so I was in no mood for ceremony. I drove into her and she kicked and bucked in a frantic orgasm. But even this did not prevent her continued response as I pounded up and down on top of her. "Yes! Yes! Oh yes!" she cried, answering my every thrust. Vicky, lying on top of me so that I was sandwiched between the two of them, also moaned with arousal as she pressed against me in time with my own rhythm to drive me even farther into her sister. It was too much for me; I knew I was about to explode. As my cock plunged deeper than ever I felt a huge blast of hot spunk shoot forth as with a great cathartic yell Simone came in an overwhelming climax.

Somehow I managed to hold the next spurt but it could only be for an instant so I desperately twisted my body to flip Vicky over on her back and onto the bed next to her writhing moaning sister. Before she can have realised what was happening I was on top of her and had forced myself in one great thrust as far within her as I could and then I let the spunk fly without restraint. Jet after jet of it flooded her cunt as the sexual tension of almost three decades finally found release. She had no time to respond to my move but as I came so did she, with a long loud moan of sheer animal pleasure that seemed to heighten as each blast hit her inside.

For some time I simply lay on top of her and inside her, recovering my strength. When I was able to move I slowly got to my feet and stood by the bed gazing fondly at the scene before me: the naked twins, sprawled side by side, beautiful, young, flawless, utterly identical and totally blissed out. After admiring my handiwork for several minutes I lowered myself back onto the bed between their recumbent bodies so that my head was between theirs and I could whisper to both of them at once. "Vicky, Simone," I murmured. "I know you can hear me. Listen very carefully. I have to leave now. Rest here for a while and when you feel stronger, go and clean yourselves up and then wait here for me to come back. We need to talk. And thank you, my beauties," I added, "that was wonderful. You don't know how long I'd been waiting."

Back at work I looked in at Fran's desk in the open-plan part of the office to let her know she would find a couple of guests when she got home. Her eyes widened as I told her briefly about the twins. "The daughters of that pompous Marjoribanks man from the American bank?" she whispered. (When the tie-in had been agreed George and some of his colleagues had visited our office for an excruciating "getting-to-know-you" day during which he had been at his condescending worst.) "James, darling, that fluence of yours is going to get you into such trouble one day." 

"You don't know the half of it," I told her, truthfully enough since in the fierce rush of events I had not had time to tell her about the garden party. I had meant to brief her when I went round the evening before but somehow the fucking had seemed more urgent. "I'll bring you up to date tonight."

When I arrived at the flat that evening, letting myself in with Fran's keys (which I had forgotten to return), I found Fran and Connie, who as usual had left work about half an hour before me, talking to the entirely nude Vicky and Simone. At least, Vicky and Simone were talking and Fran and Connie were saying, "Yes," and "Uh-huh," at intervals but otherwise failing (even Connie) to get a word in edgeways. The twins embraced me and started kissing me but still kept prattling until finally I said, in a calm but clear voice, "Twins, be quiet."

It was like magic. They stopped dead. Both Fran and Connie opened their mouths to take advantage of this rare opportunity to speak but I held up a hand to hush them. I put my other hand to my ear. The silence, having descended so abruptly, at first seemed absolute; then gradually, as our hearing adjusted to the quiet, city noises became evident -- traffic in the street, a siren somewhere -- but they seemed far away. "Listen," I said softly. "Isn't it wonderful?"

I turned to the twins, who looked chastened as well as naked. (I remembered now that I had told them to clean up but had said nothing about getting dressed.) Without the distraction of their voices, I noticed a tiny detail, something so slight that at first I thought I had imagined it. In their hairlines, which were clearly visible because they wore their hair very attractively swept up and back, there was a tiny irregularity. It was far too small to be called a widow's peak, in fact it was scarcely detectable, and I should have paid it no attention at all except that with the twins side by side and looking straight at me I could see that it was not quite dead centre; in one twin it was a fraction to the right and in the other equally marginally to the left.

"Vicky," I said experimentally.

"Yes, James?" responded the slightly-to-the-left twin respectfully.

"And Simone," I continued, feeling much better now I could tell them apart, "you are great fucks and truly beautiful and I am looking forward to seeing much more of you, but I also want to hear less of you. A lot less. Is that clear?"

They both nodded. Poor things, they looked utterly crestfallen. 

"Good. Now, all of you, we have plans to make." With that I briefed the girls, including Gabby who arrived just after I had started, quickly but thoroughly about the garden party and the twenty-six notes. The twins had realised at the party that something was going on but had no idea how far matters had got out of hand; for the others, the story was entirely new. Fran in particular looked shocked and shook her head slowly, muttering "Twenty-six ..." under her breath. 

Connie's face, on the other hand, was wreathed in a delight that was almost triumphant. "Twenty-six of them! James! You lady-killer! You Casanova! You Don ... er, what was the guy's name?"

"Don Juan," Fran informed her in a dull voice.

"Yes, him. James, it's brilliant! You really can have any girl you want, can't you, James precious? You must be so happy!"

I looked at her gratefully. I had got so wrapped up in the trouble FUCK was causing me that I was losing sight of the benefits. Of course, she was quite right. While getting all these girls sorted out might need a bit of organisation, the fact remained that I was going to shag senseless twenty-six highly fuckable women. With renewed enthusiasm I returned to the problem.

The twins' nakedness was something of a distraction but they were so beautiful that I could not bring myself to tell them to get dressed. Connie must have noticed my lustful glances in their direction because she gradually began to slip out of her clothing, Fran and Gabby more hesitantly following suit (probably not the best expression in the circumstances).

My first thought had been to make several visits to Cambridge and sort the girls out in ones and twos, but on further consideration I had decided this would be too much of a headache; moreover, now that I had made contact with them all I realised that the twins' circle of friends was wider than I had supposed and by no means all twenty-six were at Cambridge. "So what I need, and as soon as possible," I explained, trying to ignore the female flesh revealing itself all round me, "is a weekend's booking of a country house hotel or conference centre, something like that. We need somewhere big and secluded where they will clear the normal staff out entirely so we have it completely to ourselves. We'll get them all there and I'll sort them all out at one go."

"But James darling," Fran queried, "can you do that? Twenty-six?"

Connie answered for me. "You can do it. What a weekend that'll be. Of course, you'll need to get in plenty of practice first. I'll help." She removed her only remaining garment, her knickers, and sat back, legs apart, her cunt gaping directly at me and glistening with moisture. On her face was a huge smile of unconditional availability.

I thanked her for her offer and her confidence. "It's not going to be easy to find somewhere at short notice," I continued doggedly. "Maybe there'll have been a cancellation somewhere."

"Daddy's house," suddenly offered Simone, breaking her unwonted silence. Vicky nodded agreement.

Maybe I should have concealed my exasperation. "It baffles me," I declared, "how on earth George managed to get you two dizzy girls into Cambridge."

They showed no offence. "Crammers," replied Simone matter-of-factly. "He spent thousands."

"But James," interjected Vicky, "we're not being dizzy about this. Daddy's house would be perfect. It's big, it's very private, there aren't any domestic staff ..."

"You don't think," I asked sarcastically, "that 'Daddy' would object, then?"

"He won't know," replied Simone confidently. "He's off to the States on Sunday. The bank's got some big meetings next week in New York."

"What about 'Mummy'?"

"That's just it," Vicky explained. "She's going too. They had a big argument after the party. Mummy was really angry because of the way Daddy kept looking at Sally, and -- "

"Sally?"

"You know, Sally, your tenant, or whatever she is, with the -- " and she put her hands against her chest as if cupping enormous breasts.

"Alicia," I corrected her.

"Sorry, Alicia. Anyway, Mummy said after he'd made such a fool of himself gawping at that big-titted floozie she wouldn't trust him out of her sight. In the end to keep her quiet he agreed she could come to New York and spend his money on Fifth Avenue and after that they'll go travelling in America for a fortnight. So they'll be gone for three weeks. It'll be perfectly safe."

I thought about it. Maybe it was not such a silly idea after all. "All right," I said, "I'll get back to all the girls and tell them to clear their diaries for the weekend after next. Let me see, that's ..." I glanced at the wall calendar to check the date. "Well, well," I said.

The girls looked at me questioningly.

"The Saturday's my birthday," I explained. "I shall be fifty."

"James precious," said Connie gleefully, "that's a birthday you're never gonna forget." 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 24



XXIV

"Whatever you want" 

Wasting no time I told the twins, who were disappointed but instantly compliant, to get dressed and catch a train back to Cambridge. They were a little consoled when I told them I should be glad to see them in London this coming Saturday. Then I rang Wendy and told her what I had decided and that I should be late home. After this there was nothing for it but to take the now naked Fran, Connie and Gabby to bed and fuck the daylights out of them.

Then I returned to the sitting room and got down to business. First I rang Yvonne, for whom I had special plans. After that I drew out the list of girls and telephone numbers that Wendy had kindly typed out the night before and worked my way through, again getting an almost immediate reply each time. I told each girl to clear her diary for the end of the following week; I would give further details, I promised, nearer the time. The overwhelming response was one of relief to have a definite date; waiting for the intervening ten days would be agony, they told me in their various ways, but at least now they knew when they would be seeing me. One girl, Felicity, had a distressing weeping fit in which she sobbed that she had been terrified since we spoke the night before that I might never contact her again. She kept apologising for being so silly and would pull herself together for a moment only to break down again. She sounded frighteningly vulnerable and utterly helpless in the face of what I had done to her.

Felicity's tears had brought on a severe attack of conscience and when I got to the end of the list I rang her back to tell her again that we should see each other soon and to say how sorry I was to have caused her such upset. This attempt at reassurance served only to set her off again. "Oh, no, James, it's not your fault," she wailed. "It's only me being silly. It's just that I can't believe how lucky I am to have found you and if, if ..." she paused to summon the strength to continue, "if anything bad happened and I couldn't see you, everything would just be so empty and pointless and the idea of it scares me so much I can't think straight and I just well up and --"

Fitting action to words she broke down again. I looked helplessly at Fran, who had emerged from the bedroom half-way through my telephone marathon wearing nothing but a blissed-out smile and the customary accessory of cum dripping down her legs. With a vacantly happy expression she had watched me make my calls but now, as I attempted to console Felicity, she began to look more concerned.

By the time I had managed to stem Felicity's tears and get her off the phone I felt the need to unburden myself to Fran.

"Poor girl," I said. "I know you could only hear one end of that, but ..."

"I got the gist," she said. "Remember, I've got some inkling how she feels. It's awful, James, you've no idea how bad it is. For days I couldn't think about anything except how much I loved you and needed you."

It was only when she uttered these words that I realised with dismay and remorse that in my absorption with my own concerns I had not given a thought to the way my poor Fran must have suffered between her initial exposure to FUCK and our confrontation in the office a full six days later. 

"Fran, I'm so sorry," I said guiltily. "You must have been so miserable and confused."

She looked surprised. "Confused, yes, you're right about that, but not miserable," she replied. "At least, not at first. To begin with I thought it was just a mix-up." And so Fran told me her tale.

As I briefed her on the report that day in the office she had been surprised to find that her natural sympathy for my bereavement grew into an unaccountable and almost irresistible urge to throw her arms around me and cover me in kisses. But after I had removed my distracting physical presence she found it easier to concentrate on work and made some solid progress on the report. Once she returned to the flat, however, she could not get me off her mind. Thinking she must be overtired, she skipped supper and was in bed by nine-thirty, early even for her.

"But that was when things got really strange," she went on. "I had this dream that you and I were making amazing love. I'd never known anything like it; the feelings were far stronger than they'd ever been with a real boy, and in the end the climax was just shattering and I found myself awake in bed, covered in sweat and with this wonderful uplifted feeling. I just lay there for ages, savouring it and thinking how glad I was that Gabby was at Manlio's because I was sure I must have called out your name and it would have been hard to explain."

"But didn't it trouble you," I asked, "that of all the men you could have dreamt about, you chose me?"

She hesitated. "Well, I --" she began, then thought better of it. "Why do you say that?" she asked eventually.

"Fran, look at me," I replied, rather irritated at having to spell out the obvious. "I'm twice your age, I'm carrying far too much weight and hardly any hair, and on top of everything I'm married. Do you really think I'm a likely candidate for a sexy dream?"

Fran spoke slowly in reply, choosing her words with obvious deliberation. "At the time, as I lay there that night, you seemed the handsomest and most desirable man in the world. It was only the next morning, as I remembered how wonderful it had been and wished I had someone I could tell about it, that it even crossed my mind that a confidante would be surprised at my choice of dream lover. So, yes, then I did puzzle over why most women wouldn't find you as sexy as I did, just as I couldn't see why it had taken me so long to notice it." Having said this, she sighed with relief as if not having fancied me from the start were some shameful secret she had had to steel herself to own up to.

"How did you account for it, then?"

She smiled. "With a bit of amateur psychoanalysis," she said. "I thought, first of all, it's natural that a young woman should want a man, and second, it's also natural that a lovely kind man like James should be on my mind when he's suffered a family tragedy and needs my help. So, I thought, these two perfectly natural things must have got somehow jumbled up in my brain. But really, they're quite separate so I'll deal with them separately and everything will be all right. So when I got to work I got busy with the report and when I had a break I rang Gabby and told her I'd changed my mind about that blind date."

This was news to me. "Blind date?"

"Yes. An old friend of Manlio's from Spain is a journalist and he'd just come to work in his paper's London office. Gabby and Manlio were taking him out for a meal and she asked me to make up the foursome. She kept telling me he was single so it was obvious what she had in mind, but I felt awkward about it so I said no. But once I'd decided that the dream was nature's way of telling me I needed a boyfriend, I thought, 'Why not?' and I agreed to join them on the Friday night.

"Things weren't too bad when I was in the office because although I kept thinking about you it just spurred me on to keep working on the report. 'He's relying on me,' I told myself. I kept drifting off into little fantasies about what you'd say when you got back to the office -- would you give me a thank-you peck on the cheek? -- and I tried to work out what I might say or do in response, silly schoolgirlish stuff like that. But then I'd tell myself how disappointed you'd be if I didn't finish the report, and that would mean there'd be no chance of the thank-you peck, so I'd buckle down. So the office was bearable, but at the flat on Thursday evening I didn't know where to put myself. Gabby was at Manlio's again so there was no one to distract me and in the end I just sat there thinking how lovely you were until it was time to go to bed.

"And James, darling, that was the night you just blew me away. As soon as I dozed off I had a dream that started where the night before had left off, and all night through I had one amazing dream after another. I'd never imagined that sex could be like that. In the end I hardly knew whether I was asleep or awake or whether you were real or my imagination. I'm still not sure how much sleep I got but in the morning I felt fantastic and I had a smile on my face that wouldn't go away; at the office people kept asking me what I was looking so cheerful about.

"I kept telling myself that you were happily married to Wendy and wouldn't be interested in me and that the whole thing was some kind of delayed schoolgirl crush and that I shouldn't feel bad about it because that evening I'd meet this man Jose and he'd be so attractive I'd get you out of my system and everything would be straightened out."

"But he turned out to be geeky and weedy?" I hazarded.

"Oh, no, not at all. He was lovely. He was very good-looking in a Spanish sort of way, with beautiful piercing eyes and he was sharp and funny and I could see he really liked me."

"Sounds like perfect boyfriend material," I retorted with a touch of petulance that, in all the circumstances, was wholly uncalled-for.

"Exactly," she agreed, "which is why it really worried me that no matter how hard I tried I couldn't muster the least interest. I even let him kiss me in the hope that it would start some sort of response but not a flicker: I just wished it were you. In the end I made some excuse and left them at the restaurant and went home. I put off going to bed as long as I could because I knew what would happen and I was right: it was just like the night before, maybe even more so.

"By this time I was getting really worried, and to make matters worse it was a Saturday so I had no work to distract me. I remembered that back home I used to go for long walks if something was bothering me; I'd never tried it in London but I thought it had to be better than staying cooped up in the flat so off I went.

"I didn't have any plan. I just headed off randomly and kept away from main roads as much as I could and finally I found myself in this big park with people wandering about enjoying the sun so I sat down and watched them for a bit.

"You know, back home it always puzzled me when I heard anyone say that you're never so much alone as when you're surrounded by people but it's true, isn't it, darling? I mean, there I was, in one of the biggest cities on earth with people all around me getting on with their lives and paying me no attention at all. It seemed like I was on a different planet to everybody else. I'd never felt so lost and isolated in my life. When someone suddenly said 'Hello' to me I nearly fell off the seat, it was such a shock.

"It was an adorably cute little mixed-race boy. 'My name's Louis,' he announced proudly. 'I'm four. How old are you?' I thought how wonderful to be at the age when this is a perfectly acceptable way of starting a conversation with a total stranger. So I told him my name and that I was twenty-two and we were happily chatting away when someone called, 'Louis!' and this woman hurried up and said to me, 'He's terrible for talking to strangers, I'm sorry he bothered you.'

" 'No bother at all,' I said. 'We were getting on really well. What a lovely little boy.' 

"To prove I didn't mind I offered to buy Louis an ice-cream and the mother and I fell into conversation. I liked her at once. She was about thirty, I think, and she had this beautiful Irish accent and before I knew what was happening she was telling me all about herself and Louis and the trouble she'd had with her family when she first took up with Louis's dad, who was a musician from Senegal, and I don't know if it was because she'd been so confiding or just my pleasure at running into a fellow Celt but I felt this urge to tell her about my predicament. I was fighting it down but she must have realised I had something on my mind because all of a sudden she paused and gave me a shrewd look and said, 'But enough about me. What about you? Are you in some kind of trouble?' And I just blurted out the whole thing."

"What, everything?"

"Well, yes, pretty well. I said I was completely bowled over by this lovely man at work but I was sure he didn't want me and I couldn't stop thinking about it and it was driving me crazy."

"Plus he was married and old enough to be your father."

"I might have been a bit vague about your age. It would have needed too much explaining. I just said you were a bit older."

"And married."

"Well, all right, maybe I didn't get round to mentioning that either."

"That's hardly 'everything', is it, Fran?"

"James, please stop being difficult. The point is, I told her as much as I could without getting involved in complicated explanations, and she said that if it was what I wanted I had to tell you how I felt. 

" 'But he won't want me,' I told her. 'I couldn't bear it.'

" 'Well,' she said, 'even if he doesn't, at least you'll know. And you wouldn't really be any worse off than you are now, would you?'

"This seemed to make sense. 'I suppose not,' I said uncertainly.

" 'Listen,' she said. 'This life of ours: it's the only one we get. It's not a rehearsal. Go for it.'

"Oh, James, I felt so much better. I thanked her and gave her a big hug and I hurried back to the tube and went home. I wasn't moping about any more: I was thinking, planning, working out what I could do to make you mine. I knew people wouldn't understand, that they'd say I was doing the wrong thing, and I felt terrible about poor Wendy, but I knew I had to face up to all that because I'd regret it all my life if I didn't at least try. And that evening, I didn't put off going to bed; although I knew that the night would be the same as the previous ones, I was resigned to it by now."

Fran blushed slightly. "Well, to tell the truth, I was rather looking forward to it. I had a nasty feeling these nights of solitary passion were the closest I was ever going to get to the real thing, and as I put out the bedside light and turned over to go to sleep I pretended you were in the bed waiting for me and I muttered, 'Here I am, darling, back into your arms again.'

" 'Glad to hear it,' you said.

"Hearing your voice electrified me. I hit the light switch and sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. James, darling, it had sounded so real. It took me several moments to pull myself together and realise I must have fallen asleep and started dreaming as soon as my head hit the pillow, and even then I had to get up and do a quick check round the flat to be sure I really was alone. And, needless to say, the night was just the same as before, and next morning I stayed in bed for ages just enjoying how good it had been. I didn't get up until nearly half-past eight."

In conversation with Fran over the previous several months, I had picked up that she was one of nature's larks, almost always up before six and usually in bed by ten. Even so, I was a little taken aback at the revelation that she apparently regarded it as the height of decadence to remain in bed until eight-thirty on a Sunday.

Fran was continuing. "That day, Gabby put in an appearance to pick up some clothes and she drove me up the wall with chatting about Manlio and saying what a lovely guy Jose was and how he really liked me. I was annoyed when she decided to stay the night because I knew I'd have the dreams again and she was bound to hear me. But next morning all she did was give me a funny look and say, 'Fran darling, if that's what going to bed by ten does for you I'll have to try it myself,' and left it at that.

"The next twenty-four hours was the worst time. It just crawled by. The trouble was I knew you'd be back next day and I just couldn't wait. I needed a definite time to focus on so I decided you'd be in at nine sharp next morning and every few minutes I'd look at the clock on the wall and work out how many hours, minutes, and seconds there were to go. The evening was even worse; it was lucky I had the flat to myself again because I paced up and down and couldn't settle for a moment. For days and days I'd been living for the moment we'd meet again and now it was getting closer I was more and more convinced that you wouldn't want me and you'd be so angry and disappointed with me that you'd say something cruel and humiliating to punish me.

"I thought I was bound to have the dreams again but in fact I had the most awful night. I know people say they didn't sleep a wink when what they really mean is they slept fitfully, but I'm serious. The whole night long I simply lay there, my eyes wide open, terrified of what might happen next day. I was so relieved when I could get dressed and leave for work, and I was at my desk by seven. I waited and waited for you to come in and ticked off the minutes until nine o'clock. When it got to half-past and you still hadn't appeared I began to get frantic and I convinced myself that something terrible must have happened to you. I thought I was going to choke so I had to hurry off to the kitchen for a glass of water. I was only gone a few minutes but, of course, in that time you'd come in and Connie had slipped in your office ahead of me, the little slyboots. I couldn't think why she would want to see you or what you could be talking about for so long: I was so frustrated that I wanted to scream or start smashing the furniture. I'd never ever felt that way in my life before. I thought I must be going mad." 

"Maybe you were," I replied gloomily.

"Well," she smiled consolingly, "if I was, it's not a madness I'd ever want to be cured of. Because," she went on more seriously, "that's the killer, James. Take that poor girl Felicity you were talking to earlier: even if I rang her back and told her all about your uncle's potion, even if I could somehow get her to believe me, she'd still want you, James darling, she'd go on wanting you more desperately than she ever thought it was possible for anyone to want anything. That's how it works."

Fran's thoughtful analysis sobered me as much as Connie's more superficial one had cheered me up earlier. I reflected that Fran was, with the possible exception of Wendy, clearly the most intelligent of my "captives". I appealed to her for counsel.

"Fran, what do you think I should do?"

"Whatever you want," was the disappointing reply.

"Fran, that's not helpful. You're a clever girl and I need your advice here." 

My rebuke clearly distressed her. "But James, it's the only advice I can give. You are the centre of my life. All I want is your happiness. I'd gladly walk barefoot over hot coals to get you what you want, my darling, but I can't tell you what to want. Only you can do that."

There seemed nothing more to be said and we looked at each other in silence. Eventually she started picking at the discarded clothing lying about the room and began to put on a bra. It was clearly too small for her and she had trouble doing it up. Her fiddling irritated me.

"Fran, put that down please."

She put it aside. "It doesn't fit me anyway," she replied. "I've been eating non-stop for the last week. All my clothes are tight and my bras won't fit at all."

"FUCK," I explained.

She looked upset again. "Oh, James, darling, I didn't know it bothered you. I'll go on a diet and join a gym tomorrow."

I corrected her misunderstanding. "It's another effect of the potion. It reprogrammes your brain to store more fat, especially on the breasts and backside. Albert liked his women curvy," I explained, "and so do I. Don't you go anywhere near that gym." 

Fran cradled her growing bosoms. "I used to be able to get into a B cup," she said, "but I'm verging on a D now." She stood up and leant over me so I could have a good feel. "You like them, don't you, James darling? All right, forget the gym. I'll go clothes shopping on Saturday."

"Fran, I have plans for Saturday. I'll need you all day. Connie and Gabby too."




Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 24



She looked delighted but could see I did not want to offer any details. "All right," she replied, "I'll nip to the shops at lunchtime tomorrow."

"Fine," I said, "but don't forget to eat."

"No fear of that," she assured me. "I'm always hungry now. In fact --" She stood up and headed to the kitchen. Moments later she returned, with a jug of cream in her left hand and in her right, held aloft like a trophy, a dish with an enormous slice of cheesecake. "Voilà!" she announced. "I knew we had some left." She bowed to me like a stage magician. "And for my next trick," she beamed, "I shall make this cheesecake disappear."

With that she sat down and tucked in with gusto. In the time it took me to gather my bits and pieces and be ready to leave she had demolished the lot. She looked so sexy sitting before me, still entirely naked and now stuffed with cheesecake, her legs streaked white with slowly drying spunk and her breasts spotted with cream that she had not entirely accidentally spilt on herself, that for two pins I would have taken her again; but it was already after ten and Wendy and Alicia awaited me at home. But I allowed myself the indulgence of licking the cream off. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 25



Shapeliness

The next day was memorable chiefly for Yvonne.

I had invited her to Fran's flat at lunchtime. It seemed only a courtesy to mention this to Fran at work the next morning when I apologised for again failing to return her keys. She told me not to worry, she had assumed I meant to retain them and had had another set cut on the way to work. 

"So keep them," she smiled. "You'll need them if you're going to keep using my flat as a handy knocking shop. How many girls this time, darling? Three? Four?"

"Just the one today," I assured her.

She looked at me in mock concern. "Only one? Darling, you're slipping. Maybe the stuff is wearing off."

I promised to show her after work whether it was wearing off.

I got to the flat ten minutes before I had told Yvonne to arrive but she was waiting outside in the street. She was clearly overjoyed to see me but also deeply confused about what was going on. I hurried her inside and into Fran's bedroom, where she looked at the bed and then at me. Despite the hesitancy of her general demeanour, her eyes blazed with desire. She made no move to disrobe but did not resist as I began to undress her. So that we should not proceed in total silence I asked a few questions and learnt that she was only eighteen years old and came from Zambia in southern Africa. Her family had sent her to stay with relatives in London to earn some money to send home. She was in the country entirely illegally and had worked in a succession of menial, low-paid jobs where employers pay cash and ask no questions. She was essentially a very quiet, calm and level-headed person for whom the raging sexual desire that had consumed her last few days was entirely out of character. Its grip on her was so strong that she made no attempt to resist it but at some level she realised that something strange and disturbing was happening.

I was desperate to resolve her anxiety in the only way I knew, but once I had undressed her I contained myself long enough to stand her by the bed while I sat down to study her form closely. I was intrigued by the way there seemed somehow to be something beyond mere shapeliness in the lines of her exquisite young chocolate body. Naked before me, her skin a flawless velvety brown from head to foot, she reminded me of erotic drawings in which women's curves are exaggerated beyond the natural.

My fingers gently but firmly rotated her on the spot so I could examine her from every angle. "Please, sir," she begged as the scrutiny continued (I had told her my name but endearingly she continued to address me as if she were still waitressing at the garden party); "I'm so confused but I need you, sir."

"Soon, little one," I soothed. She trembled with a mixture of desire, anticipation and fear as my fingertips, barely touching her, traced the curve of her buttocks. 

I finally decided that the secret was something to do with the way the hips related to the spine. The join between them, in fact the entire pelvic bone, seemed to be angled farther forward than in most women. This had the effect of raising the buttocks and making them more prominent; it also projected the lower torso forward and made the small of the back into a much deeper declivity. By itself this pelvic tilt would have caused her to stoop forwards; to counteract this, the "S" shape of her spine was unusually pronounced so that her shoulders were forced back. This backward tilt of her upper body not only ensured that she remained in balance overall; it also lifted her beautifully formed breasts.

I was struck by the realisation that if I had dropped a plumb line from her shoulder blade it would have reached straight down to the floor. Or, putting it another way, if she, in her normal standing posture, had slowly backed toward a wall, her shoulder blades would have been the first part of her to contact it.   

Yvonne again opened her mouth as if to speak. Deciding that my examination was at an end, at least for now, I stood up and kissed her. The poor little thing seemed almost to melt in my arms. I lifted her up – she weighed far less than I expected – and put her gently on the bed, then I undressed and joined her.

This little girl turned out to be a complete sexual animal. Until the moment I entered her she was eager but fearful, her body trembling as I lay on my back and positioned her above me. I had intended to penetrate her slowly for fear that my huge throbbing cock would hurt her but as soon as she felt it inside her she came explosively, her entire body shaking so violently that I almost lost my grip of her; then she thrust herself down on me with astonishing strength, driving my cock deep into the farthest recesses of her cunt. This brought her to a second climax, only seconds after the first, with an orgasmic bellow that made me hope all Fran's neighbours were safely at work.

I was not to be outfucked by girl of eighteen. As she relaxed (but only slightly) from her second orgasm, I plunged into her again and again. I pounded faster and faster and incoherent moans of pleasure escaped her as those tilted hips bucked up and down. Suddenly she came again, more dramatically than ever, and this time it seemed she was spent as her body, so tense and excited only a moment before, now became wholly inert. I felt a twinge of disappointment; she would, I thought, miss the show's rapidly approaching climax (i.e., mine). But I underestimated her. As my own thrusts got faster and the end approached, strength returned to her and, gripping me as if her life depended on it, she answered my passion with her own.

We slammed at each other in an animal frenzy of fucking. Then a huge jet of cum gushed into her, and another, and another, as each spasm of my cock strained to extract every last drop of spunk from my balls. When the first blast hit her, her body jerked rigid and her hands underneath me clutched my back fiercely. My African lioness literally roared forth her pleasure, again and again as each spurt exploded.

And then it was all over and she seemed suddenly very small and weak again, lying utterly limp and helpless on top of me. I too was exhausted; what finally prompted me to move was a sensation of wetness on the bed beneath me. When I got out from underneath her and looked at the sheet I saw marks of bright red. She had drawn blood. I had to struggle to the bathroom and find Fran's medicine cabinet for emergency repairs on my back before I could get dressed and return to work. 

I had no idea how long her trance would last; judging by the elemental nature of her orgasms, probably some hours. Before leaving, I arranged her comfortably and whispered to her that she should have a shower and leave as soon as she could, but I promised I should be in touch. In the event, Fran and Connie, arriving from work over four hours later, on entering the building bumped into a very pretty black girl just leaving, in whom they recognised all the symptoms: unsteady walk, sparkling eyes, and huge blissed-out smile. With the splendid collegiate spirit I had noticed among my girls, they told her I would shortly be back and invited her to stay. It would have been a good idea, but on this occasion the obedience conferred by FUCK worked against me; I had told Yvonne to leave and that is exactly what she did.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 26



"God's gift"

"If you want a job done properly," I muttered to myself, "don't give it to Connie."

This was about half-past eleven the next morning, when I found myself in the back streets near Hanover Square, having just emerged from a meeting in a client's office. It was one of the appointments I had asked Connie to rearrange while I was on compassionate leave, and the reason for my irritation was that she had done something I had specifically warned her against, namely arranging two external meetings the same day. My second meeting was at two-thirty in a remote south-eastern suburb; the journey thither might, I guessed, take a little over an hour. Returning to the office seemed pointless; by the time I got there I should have too little time to do any worthwhile work before I had to leave again: but travelling direct to the meeting would leave me with about two hours to kill in the middle of the day. I emerged onto Regent Street still unsure what to do. 

"Jim!" 

I was very fond of Connie but she was not, I reflected, cut out for office work. Since I had told her to buck her ideas up no one could have faulted her time-keeping or the diligence with which she had applied herself to her duties, but her new-found zeal had merely served to expose her lack of aptitude for the job. The filing she had done, for instance, followed no known rhyme or reason and it would all have to be done again. Sooner or later management would pull the plug on her, I thought sadly, then what would she do?

"Jim! Jim!"

I made for the tube. I had decided that I might as well travel to the suburbs now; a decent lunch would be cheaper than in the West End and I might take the opportunity to look around a part of London I did not know very well. But then I became aware of running footsteps rapidly catching up behind me. Turning, I saw an attractive young black woman hurrying up, encumbered with shopping bags and looking a bit hot and bothered from the exercise, but apparently delighted to see me.  

"Jim, it's me. Oh, Jim, I'm so glad to have found you!"

I was about to tell her she had the wrong man. No one calls me "Jim", which is why I had paid no attention when I first heard the name being called; the only time I had introduced myself to anyone as "Jim" was when I – 

The denarius descended. "Gina!" I cried.

She threw herself into my arms and hugged me tight. "Oh, Jim honey, I thought I'd never see you again!"

I gently detached myself and pulled back from her a little. I was far from sure how I wanted to play this. I still felt embarrassed about my visit to her, which was one of the biggest mistakes I had made in my efforts to cope with FUCK. I had nothing against the girl personally, but I knew I had been lucky that our previous meeting had ended without disaster, and really I wanted nothing more than to put the whole incident behind me. Like any good Englishman unsure of himself, I fell back on small talk. "It's good to see you, too, Gina. You look fantastic."

This was not mere flattery. She was beautifully dressed in excellent and apparently expensive taste, and she had about her an air of buoyancy and bien-être that was almost magnetic. 

She shot me a dazzling smile. "Well, I've got you to thank for that, hun." And she did a twirl so I could see her from all angles.

I was not sure what she meant. "I don't think I can claim any credit," I replied.

"You bet you can," she retorted. "Here, hun, let me buy you a drink."

I realised she had skilfully directed our steps into a side street where a pub was tucked away. Weakly, maybe, I allowed myself to be steered inside, but I insisted on getting the drinks. We nestled at a small table in the corner. She accepted her drink with another radiant smile and leant forward.

"Jim, honey," she said in a low but excited voice, "you are a life-saver. I just can't thank you enough."

"You mean last week?"

"Don't play dumb, honey, you know what I mean. What you did last time – I want it again, honey, I want it right now."

I felt I should have known where this was leading. I did not hold it against her – she had her living to earn – but I had no wish, and frankly I now had no need, to start spending my money on prostitutes. So I gave her what I hoped was a gracious smile and made my excuses.

"I'm sorry, Gina, it's a lovely idea but I'm really short at this time of month," I apologised, draining my drink.

She looked shocked.

"Jim, honey, I couldn't take money off you after what you've done for me! This is a freebie. They'll all be freebies for you from now on, Jim honey, you just let me know when you want me and I'll come running." She passed her card across the table.

"Er, Gina," I replied hesitantly, "all I did was fuck you."

"All I did was fuck you," she echoed, imitating my diction. "But Jim honey, it was the fuck of fucks! It was like no fuck I've ever known. Do you know it was hours before I could move off that bed?" She smiled at the recollection. "It was weird. I felt amazing, like I was floating, and I could hear everything that was going on but I couldn't move or speak. You know you frightened the bejayzus out of Gloria."

"The maid?"

She nodded. "She was going spare until I managed to tell her I was OK. Then, when it wore off a bit and I could get up, I felt really horny again. I thought of all the guys that had rung up while I was out of it; I'd heard Gloria putting them off. I wished she could ring them back so I could fuck them all. Then a guy rang up and came round. He was old and greasy but I didn't care, I wanted it so bad. And it was just mind-blowing; I came twice. I don't mean he sent me into orbit like you, Jim honey," she added, in case she had damaged my male ego, "but I'd never liked sex with clients before I saw you and now I can't get enough."

Her comment about not liking sex with clients surprised me. "You didn't like sex?"

"Not with clients, hun. Boyfriends, that's different."

"But you looked tickled to death when you first saw me at the flat."

"Pure professionalism, hun," she shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint you."

I cringed with embarrassment. "My fault for being so naïve," I assured her.

"But that's all in the past now," she resumed. "I only used to work a couple of days a week but since I saw you I've worked every day. And not working flats either. Parlours and parties all the time. I've just fucked myself stupid." In her excitement she was beginning to raise her voice and people were starting to look. I motioned her to keep it down. "I've fucked so many guys it's a wonder I can still stand," she hissed. "And I've made more lovely money than I've seen in my life. Look, hun!"

She rummaged in her bag and, with a cautious look for prying eyes, pushed a bulging purse under my nose. I undid the clasp and it burst open with the pressure from within. The purse was stuffed with an enormous roll of notes, all, so far as I could see, either fifties or twenties. "My god, Gina," I whispered, "how much have you got here?"

"Not sure; might be a couple of thou'," she replied proudly.

My eyes widened. "All earned in the last week and a bit?"

"Nah," she retorted dismissively. "This is just since Monday."

Today was Thursday. My mind boggled. Gina seemed thoroughly pleased with the effect she had generated.

"Jim honey, you are God's gift to whores and," she grinned wickedly, "I'd be letting down the whole profession if I didn't thank you properly. So you just come along with Gina, honey, no more arguments."

When she put it like that, how could I refuse? I let her grab my arm and lead me out of the pub. As soon as we hit Regent Street she hailed a cab and named a Bayswater address. 

I was intrigued by what she had told me in the pub. "Gina –" I began as we drove off.

"It's Donna really, honey," she informed me.

Again I felt crushed by the realisation of my own naivety. It should have been obvious that she would not use her real name when working but the thought had never crossed my mind. All the same, I preferred "Gina", and said so.

"Right you are, hun," she replied indifferently. "Gina it is."

It suddenly struck me that she was letting go of her real name, her identity even, for the sake of my whim. I thought of telling her I liked "Donna" after all, but I was more interested in getting to the bottom of her remarks in the pub.

"Gina, when you talked about doing parlours and parties rather than flats, what did you mean?"

On that taxi ride I learnt more than I had ever expected to know about the London sex trade. Gina explained that, apart from walking the streets, which she dismissed as a dangerous and poorly paid way of working resorted to only by the desperate, the options open to a "working girl" were flats, parlours, parties, and escorting. "Of course, you don't have to stick to the same one all the time," she explained. "You can party one day and escort the next. That's something a lot of girls like about this business, the way they can decide when and how they want to work."

"But they all hate the actual sex?" 

She corrected me. "I never said I hated it, hun. Sometimes it was all right, 'specially if the guy was good company and made me laugh. And sometimes I just put up with it as part of the job. But all whores aren't the same, honey. There are some girls that hate the sex and hate the clients; they get very hard and cynical and usually don't last long. I was never like that. And there are other girls that just love guys and wanna fuck them all the time. I always thought they were the lucky ones, and now I know it for sure, hun, you've made me one of them." She gave me a grateful hug.

"But I must admit whores are all the same about one thing," she added. "We all just lurve the money!" 

Gina explained that escorting was at the top of the profession. It involved seeing possibly only two or three clients in a day, but each of them would pay some hundreds of pounds or, for an "overnight", maybe as much as a thousand (although of course the agency took its share). Although it often meant going alone to the client's home or hotel, the risk was minimal because anyone able to pay this sort of money would be a man of some substance; moreover, a satisfied client would often make generous gifts of cash or jewellery over and above the agreed fee. Gina had worked this way until the previous year, when she had fallen victim to a combination of her own advancing years and the freedom of travel resulting from the eastward expansion of the European Union.

At least, that is my interpretation of what she told me. Her exact words were, "All of a sudden last summer, London's awash with bloody perfect nineteen-year-old blondes from Lithuania, wherever the hell that is."

I was trying so hard to look as if I found this a deplorable state of affairs that I almost failed to notice that the words "It's on the Baltic" were rising to my lips. Just in time I realised that she was not in the market for a geography lesson and I substituted a comment about having seen newspaper stories about human trafficking.

"Don't believe everything you read, hun. I'm sure that goes on with dodgy agencies and the rough end of the business but the girls I met knew exactly what they were doing. And they'd do anything, the little tarts." She paused a moment, perhaps aware of a certain inconsistency in her remarks. "All right," she continued; "I admit it. I'm a whore. I fuck men for money. But I was always a bit picky about kissing guys full-on and I never took it up the ass. But these new girls! Wave a bit of red money [she meant fifty-pound notes] in front of those pretty faces and those big blue eyes would pop out on stalks and they'd tickle the guy's tonsils with their tongues and take his cock up their behind and do it all for half of what I'd been used to getting just for a fuck."

I tried to tut disapprovingly.

"I suppose I can't blame them, really," Gina went on more charitably. "I was talking to one girl, she hadn't been in London a week, she said she was eighteen but I'd have put her nearer sixteen. She told me she'd made more money from one night with a Japanese businessman than her father earned in a year as a schoolteacher back in Slovakia or someplace. The poor kid looked bewildered, overwhelmed. I hope she's OK."

She fell silent for a moment. It shames me to have to confess that I happily drifted off into thoughts of beautiful eastern European girls with perfect teenaged bodies and no sexual morals. 

"Well, anyway," she resumed, "all the agencies, or at least the ones I'd be willing to work for, were telling me they had nothing for me, so since then I've been working flats." She explained that this meant she would see a few men each day and give them a degree of personal attention for which they would pay reasonably well. There was an element of risk, since the men were unknown quantities and she was alone apart from the maid, and it could get boring hanging around the flat all day, plus of course she had to pay the maid and the flat owner, but for her these drawbacks were outweighed by getting a reasonable financial return from not too many clients.

In the past she had worked in massage parlours. (Even I had been faintly aware that this was a quaint euphemism for "brothel" but I had never visited such an establishment.) In a parlour three or four girls would typically be on duty and the turnover of clients would be much faster. A man would come in off the street, choose his girl, and be taken to a private room where she would, to put it bluntly, empty his balls as quickly as possible. The whole process was much faster and more clinical than working a flat, as well as cheaper for the client, of course. The girl would earn far less from each encounter than in a flat but would see far more men in the day so overall the reward was about the same. It was also safer because other people were around if a client gave any trouble, but having to service so many men had put Gina off this way of working.

That is, she explained, until I had entered her life. That day, after getting over her encounter with me, she had enjoyed blinding sex and massive orgasms with three more callers at the flat but she had still felt horny, so she had rung round some parlours she knew and booked herself in for the following day. And what a day it had been, apparently. "Jim, honey, it was fucking fantastic," she enthused. "I knew the place was busy, that's why I hadn't liked it before, but there was some kind of big business exhibition on somewhere near and the guys just kept coming." She laughed as she realised the unintended double meaning. "I kept coming too. I fucked twenty-eight guys in the day and I just exploded every time. And the twenty-eighth guy," she proclaimed with professional pride, "was just as satisfied as the first."

By the time we arrived at her flat, which was in the basement of a posh Bayswater terrace, Gina was telling me about parties, in which you get three or four girls in a flat with about twelve or fifteen fee-paying punters and, so far as I could understand it, basically have an orgy. It was an idea she had always found thoroughly off-putting until just over a week ago, when it had somehow become irresistibly alluring. With so many people around this was also, of course, a very safe environment in which to work.

All in all, Gina had given me a fascinating insight into an aspect of London life I had known almost nothing about. To tell the truth I was getting thoroughly excited and aroused by the thought that all this sex was going on, all day, every day, all over London, while millions of people got on with their conventional lives all around it, yet oblivious of it. 

I gathered that since our encounter Gina had spent all her time, the weekend included, in parties and parlours, always choosing the ones she thought would have most men. She had never had so much sex or made so much money, she reckoned an average of seven hundred pounds a day. "After eight days of wall-to-wall fucking," she said as we entered the flat, "I thought it was time I spent some of the money so I took today off and came up the West End to splash out. Nice, eh?" She stood before me showing off the obviously new outfit she was wearing and proudly held up the bulging bags sporting the logos of prestigious and expensive West End stores.

"Very nice," I acknowledged, "but you'd look even better without any clothes at all."



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 27



Vidi, vici, veni

I fumbled for my watch.

"Christ! Is that the time?"

Gina, of course, was gazing ceilingward in glassy-eyed bliss and could not reply. I scrambled into my clothes and hailed a cab, and as it carried me to London Bridge Station I rang the client and gave some excuse for my lateness. This particular client was based in an inconveniently remote south-eastern suburb; the principal thing I remembered from my only previous visit was that there was evidently some kind of college in the area that specialised in African students, mainly female, because there had been a remarkably high proportion of attractive young black women about, gabbling to each other in unintelligible languages.

I was pleased to see, when I left the station at the other end, that the black girls were still very much in evidence but sadly I had no time to ogle them. I had to rush to the client's office, which fortunately was only a few minutes' walk away.

When I left, however, it was another story. I had checked the timetables and knew I had twenty minutes before the next train back to central London. My intention was to catch that train and go straight home where I knew Kylie would be happy to welcome me. I had no intention of entangling myself with pretty students, but there was no harm in hanging around for fifteen minutes or so and watching a few of them drift by.

There was a bookshop a few doors from the station that obviously catered for the college. I like bookshops, so I made my way inside and pretended to look at the shelves whilst casting appreciative sidelong glances at the delightful African scenery. I was careful, however, to keep moving and not settle close to anyone. Then I saw her. 

There were a couple of things about her that instantly struck me.

They were attached to her chest.

They were simply enormous.

I am not saying she had big tits. The expression "big tits" does not begin to do justice to what she had. Alicia had "big tits" but this girl dwarfed Alicia. Instantly, FUCK-fuelled lust overrode everything else in my brain and I knew there and then that I had to have her. The only question was how.

As she approached me and walked by I took a better look at her. Like a lot of African girls, she was quite chunkily built, filling a pair of jeans very nicely. She was by no means, I had to admit, the prettiest girl in the shop; she looked rather sulky and preoccupied. But all these considerations were trivial compared with her tits. 

She was wearing a man's rugby shirt of the traditional baggy variety. It was far, far too big for her and almost seemed to envelop her upper body except that it was relatively tight across the chest. She had tucked it into the jeans but because it was so big it hung very loosely around her. As she passed me I tried to see how much of the space within this huge shirt was occupied by her tits but it was difficult to tell, which I am sure is why she had chosen this particular garment.

I followed at a safe distance as she went to the Business Studies section and started to look through the shelves. This is, frankly, one of the least interesting sections of any bookshop but I too began to browse it. I tried to edge my way nearer to my quarry without attracting her attention.

It was my imagination, I know, but I could almost feel my FUCK-powered brain analysing her scent and working out how to synthesise the right pheromonal response. But surely I did not imagine the sensation of sweat beginning to seep out from my armpits and groin. I inched closer. She shifted a little away; was it coincidence? She had given no explicit sign, but I sensed she was aware of my nearness and felt crowded. I was in an agony of suspense. If I made another move toward her she might leave altogether, then what should I do? To try to show I was merely another customer I picked a couple of books randomly off the shelf in front of me, then moved a little away from her. 

That her shift had not been coincidental was shown when she responded to my move away by edging back to her original position. But it was a fatal misstep. She could not have dreamt that by that tiny adjustment of place she had changed the whole course of her young life. For it meant that the innocent act of replacing the books I had removed would involve reaching across in front of her face. Watching her mighty chest rise and fall, I waited until she had breathed out and then, almost trembling with excitement and desire, I reached over and replaced the books just as she inhaled.

My timing was perfect and the response was immediate. She took a normal inward breath but then, as I pretended to have some trouble slotting the book back into place so that I could stay leaning towards her with my arm extended in front of her face, she suddenly, without exhaling, drew in air greedily until her lungs were full and her chest rose so high that it seemed to extend horizontally in front of her. She held that breath for a long time, and when the exhalation finally came it was like a slow longing sigh.

It was all I could do to stop myself from punching the air with a yell of triumph. The indications were tiny – no one else in the shop would have noticed anything unusual – but I knew that I had hooked my fish. She slowly turned her head to look at me as if for the first time. Her sulky expression was replaced by a nervous faraway smile that improved her appearance enormously, and in her eyes was that tell-tale sparkle. I pretended to be unaware of her while she started to edge closer. 

She was almost touching me now, picking out books and pretending to look at them while inching still nearer. I could easily hear her breathing, which was very slow and very, very deep. When she removed a book I saw her hand was shaking. To confirm that she was mine I abruptly left the boring Business Studies section and headed for Science, where there were some interesting-looking books on astronomy. I could see out of the corner of my eye as I walked across the shop that my departure seemed to leave her at a total loss for a moment; then she too suddenly discovered an interest in the stars and hurried after me. As I browsed she again took up position as close as she decently could (rather closer, in fact) and the same thing happened when I switched my attention to Modern European History.

My train was due soon. To give her plenty of notice of my intention to leave I very deliberately retraced my steps and like a conscientious customer I returned the various books I had collected to their proper places. With a look of alarm she hastened over to Economics where she engaged in a hurried whispered conversation with a young black man, apparently also a student. This was a surprise; I had not realised she was with someone. He was a big strapping lad, too, well over six foot and powerfully built; almost certainly he was the original owner of the rugby shirt. "Lucky boy," I said under my breath, thinking of the pleasure that incredible bosom must have been giving him. "But," I added, "your luck's just run out."

Obviously she was giving him some excuse for suddenly leaving and he did not like it, but in the end with an irritated gesture he dismissed her not only from the bookshop but also, had he known it, from his life. I left the shop and took a slow walk to the station so that she would have no trouble keeping up.

When the train arrived she got on the same carriage but at the opposite end, sitting so she could keep an eye on me. No one else would have imagined there was any connexion between us but we were joined by an invisible chain. At London Bridge I transferred to the tube, again taking my time, and once more she boarded the same carriage.

When we got to my station I walked slowly home, glancing back every so often to see a top-heavy black girl following at a safe distance through a part of London that was presumably entirely strange to her. As I opened my front door I saw her standing on the other side of the road, watching me. I hurried to an upstairs window to see what she would do next. It did not escape me that Alicia had said she would have behaved like this, but she had not been able to say what she would have done if she had succeeded in following me home; maybe now I should find out.

The poor confused girl merely stood there for a long time, staring at the house. Eventually she sat on someone's low garden wall and still she stared. I was just beginning to think I ought to go out and talk to her when she slowly stood up and, after another long look at the house, terrified me by taking a couple of hesitant steps back in the direction of the station. I was about to rush out and intercept her when she changed her mind and sat on the wall again. 

Long minutes passed as I watched her. Then she abruptly stood up, with much greater resolution this time, and marched briskly across the road directly toward the house. She had made her decision.

I rushed downstairs and opened the door the instant she knocked. When she saw me she looked overwhelmed; I stood elaborately to one side and gestured her to come in. She complied, stumbling on the step. Her head lowered and held to one side, she would not look directly at me, and she seemed to be hyperventilating. Still no word had passed between us.

Now that I saw her so close her incredible chest seemed huger than ever. Almost without conscious thought, more in obedience to the rampant erection that told me I had to have her, I took three steps up the stairs. She made as if to follow me. Needing no more encouragement I went upstairs and she more hesitantly followed. 

In the bedroom I started to undress. Now she did look at me, her eyes wide with fear and confusion, but she made no move either to remove her own clothes or to leave. When I removed my trousers her eyes fixed on my massive throbbing cock and opened yet wider. Her breathing was now even more laboured. She shook her head slowly back and forth and for a moment I thought she was about to speak. 

Then, slowly, never taking her eyes off my cock, she bent down to manoeuvre her feet out of the black boots she was wearing, the unbalancing effect of her tits forcing her to put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Then she stood upright again and unfastened her jeans, easing them past the curve of her buttocks and down to the ground. The huge rugby shirt now hung free, its front dangling far in front of her belly. As I removed the last of my clothing she gathered up the enveloping shirt in her hands and lifted it above her head.

It was my turn to stare. Her bosom, in fact the whole of her upper body, was swaddled in a vast bra. It was obviously custom-made, probably at considerable cost. Two stupendous cups, made of a heavy fabric with some kind of elaborate internal wire support, contained and almost covered her breasts. The straps holding the cups were so broad they extended almost from the point of the shoulder to the neck but even so I could see that the weight they carried made them press uncomfortably into her shoulders. More thick material extended some way down her torso from the bottom of the cups and from the way she was fiddling behind her back it was evident that the whole enormous apparatus was held in place not by normal clasps or clips but by laces, like a corset.

I wanted to help her as she struggled to loosen the laces but I was unable to move. Finally they came free and the sudden release of constraint allowed her breasts to settle. She winced in pain as this put even more weight on the straps, which she hastily slipped off her shoulders and down her arms. As the monster bra fell from her, her breasts were finally revealed.

My legs literally buckled. Had I not been standing so near the bed I should have fallen on the floor. As it was I sat down heavily and simply stared. Never had I seen anything like this. The girl was a phenomenon, almost a freak. I had guessed she had chosen the rugby shirt to disguise her proportions but only now did I realise how well it had done its job.

There seemed to be no upper chest area at all above the breasts; even unsupported, their outward sweep began immediately below the line of her collarbone and seemed to continue for ever, stretching far out in front of her and to either side before finally, almost reluctantly, curving back and round and up again to form a stupendous cleavage that ended at the base of her neck. Although she was standing up straight, the lowest point of each breast was well below her waist, but this must not be thought to imply that they were saggy. Their bulk projected them far forward of her torso as well as downward and to the side. Their deep even chocolate complexion was flawless except for the huge black areolae from which her nipples proudly projected. 

I could not speak. All I could manage was to gesture feebly that she should approach me. With hesitant steps she drew close. I wanted to raise my hand to touch her but my arms would not co-operate. Then she took another step nearer and my lips brushed against her left breast.

I kissed it tenderly, hardly daring to touch it, and finally managed to lift my hand to ease her gently to me. With both hands I reached behind her and my fingers tenderly explored the line of her back and her generous buttocks. Then I grasped her more firmly to pull her against me and envelop my face in her vast enfolding bosom. She gave a tiny gasp of sensual pleasure. As I pressed my lips against her breasts, her fingers began to run up and down my arms, then my back.

The vast bulk of her tits bore down on my arms, allowing me to shift these great pillows of flesh slightly upwards and together so that they pressed against my head while my lips and tongue explored the chasm between them. It seemed endless; as I delved deeper I just found tit and more tit, two infinite soft warm walls of chocolate flesh pressing against me from either side. An age seemed to pass before I found her torso and planted a warm kiss on it.

So utterly did her breasts envelop me that I found it hard to get air, and I was forced to lower my arms to reduce the pressure. The movement shifted my hands from her buttocks to her thighs and as I began to explore between her legs my fingers became wet. As I ran them upwards, I found juices oozing copiously from her quim.

I withdrew one hand and gently took her arm and manoeuvred it under her breast so that her hand slipped between her legs, with the palm facing upwards to press gently against her dribbling cunt. With my head still between her breasts and my lips touching tenderly on her torso I felt rather than heard her little moans of pleasure as I rubbed her hand back and forth. When I judged that her palm and fingers were sufficiently juicy I pulled her hand away and folded her oily fingers against my now enormous and inflamed cock. Tenderly massaging the juices into the shaft, she reached down to her cunt with her other hand to capture more of her oozing fluids.

Two oily hands fondling my cock was almost more pleasure than I could bear. Unless I made a move quickly I was going to explode all over her instead of within her. Reluctantly detaching my face from her tits I lay back on the bed and swung my legs up off the floor. She climbed on the bed on her hands and knees and straddled me, resting a hand on each of my shoulders and keeping her arms straight so that her head and shoulders were high above me. Even in this position I could feel the weight of those monstrous tits on my chest; she shrugged her upper body so that one of them lurched heavily forward and my lips could fasten on the hugely protruding nipple. 

I grasped her hips firmly and gently pressed her onto my eager cock. She gave a shuddering gasp as it found her opening. I had intended to enter her cautiously for fear of hurting her but my cock seemed to slither easily into her oozing cunt as if it were the most natural thing in the world (which of course it was). It felt almost as if she had somehow created an internal vacuum and was sucking me in. Almost before I realised what was happening she had accommodated my full length; the entry was so smooth, almost gentle, that she did not seem to have come, but she gave a low appreciative moan and that dreamy smile was playing on her lips again.

I pulled back a little for my next thrust, or rather I tried to. Her cunt, so accommodating a moment ago, seemed somehow tighter. Again, more deliberately, I tried to withdraw slightly and this time there was no doubt about it; there was a definite constriction at the neck of her cunt as if some muscle had tightened around me.

I had never encountered anything like this before, but I had read about it. I think it is mentioned somewhere in the writings of Sir Richard Burton, the nineteenth-century explorer, that Arab slave-owners in East Africa told of "grippers": girls that could tighten their vaginal muscles around a penis. Burton, if it was Burton, commented drily that slave-girls with this faculty were highly prized.

I had thought this was merely a fable. But now I knew different: whether by conscious act or primal sexual instinct I could not tell, but she held me in a firm grasp and would not let go. If I could not pull back, maybe I could press forward; I grabbed her buttocks and forced them downward while driving my cock into her as hard as I could. She squealed sharply with pleasure or pain and the grip relaxed slightly to permit even deeper penetration. Then she pulled up a little, but only so that she could bring her hips violently down on me; the impact shook the bed and her breasts literally rippled. Again and again she raised her hips only to slam them down, faster and faster, while she bent her arms so that the weight of her tits bore down upon me, forcing her nipple into my mouth. I was almost smothered in tit, while faintly from far above me I could hear her cries of delight rising to a higher and higher pitch.

I was being fucked, well and truly fucked by a woman in the throes of a ferocious sexual passion. I did what I could to respond with my own thrusts but I could hardly compete with her wild bucking. As she reached a crescendo she came with a great triumphant yell of orgasmic catharsis and relaxed, gasping desperately for breath.

It was my turn. The intensity of her passion, although overwhelming and almost frightening, had also been incredibly exciting and I could feel a huge load of spunk desperate for release. Hungrily I drove into her, again, again, again. Freeing my face from her breast, I could see that although she was panting for air and covered in sweat she was still aware of what was going on and she even made her own efforts to respond; she wanted more and she was going to get it. My every thrust sent great fleshy ripples through her tits and as I fucked harder the two vast globes began to swing so that they separated and came together with a sweaty slap; I could even feel on my face the puff of air forced from between them each time they collided.  

And I came. I came and came and came, jet upon jet filling her cunt until I could feel the pressure of hot spunk against my cock and still I came. Endless bolts of cum rushed up within my shaft in their desperation to add to the sticky white ocean bathing my cock.

And she too came. She did not cry out this time. She started to twitch, then her entire body was racked by spasms that intensified as blast after blast of spunk flooded into her, while her breath came in short desperate gasps. Her breasts magnified the quivering into violent shaking. I was genuinely frightened for her but I knew I could not stop pumping until every drop was drained from me. Her convulsions grew stronger and stronger and then, as I finally ran dry, she gave one final massive shudder and collapsed into complete immobility.





Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 27



I wanted to do the same, but I had not the luxury. As the sexual tension in her body was replaced by absolute torpor, her whole weight rested upon me and her breasts, no longer partly supported by her arms, enveloped my face so totally that I could not breathe. Despite my exhaustion, fear of asphyxiation gave me the strength to struggle out from underneath her and fall off the bed onto the floor, where I lay still for a long time, heaving and panting for breath and trying to regain the use of my limbs. When finally I was able to struggle upright I found the poor girl, blissed out beyond words of course, lying very awkwardly on her side. Owing to my weakened condition and the added problem of manipulating the weight of those unbelievable tits, it was with some difficulty that I laid her on her back in a more natural and comfortable position.

I staggered downstairs to the kitchen for some much-needed fluid replacement. It was as I was draining my second pint of milk that the sound of a key in the front door heralded Wendy's return from work.   



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 28



XXVIII

 "We'll have to get a whip" 

Like the good and attentive wife she was, Wendy instantly recognised the symptoms. (Maybe they were not so hard to detect. I was standing there stark naked, red in the face and panting for air, a hand against the wall for support, with my dangling cock coated white with spunk dribbling in little gobbets on the floor.) 

"Hello, darling," she said brightly; "lovely to see you home so early. And how is young Kylie?"

I corrected her misapprehension. "Wendy, darling, we have a new recruit."

She was intrigued. "Really? May I see?"

"Main bedroom," I told her and she disappeared upstairs while I made myself slightly less indecent by struggling into the dressing-gown I had brought downstairs with me.

Wendy returned wide-eyed. In her hand she carried the monstrous bra. For a moment she was unable to speak.

"I've never seen anything like it," she said at last. "The poor girl is deformed. Wherever did you find her?"

"In a suburban bookshop. She was in the Business Studies section."

"She's so huge I don't know how she managed to show herself in a public place. Didn't people stare at her?"

"Well," I explained, "trussed up in that apparatus you're carrying and with a baggy rugby shirt on she's quite well disguised. When I first saw her she looked merely enormous. It wasn't till I got her back here that I discovered she was stupendous."

Wendy was examining the bra. When she put one of the colossal cups over her head, there was plenty of room to spare. She looked absurd, wearing the cup as if it were a very baggy hood. "She's had this made specially," she said. "You couldn't get something like this off the peg, even in that specialist shop Alicia goes to." She abruptly sat up and whipped the grotesque bra cup off her head, looking at me with great concern. "Alicia! James, what about Alicia? She'll be so hurt."

"She'll be fine," I told her complacently.

"Oh, good," she replied, instantly reassured. I marvelled at the power of FUCK.

Wendy looked thoughtfully at the bra again. "James, darling," she asked; "if her bust is this big now, what on earth is it going to be like when Albert's potion gets to work on it?"

"I don't know," I told her, "but I'm looking forward to finding out."

"Well," said Wendy philosophically, "I'm sure she'll like the result as much as you do. By the way," she added casually, "you haven't told me her name."

Even fuelled by FUCK I felt embarrassed. "I don't know it," I confessed. "I never got round to asking. In fact, we haven't exchanged a single word."

So I told her the full story of the capture. I also took the opportunity to finalise plans for Saturday and update her about Gina. "Well," she said, "you have been a busy boy."

Mentioning Gina reminded me that I had meant to ring her, so I fished her card out of my pocket. She was, naturally, delighted to hear from me. "Jim honey, you want me? Just tell me where you are, honey, I'll be right there."

I reflected that I had Wendy, Kylie, and Ms Humungous ready and available and Alicia should be home any minute, so I told her that her services would not be needed for the moment. I had simply wanted to thank her for lunchtime and check she was all right. 

"Never better," she said. "I bet you're surrounded by women right now. Lucky bitches. What about tomorrow?"

"I thought you'd be working."

"I'll always take time off for you, Jim honey. How about your lunch break?"

It was a tempting thought. The office was becoming rather a trial; it was the only place I had to spend a substantial time without getting inside some beautiful and compliant women and the regular wanks in the gents were less and less satisfactory as a substitute. Fran and Connie were there, of course, but their recovery time, although falling all the while, still ruled out the lunchtime quickie I had such need of. 

But no; work was piling up on my desk and I needed some solid office time to clear it. I told Gina to go to work, have fun, and make lots of "lurvely" money.

"Sorry to hear it, hun," she said resignedly. Then she brightened. "Say, Jim, how would it be if I asked someone else along? I saw the way you looked when I talked about those bloody East European girls. I could get one of them to join us. How would that be, hun? A curvy little old black bird and a perfect teenage blonde?"

She had found her point d'appui. I wavered. "Er ..."

At this point Wendy, who had been listening with interest to my end of the conversation, hissed to me, "Go on! Do it!"

I put my hand over the receiver. "You don't even know what she's suggesting," I pointed out.

"I don't need to," she replied. "Whatever it is, I can see you want to do it, so do it!"

I spoke into the phone again. "All right, Gina, it's a deal. Expect me at twelve-fifteen."

"Right you are, hun. I'll make sure I line up a good 'un." She made the girl sound like a commodity, which of course she was. 

I hung up, and told Wendy what I had just agreed to at her urging. "That sounds nice," she replied evenly. 

Just then we heard the key in the door and Alicia came in. "Hi James, hi Wendy," she called. "I can't wait to get out of this thing." 

Since the garden party it had been Alicia's habit immediately upon returning home each day to take off her top and remove her bra, not necessarily bothering to replace the top afterwards. It was a practice that I saw no reason to discourage.

However, I did not want to deal with her now -- I was desperate for a shower -- so while she was busy unfastening herself I put my finger to my lips to tell Wendy to say nothing about the new girl, then I went upstairs to clean up. 

After my shower I found Alicia, unashamedly topless, chatting cheerfully to Wendy whilst helping prepare dinner. I sat her down and told her that there was something I wanted her to see. Then I led her to the main bedroom. The new girl was still lying in exactly the same position; I thought I detected a slight movement of her eyes as we entered but I may have imagined it. Alicia simply stood there gaping until I led her out again.

"J-James, she -- I mean, they -- James, that's not possible! And I ..." She trailed off and looked down at her own bust as if it were suddenly inadequate. "You -- you won't want -- " she stammered.

I held her in a big supportive hug. "Alicia, you are so precious and special to me," I whispered. "Of course I want you."

In her desperation she pressed herself even tighter against me. She was so young, so sweet, so devoted. So sexy, too, I thought, as my cock stiffened. "I want you right now," I added, gently steering her towards her bedroom. And there I proceeded to administer the best reassurance I possibly could.

The sex was fantastic. I had noticed that as time went by my urges were growing stronger and when I satisfied them I ejaculated ever more copious amounts of spunk. I left Alicia blissed out and brimming with it. Her recovery time was now down to about thirty minutes; just time for a quick private chat with Wendy. 

First, however, I briefly looked in on the tits. She still had not moved, but this time her eyes definitely responded. I had a terrible plan in mind for her. A tiny seed of thought had germinated in my brain when she and I were fucking and, despite my attempts to get rid of it, it had now taken firm root. Part of me was appalled: I knew that such a thought should never have crossed my mind and if it had I ought to have dismissed it instantly. But more of me was excited: I could do it, I wanted to do it, and I was going to do it.

I knew, or at least some small part of me knew, that FUCK was affecting my standards of conduct, making me arrogant and predatory. There had been an indication of this the night before, when after seeing Fran and Connie (Gabby, who worked for a public relations firm, was away for a couple of days seeing clients in Germany) I had phoned Yvonne to make sure she had got home safely. During quite a long conversation in which she told me more about her circumstances and her poverty-stricken family in Zambia, she had still addressed me as "sir" throughout. Now she was under control a word from me would have got her to switch to "James" but somehow I never uttered it. To be honest I found it flattering and exciting to be addressed so deferentially; and now, with the new girl, I was to take this idea much further. 

When I got downstairs I found Wendy still busy in the kitchen. "Alicia's happy now, is she, darling?" she asked.

"I think so," I replied. "I want to talk about the new girl. I've decided what to do with her."

Wendy sat down and waited for me to continue, her head cocked to one side.

Now that it had come to it I could hardly bring myself to say the word. Was it really my own voice I was hearing? But my decision had been taken and despite my inner qualms I announced it in a firm, resolute tone.

"She's going to be my slave."

A strange expression came over Wendy's face. At first I thought it was horror or disgust but then she spoke in an entirely matter-of-fact way and I realised it had merely signified puzzlement about my portentous manner.

"But James, darling," she said, "surely you realise you've enslaved all of us?"

I felt irritated that such a momentous announcement had fallen so flat. "This is going to be different," I explained. "I want her utterly subservient, servile."

"We'll have to get a whip," suggested Wendy brightly, but she must have seen the horrified look on my face because she immediately held up a defensive hand. "Joke, joke; James, darling, I'm only kidding." 

But, I wondered, had she been?

"Darling," she asked hastily, "why do you want to treat her in this special way?"

I had been asking myself the same question so I had some sort of answer ready. "The way I see it is," I explained, "that the girls I've acquired so far, or most of them anyway, are all special. In pride of place there's you; you're my wife, I love you dearly and always shall." I bowed low to her. "Fran and Connie are more like close friends. All right," I conceded, "I know I fuck them a lot but that's not the point. I can talk to them in an easy and natural way and although they're very different they both have splendid qualities that I really value. And then there's Alicia. She's so sweet and so devoted I just want to look after her; it's not too much to say that she's like a daughter to me." At this Wendy sharply raised an eyebrow. "With a tendency to incest," I admitted.

"But," I went on, "it can't go on this way, with every girl special. I've got twenty-six pending from the garden party and that won't be the end of it. The idea of new girls still excites me -- you saw how Gina lured me round to her place. As I get more and more, what's going to happen? My wife will always be number one, of course," I assured her, "however many I get, and girls like Fran and Connie and Alicia will still be special too, but they can't all be special. Realistically, some of them will just be conveniently to hand when I need a fuck and, if I'm honest, I can see that even some of the girls I've got now might end up like that." 

"You mean like Kylie?"

I had not thought of that and it troubled me. The girl was hardly eighteen and utterly under my control and was that the fate I had reserved for her? To be one of my spunk spittoons? But I had to admit that Wendy, like the intelligent woman she was, had judged shrewdly. "I suppose so," I acknowledged; "or Gabby."

"At any rate," I resumed, "that girl upstairs is always going to be special and after the way I captured her -- and Wendy, believe me, 'capture' is exactly the right word -- I think she's mine, not in the sense that all the other girls are mine but absolutely mine, utterly mine. I own her."

"All right," said Wendy. "You'd better tell her." 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 29



XXIX

"Any woman out there"

We went upstairs to the main bedroom. The girl was clearly coming out of it. She was breathing in long, deep, happy sighs and she turned her head when we entered the room. Her eyes, no longer glassy, sparkled as they fixed on me, apparently hardly noticing Wendy. I walked to the foot of the bed and stood there with my legs somewhat apart and my arms folded as I tried to assume a pose suggesting a confidence and mastery I was far from feeling. 

I looked at my acquisition. She was lying on her back with her legs somewhat apart; huge flows of spunk had oozed from her cunt and a pool of it, still wet and sticky, had gathered on the cover. Her vast brown breasts, although impressively firm and round, had settled a little to either side of her and through the gap between them my eyes met hers.

"Your name?" I demanded brusquely.

To this point her air had been one of utter post-coital relaxation but on being addressed in such a tone she made a visible effort to pull herself together and concentrate.

"Florence Oshodi," she replied.

"Florence Oshodi," I informed her solemnly, "I have captured you. You are my property, my slave. Do you understand?"

A tiny intake of breath was the only indication of the shock she must have felt. "I understand," she replied quietly and without the least suggestion of resistance.

"I am your master and you must address me as such," I said sternly.

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master."

"Good," I said more kindly. "This lady," I indicated Wendy, "is my wife and you shall treat her with the greatest of respect, but she is not your mistress because you belong to me alone."

"Yes, Master."

"Hello, Florence," said Wendy pleasantly.

"Hello, madam," she respectfully replied.

"Florence," I told her, "give me an account of yourself."

So Florence told her story. She was Nigerian and her family had sent her to England to study, which she had been doing diligently but without much enthusiasm. For the last five or six years -- she was twenty now -- her life had been dominated by her breasts. Even in a tribe in which large breasts were usual and highly valued, the women in her family were famous for their magnificence; but she far exceeded everyone. Her bust had begun to sprout when she was only nine but the growth had been manageable to start with; from the age of thirteen, however, she had begun to explode. At first she had been delighted but as the growth accelerated first her parents, then Florence herself, had become concerned. Doctors, however, found nothing wrong or abnormal about her; they suggested that because her parents were first cousins the family's natural tendency to large breasts had been intensified. To comfort her, her parents told her it was the will of God to make her as she was and she believed this and accepted it.

By the time she was fifteen the constant male attention she attracted had become such a serious problem that her parents sent her -- at substantial personal financial sacrifice, for they were not wealthy -- to a girls' boarding school. In this academic and all-female environment, despite the envious gibes of her classmates, Florence had flourished. She won a scholarship that contributed to the cost of continuing her education and her parents, mistrustful of Nigerian universities, had sent her to England. As her breasts continued to expand she found herself pestered by male students but the problem eased when she found herself a boyfriend, since although he was not a violent person he was big and intimidating enough to ensure that she was left in relative peace. The breasts themselves had grown more slowly after she had passed eighteen and she hoped they had reached their final proportions. However, she recognised that they would always be a problem for her. She found her studies boring but applied herself with determination; she thought that maybe it had been the will of God to give her large breasts so that she would overcome her natural laziness and work hard and get a good job so she could pay to have them reduced.

She described our encounter in the bookshop. She had realised that a man was standing uncomfortably close and had moved away, but when she took a good look at him she realised he was the most attractive and desirable man she had ever seen and she could not stop herself from following him around the shop. When she saw he was getting ready to go panic overtook her and she had made her boyfriend angry by giving some feeble excuse for leaving. She had followed the wonderful man, taking care not to be seen, and had found herself in a distant suburb she had never visited before. She knew that what was happening was bizarre and unaccountable but she could not bear the thought of losing him. She thought that maybe this too was the will of God. (At this I felt highly uncomfortable, not to say extremely guilty.)

When the man had gone into his house she had no idea what to do next. She tried to tell herself this was ridiculous, she must leave, but it was no good. In the end she had to go and knock at the door. When he opened it, he seemed lovelier and sexier than ever. She had not expected him to lead her straight upstairs and get undressed but she knew that it was what she wanted more than anything so she had not resisted and then he had lain with her -- she actually used this quaint Biblical expression -- and it was like nothing she had ever known. As she lay on the bed afterwards bathed in pleasure and unable to move or speak she knew that it had all been meant to happen and she was his for ever.

"The will of God again?" suggested Wendy, rather unhelpfully I thought.

"Oh, madam, yes, yes! It must have been!"

I found this "will of God" idea profoundly disturbing. I am not a religious man, but if there was a God (which I doubted) I was certain He did not approve of my activities. But neither of the others seemed to share my qualms; Wendy's air was one of slightly amused interest while Florence seemed to have accepted the situation without question. She did not appear unintelligent but she was certainly unsophisticated and this quality had combined with her piety and my rash impulse to enslave her to generate an attitude of passivity and subordination on her part. 

"Florence," I ordered, "when you feel strong enough to rise you shall clean yourself up [I pointed to our ensuite bathroom], get dressed and join us downstairs."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

"Will you be missed from your lodgings if you stay here tonight?"

At this question a look of joy flashed across her face before she remembered her lowly station and averted her eyes humbly. "No, Master," she replied.

"Very good. So be it."

With that Wendy and I went downstairs for dinner, soon joined by Alicia, whom we updated about Florence and her enslavement. I said how much this "will of God" stuff had unsettled me, and they both tried to reassure me.

"I'll be your slave, too, if you want," Alicia offered eagerly.

Wendy more thoughtfully pointed out that if I wanted Florence as a slave and was happy with her that way, FUCK ensured that she would want it too. So the best thing for my happiness and hers was to stop worrying about it and enjoy her services. "Don't forget," she said, "that that girl up there may be a bit confused, even overwhelmed, by what's happened but she's also the happiest she's been in her young life. Fran's Law," she reminded me: "it's induced, but it's still real. She wouldn't want an antidote even if you had one."

"I remember our conversation," I answered. "But tell me this honestly, both of you. If, before FUCK had ever affected you, someone had explained what it does and asked whether you wanted it, what would you have said?"

Alicia merely looked confused, but Wendy replied decisively. "I'd have been appalled. I'd have wanted nothing to do with it."

"Well, then --" I began.

"But that's because," she interrupted, "no one could possibly have conveyed to me how it would make me feel. Words like 'happiness', 'contentment', 'fulfilment' just don't begin to do it justice. And I haven't even mentioned the sex, which is just -- oh, help me out here, Alicia dear, how would you describe it?"

Alicia did not reply. At the mention of the sex her eyes had lit up and a huge radiant smile had spread across her face. As Wendy and I looked at her she let out a long, slow, blissful sigh.

"There you have it," said Wendy; "my case rests. Very good, dear," she added to Alicia. "I couldn't have put it better myself." She turned back to me. "If I'd known all that, if I'd really understood what it would do for me, then yes, of course I'd have wanted it. There's no reason not to want it."

"Freedom?" I hazarded.

"I've still got my freedom," she asserted confidently. "No one's forcing me to be here. I could walk out that door if I wanted to."

"Maybe 'freedom' was the wrong word," I replied. "I think I meant 'free will'."

"I've got that too," she said. "I'm doing what I'm doing because I want to. If that's not free will, what is?"

She had me there. This was getting very deep.

"Listen, darling," she continued. "Any woman out there," she gestured vaguely at the outside world, "if she could somehow be brought really to understand how we girls of yours feel, what you've given us -- any woman out there," she repeated, "would go on her knees and beg for it."

This was a statement I was to remember later. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 30



XXX

Here and there

To underscore her subordinate status Florence ate by herself in the kitchen. Then I ordered her into the dining room to clear away the remains of our meal. She was wearing her jeans and rugby shirt but of course had no bra since Wendy had not returned it. I watched how her unconstrained breasts filled the voluminous shirt; they did not project quite so far horizontally as in the bookshop but as she moved about we could all see how the overhang of the shirt, only loosely tucked into the jeans, was filled with tit. As she bent forward to clear the table, the shirt changed shape uncannily to accommodate the now freely hanging breasts, and when she had to lean right across to gather items from the far side, her tits were squeezed between her body and the table and the shirt bulged excitingly at either side and even up under her chin. Even Wendy and Alicia were fascinated.

"Go on," said Wendy to me when Florence had gone into the kitchen for a moment. "I know you want to. Use our bed. I'll sleep in Alicia's room. It's a double bed. You won't mind squeezing me in just for one night, will you Alicia dear?"

I wondered for a moment whether Wendy had any sexual designs on Alicia (and also whether it would have bothered me if she had) but I knew her well enough to be able to see that it was simply the practical woman in her that had led to the suggestion. So they shared a celibate bed while Florence was mine to enjoy all night and in the morning. 

*

Here are a few things going on elsewhere around this time that would have interested me had I known about them.

A few yards away, on the other side of the party wall separating our houses, Kylie, having hurried home from school as she did every day, was watching in the hope I might come home early. Her heart leapt when she saw me, only to sink again when my eagerly-anticipated call never came. It was some time before she noticed Florence, staring at my house from the other side of the road. When Florence knocked at my door, Kylie listened with a glass at the wall and to the sound of our frenzied fucking she fingered herself to a lonely climax. She longed for Saturday, when I had asked her to lend me a hand.

A few miles away, at the flat, Fran and Connie were in front of the television. It was no ordinary show they were watching. I had told them the day before that, being out of the office all day, I should not be calling that evening, and at lunchtime Connie, feeling that she had to have some kind of sex after work, had gone to an adult video store (where she was surprised to find that, although of course most of the clientele was male, she was not the only woman browsing the shelves). She bought a couple of DVDs. Being Connie, of course, and not doing things by halves, she made sure it was XXX hardcore material. 

Fran, horrified when Connie invited her to watch the DVDs with her, had retreated to her room. But curiosity soon drew her out and soon the girls were sitting together, wide-eyed, watching the on-screen gymnastics. Connie was fascinated from the start; Fran went from disgust to distaste to interest to excitement in about fifteen minutes. As they watched a girl being simultaneously penetrated by three well-hung men and Connie commented, "Lucky cow," Fran was surprised to hear herself agreeing.

"Well, you could do these films," said Connie cheerfully. "You're better-looking than that girl and you've got just as nice a bod, especially since James has filled you out a bit."

"I wish James were here," sighed Fran.

"Me too. Bet he's shagging the daylights out of some girl somewhere, lucky bitch." Connie was right there. It was just about this time that I was showing Alicia how much I still wanted her.

"Well, if we can't have James," Fran asked, "how about him?" She pointed at the screen, where a huge black man with cock to match was entering a small but eager blonde. "Or him?" she added as another stud appeared.

"Both of them," said Connie firmly. "And that Swedish-looking bloke in the last scene."

"Oh, yes, him," recalled Fran dreamily.

As they continued to watch the non-stop fucking, their eyes grew wider and their breathing got deeper and slower. Finally Connie stood up decisively. "Fran," she announced, "I can't stand it. If I stay here any longer I'll be bouncing off the walls. I'm going clubbing. You wanna come?"

"You're going out to find a man," said Fran reproachfully.

"Well, why not? James won't mind. He said so, remember?"

Fran looked uncertain. "Yes, he did say something like that, didn't he? He's so kind and generous," she sighed.

"Look, do you wanna come or not? It'll be fun."

So off they went. Connie was a clubbing veteran but it was an entirely new experience for Fran, who found the darkness and deafening music hard to take. So she hung around the chill-out rooms letting herself be chatted up while Connie danced. Two attractive young women so blatantly on the pull naturally received a lot of attention and by midnight they were back at the flat with two likely-looking young men, Sam (attached to Fran) and Jack (Connie). Those two young men's luck was well and truly in. The girls were almost crazy with desire by this time and practically dragged the boys to bed.

At about three-thirty a well-fucked Fran was gently awakened by Connie, who motioned her to get silently out of bed without disturbing the snoring Sam. With mischief in her eyes, Connie led Fran to the sitting room, quietly closing the door behind them.

"God, Fran, how I needed that!" she whispered.

"Me too," admitted Fran. "But," she added with the air of a girl that liked her sleep, "why have you dragged me out here?"

"Don't you see, Fran? We can double our money." Connie made a criss-crossing gesture. "Geddit?" 

Fran looked nonplussed. 

"Jeez, Fran, it beats me why James thinks you're so smart," Connie hissed impatiently. "I'll go and sleep in your bed with Sam, you get in mine with, er ... er ..."

Connie struggled to remember the name of the man whose fluids even now were trickling out of her. "Jack," Fran helpfully reminded her.

"Oh yeah, Jack, and we'll have extras in the morning."

Fran bit her lip. This was a lot for a well-brought-up Scottish girl to cope with. It was tempting, though. That fair-haired boy Jack was very cute. She temporised. "But Connie, won't the boys think it odd?"

"Sure," said Connie confidently. "They'll think it odd for two seconds till we jump on them and after that they just won't care."

She was right, of course.

Sixty miles away, at Cambridge, Dr Laura Stone was concerned. Normally she enjoyed these afternoon tutorials, which allowed her to expound her ideas to a group of four or five bright young students and get their reactions. But today, two of the brightest, Elspeth and Kathryn, were lacking their usual intelligence and acuity. They had distant, dreamy smiles on their faces and seemed to spend most of their time gazing out of the window.

Although disappointed, Laura was not surprised. These symptoms were far from unknown in female students. The girls were in love. It was annoying, though, that two of them should have succumbed at the same time -- they had been fine when she saw them the week before -- and so completely. She had hardly got a sensible word out of them all afternoon. To add to her irritation, the tutorial had been disrupted when Elspeth's cellphone had gone off; the girl had rushed outside to take the call and had been heard telling the caller with great insistence not to ring her on this number, she needed to keep the line clear. On returning Elspeth had apologised, but explained that she needed to keep the phone on in case of an urgent call.

Laura herself would never have behaved in this unseemly way. She was the youngest and brightest star of the Psychology Department. Still only twenty-six herself, she was no one's idea of a Cambridge don. She had longish, slightly curly black hair, a wonderful smile and bright blue eyes that radiated intelligence. Her graceful figure was, as always, immaculately turned out. Highly ambitious, she took care of her appearance because she was well aware of the powerful and favourable impression it made on both sexes, but the amorous advances that she inevitably attracted she regarded merely as an irritating distraction. Over the years she had, of course, had her sexual encounters (although not all that many) with both men and women (but neither for some time now) and she had found them at best undignified and at worst downright messy. Frankly she was unable to see what all the fuss was about.

As the tutorial ended she intercepted the departing Elspeth to reprimand her about the phone. Elspeth was very wary; she had the highest respect for Laura's intelligence and insight, and she was mindful of my injunction of secrecy. She was also hampered by a very good upbringing that had instilled into her a powerful respect for truth; she hated to lie, not only because it was unethical but also because she was, she well knew, very bad at it.

In the ensuing discussion Elspeth did her best but, although a bright girl herself, she was outmatched. While providing no details, and carefully avoiding any outright untruth, she tried to give Laura the impression that some family crisis was in the offing that meant she had to be contactable at any time, and that this also accounted for her distracted condition. Laura, however, was not so easily taken in. Her knowledge of human psychology was practical as well as academic. She knew, for instance, exactly how far she could question Elspeth without putting her on the alert, and in fact Elspeth left the room feeling with a touch of smugness that she had handled a tricky situation rather well and had cleverly pulled the wool over Laura's eyes. 

In reality, by the time Elspeth left Laura was satisfied:

a) that Elspeth was head over heels in love;

b) that the call she was so anxious not to miss was from her mystery lover;

c) that this was not the usual love affair between students;

d) that there was some particular reason, beyond normal shyness or desire for privacy, for Elspeth's reticence;

e) that Elspeth herself was unsure and confused; and finally,

f) that something altogether peculiar was going on here. 

Dr Stone, as already stressed, was nobody's fool. She had scored six out of six. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 31



XXXI

"Enough money to buy Estonia"

The following morning at the office I at last managed to clear some paperwork despite having to make time to receive confession from Fran and Connie. 

Fran had asked to see me about something "very important"; but when she arrived, with Connie in tow, she seemed extremely loth to get to the point. Not having much time to spend on this, I was about to order her to come out with it when Connie intervened.

"Jeez, Fran, we'll be here all day at this rate! James, what Fran's trying to tell you is we went out clubbing last night and brought two boys home and shagged their brains out. That's all."

I turned to Fran. "Is that it?"

Her head was bowed so that her hair fell across her face. She gave a tiny nod.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Another tiny nod.

"And I don't have to ask you, Connie," I said sternly, "whether you enjoyed it."

Connie gave me a big unabashed sexy grin. "No substitute for the real thing," she said, waving a hand at me, "but it scratched that itch, know what I mean? I reckon Whatsisname – the dark-haired one – was better," she added chattily. "What did you think, Fran?"

Fran looked up in horror, her face flushed scarlet. "Connie!" she protested. "James, darling, it wasn't like she's making it sound."

"It was exactly like I'm making it sound," insisted Connie. "We switched beds in the night while the boys were asleep," she explained.

"It was your idea," said Fran hotly. "I'd never have thought of such an outrageous thing."

"That's not what you said last night. You were well up for it."

"I was not. I tried to talk you out of it."

"You never did. Go on, say it to James. Look James straight in the face and tell him about this big argument you put up."

Fran looked me squarely in the eye as instructed, but failed to speak. For several moments she seemed to undergo some severe internal struggle. Finally she gave an embarrassed giggle and blushed again. "Well," she confessed, "maybe I didn't argue very hard. And," she added, "Connie's right. Sam was better."

"The other one wasn't bad, though," said Connie as if evaluating different wines. "But he was a bit –"

I interrupted. It had been an entertaining discussion but it was not getting my work done. I told them they were beautiful sexy young women and that nothing could be more natural than some wholesome fucking. I reiterated that so long as they were there when I wanted them, they were fancy free the rest of the time. They left my office bickering quietly, but in a friendly way. ("Constance Amoah, how could you show me up like that in front of James? I've never been so embarrassed in –" "Jeez, Fran, lighten up. I told you he wouldn't mind." And so on as they receded.)

It always pleased me to see my girls on good terms and it was with a light heart that I returned to my paperwork, making encouraging progress before I set off for Bayswater. At ten past twelve I was ringing Gina's doorbell. The door opened a short way and a bare black arm reached round and pulled me inside.

The naked Gina put her arms round me and kissed me passionately. "Good to see you, hun. Let's get these off." As we made quick work of getting me out of my clothes, I was looking round for the promised East European girl. "I've got you a good one, Jim honey," Gina assured me. "She's getting ready. I'll fetch her."

She vanished into the bedroom and reappeared a moment later, holding the door open. "Olga," she announced like an impresario introducing his top act. "She's from Estonia," she added. And this girl appeared.

Olga was sensational. Entirely naked apart from high-heeled slingbacks, and immaculately shaven I noticed, she was tall and almost statuesque. Fair-skinned and with very blonde hair of medium length, she looked like a Nordic goddess. Although by no means skinny, she had less meat than I normally like to see on a girl but she still achieved an impression of curviness because of the remarkable narrowness of her waist compared with her shoulders and hips. This effect was added to by her breasts, which were a very respectable C, borderline D. They had the precisely defined hemisphericity one sometimes sees with implants, but it was evident that no surgeon's knife had ever pierced that perfect flesh. Her features were beautifully defined, with blue-grey eyes and very kissable lips. She looked no more than nineteen.

She set eyes on me with a fleeting but unmistakable look of disappointment and turned to Gina. "You said –" she began in a thick accent.

"Isn't he gorgeous? Isn't he just beautiful?" enthused Gina.

A kind of "Oh, I get it" look passed across her face and she looked at me with sudden desire. "Chim, darlink, you vonderful man," she purred, slinking across the room into my arms and kissing me full on the lips. She was putting this on, I knew, for it was far too soon for FUCK to have taken effect, but she was doing it beautifully. And in a few minutes, I reminded myself, there would be no pretence about it. 

We all three piled onto Gina's king-size bed. Olga was such a good actress that it was hard for me to tell when FUCK took over, although it must have been some time after she left a condom handy by the bed but before I dodged her crafty attempt, a couple of minutes later, to slip onto my unsheathed cock before I was ready for her. 

I wanted to do Gina first. Olga held onto me and kissed me as I pounded away in Gina's wet black cunt, and when I came I managed to cut off the spunk after the first couple of spurts and pushed Olga quite forcibly down onto her back. Immediately I got on top of her and pushed my cock inside her. She was tighter than I expected but I had no time to be gentle. As I forced my way in she winced with pain even as she moaned with pleasure, and as I penetrated deeper I could feel her body tightening more and more with sexual tension. 

I had time for only a couple of thrusts before my control gave way and I let her have it. As the first jet escaped me all her tautness seemed to dissolve away in a moment of supreme orgasmic release, only for her to tense again immediately as if awaiting my next blast. When I delivered it, a second or two later, she came again, but then flexed once more. Even in the grip of my own orgasm I asserted what penile control I could to delay each spurt as much as possible so as to hold her between tension and release. And as each jet spattered inside her, she came again, and again, and again. With eyes rolled back so that only the whites were showing, and gasping desperately for air, she seemed to be in an agony of sexual fulfilment. Finally I could tell I was almost drained so I pulled back more than usual. Some deep sexual instinct made her respond by bracing her body so tightly that, even with my weight on top of her, her back arched and raised her buttocks well clear of the bed. Then I drove deep into her and released a final gush of spunk far more copious than I had expected and this time her catharsis was total.

"I could get used to this," I thought on the tube on my way back to work. "In fact, I think I shall."

By latish afternoon I felt Gina would be able to take a call. I thanked her for finding Olga for me.

"Don't mention it hun. You've already thanked me enough. Jim, honey, how d'you fuck like that? Olga's still completely out of it, you know. Does that happen with every girl you fuck?"

"I'm afraid so," I confessed. It was a bit of a shock to realise that I not yet found time to tell Gina about FUCK. No wonder she was bemused. But I did not feel like giving a full explanation over the phone. "Don't worry about it," I told her.

"OK hun," she replied calmly. Then she added brightly, "While you're there, Jim honey, you want to place your order for tomorrow? Another East European girl? Olga again? Or do you fancy something different? A black girl? An oriental?"

It sounded like a smorgasbord of sex but I had to resist. Tomorrow was Saturday; I had plans. I told her it would have to wait till Monday but then I should be glad to see her and a suitable friend. She questioned me expertly, if somewhat clinically, about my various likes and dislikes and assured me she would provide someone to my satisfaction.

"Just one more thing, Gina," I added. "That girl Olga today – how did you find her? And what did you tell her? What did she think she was getting into?"

"I picked her off my old agency's website. I just told her the truth, hun. I said I knew this simply gorgeous guy that wanted a black and white girl session. Nothing to it really."

"I should have left some money for her, then, shouldn't I? I mean, she expected to be paid."

"Jim, honey, I'm sitting on the bed right next to her, I can see the expression on that pretty face. Trust me, Jim, when she comes out of it, she won't care."

"She can hear every word you say, you know."

"I know it Jim, I've been there myself." The voice went faint as Gina addressed the prone beauty lying beside her. "You won't worry about Jim's money, will you baby? When you come round, you're just gonna wanna fuck and fuck and fuck. You'll work harder than you ever thought any girl could and you'll love every second of it. With your face and that body, in a couple of years you'll make enough money to buy Estonia. So you see, Jim," she said into the phone, "you needn't fret about little Olga here."

"All right," I said. "But make sure she keeps it to herself about what happened today and why she's working so hard, and that goes for you too. I don't want rumours about me flying round the sex trade, OK?"

"OK, hun."

I got Gina to put the phone to Olga's ear so I could reinforce the secrecy message directly, adding (to assuage my conscience a little) that she should make sure she worked safely. I was about to tell Gina goodbye when I suddenly remembered the hurtful look of disappointment on Olga's face when she had first seen me, so I added, "Gina, don't tell girls I'm gorgeous. Just tell them I'm obscenely rich."

"That'll work," she said.

That evening after work I looked in at Fran's to welcome Gabby back from Germany and give all three girls a good seeing-to. Their recovery time was down to about thirty or forty-five minutes by now so I hung around afterwards to remind them I should be needing them next day. As I left I kissed and hugged all of them and handed Fran the keys she would need in the morning and reminded her yet again, quite unnecessarily, that she was on duty from seven o'clock, well before the others.

"James, darling," she protested, "it's the dozenth time you've told me. I'll be there, I promise."

Just to make trouble I pointed an admonitory finger at Connie and added, "And you, Connie, I'm relying on you to keep Fran out of mischief this evening and not let her get up to these outrageous bed-hopping antics of hers."

As Fran flushed with embarrassment Connie gleefully played up to me. "Well, James, I'll try but it won't be easy, you know what she's like when it comes to men."

Poor Fran almost spluttered with indignation and as I turned and headed down the stairs chuckling to myself I could hear an understandably curious Gabby adding to her embarrassment by asking, "Fran darling, what are James and Connie talking about?"



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 32



XXXII

Operation Saturday

Saturday was to be a big day. All week, I had been organising it like a military campaign. And the objectives of Operation Saturday were twofold: (a) to clear up Albert's house, and (b) to get me laid as much as possible. 

The former task had been outstanding for over a fortnight now. At first I had procrastinated because it looked like such hard, dirty work; then the increasingly dramatic effects of FUCK had given me other things to worry about. But now, I was looking forward to the job I had originally regarded with such distaste. Let me confess frankly that this was because I should no longer have to do it myself.

As for the second objective, getting laid, partly I saw it as useful practice for the following weekend (an undress rehearsal, as it were), but mainly it just seemed like a good idea.

Let me say at once that thanks to meticulous planning Operation Saturday was an unqualified success.

The previous night I had restored Wendy to her rightful place in the main bedroom so Alicia had her room to herself while Florence, who had returned as instructed to her college during the day to attend to her studies and notify her big boyfriend that his services would no longer be required, slept downstairs on the sofa as befitted her lowly station. I myself gravitated between all three but made sure I started and finished with Wendy.

Florence served Wendy and Alicia their breakfasts downstairs and brought me mine in bed; then the three of them left for Albert's house in the car. There they would find Fran, who had let herself in at seven o'clock so she could take delivery of the new mattress I had ordered. The four of them then set to the first task of the day, which was to get Albert's disgusting bedroom into usable condition with the cleaning materials Wendy had bought the previous evening. The bed itself, a solid metal structure, would be fine after a good clean but the horrible old mattress and bedding all had to go and the room itself needed a thorough scrubbing before the new mattress came out of its cover and the bed could be made up with the new linen that Wendy had also bought. It took the four of them over two hours of very hard work but at the end of it the room, although a bit bare, was thoroughly clean and the bed looked very inviting.

By this time Connie and Gabby had arrived and Wendy had assigned them the unpleasant task of getting the bathroom and shower into a condition in which a civilised person might be willing to use them.

It must not be thought that I was idle while all this was going on. On the contrary, I had been fulfilling my duties to Kylie, whom I had shamefully neglected all week. I rang her just as Wendy and the girls left and she was knocking at the door almost before I had replaced the phone. I fucked her senseless, then read the paper while she recuperated and showered. While she was towelling off and getting dressed I called a cab and we joined the others at Albert's house.

It was a heartening sight that met my eyes. It is my considered opinion that there are few spectacles more truly satisfying than that of other people working hard. With the twins, who had driven down from Cambridge and got there just before I did, plus Kylie, there were nine labourers in all. I had warned them it would be arduous and dirty work so they should dress down, and they were duly attired in a variety of torn or frayed old clothes. With nothing but my own viewing pleasure in mind, I had also specified "no underwear, and not too much overwear" so there was plenty of sweaty, dusty flesh on display. Florence, in some old teeshirt that was far too tight about the chest but absurdly loose everywhere else, particularly caught the eye. Not only mine, in fact; several times I saw girls watching fascinated by the extraordinary undulations as she performed so simple an act as bending down and picking something up.

Wendy alone was exempt from the requirement for skimpy attire. The work was being carried on under her overall direction and she marshalled her labour force expertly. Everywhere I looked there was a beautiful woman clearing away this or scrubbing that. In the front room the piles of dirty books were rapidly disappearing, while all scientific periodicals were handed to Fran, who had the relatively congenial task of sorting them and filing them by date and subject matter. The revolting mess that had been Albert's house was being rapidly restored to order and cleanliness and all I had to do was watch.

Well, maybe there was one other thing I could do. That newly prepared bed was for use, not for show. Gabby looked so indescribably sexy in trainers and a large male shirt and absolutely nothing else that she had to be first, and after that I took one of the twins. They were wearing some old schoolgirl-type outfits topped by baseball caps so it was not until I got my selection to the bedroom and saw her bareheaded that I knew it was Vicky on whom my choice had fallen.

When I emerged from fucking her I had a look round the house. I was most impressed by the girls' progress so I sent Fran and Connie out to buy soft drinks and sandwiches and on their return I ordered a break. Eight girls and I (the ninth, Vicky, was still floating blissfully in the bedroom) sat in the front room, chatting happily, munching sandwiches, drinking juice, and generally recovering from our labours. After a while I ordered Florence to stand up and remove her shirt. There was a collective intake of breath as the incredible tits were exposed. I then instructed her to progress very slowly about the room and exhibit her chest to the other girls, each of whom should be allowed a close inspection, and a good feel if she wished. Then I told Florence to replace her shirt and sit down. "Right," I said. "We've all had a good look. Now, can we focus on the task in hand and not on Florence's tits? Back to work, ladies, all except--" I looked round at the sea of hopeful faces. "Fran, I think."

Several hours later I was able to congratulate all concerned on an arduous job well done. Albert's house looked rather stark, because his carpets and soft furnishings had all gone the same way as his dirty books, old clothes and discarded food packaging, but it was spotlessly clean and was at last in a state that would allow me to get an estate agent to market it. Vicky and Simone had left to spend the night at George's before seeing him and Sue off to New York tomorrow, but the rest of us sat in a big circle in the front room passing a bottle of wine back and forth and relaxing after our exertions. Even I was tired, and not just from the shagging; some faint residue of chivalry had obliged me to insist that it was my task to carry endless rubbish-stuffed binliners outside to await the refuse collectors.

The girls basked in my approval, their faces shiny with honest sweat and wreathed in blissful well-fucked smiles. As they gazed adoringly at me I almost burst with pride. How could it be wrong, I asked myself smugly, to be the instrument that generated so much pleasure? Fran seemed to speak for them all: "Hard work," she said, "but well rewarded. Thank you, darling."

Wendy I had left until I got her home, but I had taken all the other eight, four of them twice. Added to my efforts in the morning before leaving home, this meant fifteen copulations in the day, which was something like the rate I should have to maintain at George's next weekend. This makes it sound a bit clinical, like a production line, but what also pleased me as I drifted off to sleep after a long day was that my final fuck with Wendy had been just as satisfying and the spunk had flowed just as freely as when I had started the day with the same woman all those hours before.

I reflected on this next day as I took stock of the situation between fucks with Wendy, Alicia, Kylie, and Florence. It seemed that both my desire and my capacity for sex were still increasing nearly three weeks after that fatal night when I had swallowed Albert's potion. In particular, I was spunking in quantities that were truly copious, and I drank pint after pint of milk to replenish my fluids.

I had found nothing on Albert's computer or elsewhere at his house to cast light on what his "further refinements" might be. One of them had become obvious, however; for the past several days I had noticed occasional comments from my girls about the sudden thinness and wispiness of their body hair and Wendy, who must have had a bigger dosage of seminally-administered FUCK than anyone, was now virtually bald everywhere except for her eyelashes, eyebrows and head. She had also been complaining for at least a week about pains in her legs, or more specifically her calves, if she was on her feet for any length of time. I had examined her calves a few days previously and they looked and felt the same as usual so I had thought no more about it until I heard Connie say the same thing when she was helping clear Albert's house. 

I had also noticed that the increase in my girls' libido seemed to be boosting their sexual confidence in other ways. Alicia was the outstanding example. When I had first noticed her in pre-FUCK days she had been at pains to hide her bosom as well as she could, and usually wore tops that went right up to the neck and completely covered the shoulders and arms. But she had gone shopping a couple of lunchtimes during the last week and had proudly shown off to Wendy and me the far more revealing attire she had bought. During the first fashion show on Tuesday, Wendy had admired a sleeveless number with a wide halter neck but had cautioned her to be careful about arm-holes, which if they were too big allowed altogether too clear a view inside the shirt. So the next day Alicia went shopping again and that evening displayed sleeveless garments apparently chosen for having the largest arm-holes she could find. Nor was that all; she bought some frighteningly short skirts and asked Wendy, always a dab hand with a needle and thread, to help her raise the hems even further. In short our innocent little Alicia was becoming a brazen show-off.

I thought in Alicia's case this might be because I had told her that I enjoyed it when she attracted male attention, but she was not the only one affected. Gabby had taken to accentuating her long legs by wearing very short skirts with vents at the sides, Connie had acquired tight white trousers of some stretchy and not-quite-opaque material that displayed her handsome ass to great advantage, and even Fran had come to work in a skirt well above the knee and a short top showing plenty of midriff. In a way I welcomed the trend, since I had always been a fan of skimpy summer clothing, but I thought I might have to call a halt before someone (probably Alicia) got herself arrested.

That evening I asked Wendy and Alicia whether they had noticed any trends. They immediately volunteered that the sex was getting better and better. "These orgasms," said Wendy, "are like nothing else. It's like a huge explosion of absolute pleasure in my brain, and then I feel I'm swaddled up in a soft pink cloud."

"All floaty and tingly," suggested Alicia.

"That's right," agreed Wendy. "I know I'm sounding like a lovestruck teenager, James darling, not that there's anything wrong with being a lovestruck teenager," she added with a gracious nod to Alicia, "but I don't know how else I can describe it. It's just lovely."

I turned to Alicia. "What about you? I notice you're taking less and less time to recover."

She pondered this. "That's true. But the sex itself is getting even better, like Wendy says. And although I get over it faster, I feel good all the time, not just after we've had sex. I just love life, even when I'm at work. I'm always bright, confident, happy --"

"-- and randy," added Wendy. "I'm the same."

When I asked them about the physical symptoms, they confirmed the continued loss of body hair, and Wendy repeated her complaint about painful calves. "They ache when I'm walking or standing a lot," she explained. "Yesterday at Albert's I was on my feet for hours and I was pretty uncomfortable by the time we finished. I don't know if it's a side-effect or just a coincidence. Have you noticed anything, Alicia dear?"

"It's funny," Alicia answered. "I'm on my feet a lot at work, but I've been fine until yesterday at James's uncle's, but then my legs started to hurt too. It was like a muscle pain, but it's gone now."

"It isn't a coincidence," I said. "I heard Connie say the same."

"It can't just be the extra weight we're carrying, can it, darling?" asked Wendy. "I've put on another four pounds since last week. I'm going to have to buy new clothes." She sighed resignedly. "It's goodbye to my schoolgirl figure. I just can't stop eating."

Florence had been present throughout the conversation, her head bowed a little, the picture of silent deference. It astonished me how easily and readily she had adjusted to her subordination. She seldom spoke, I had noticed, unless addressed directly. But at the words "extra weight" she had looked up with an expression of some concern.

Wendy and Alicia paid her no attention and carried on with the conversation. "Me too," Alicia agreed. "And it's mostly going on my chest. These new bras I got were big on me in the shop on Monday, but I tried one on today and I'm definitely filling it better. Good news for you, James," she concluded, thrusting her chest toward me.

Florence's eyes widened in horror, but she could have been invisible for all the notice Wendy and Alicia took of her. It was remarkable, and not a little scary, how quickly they had got used to the idea that she was some kind of inferior being they could ignore without compunction.

"And did you see Kylie?" Wendy asked. "She's piling on weight like there's no tomorrow. Betty told me when she goes to the takeaway she gets a meal that's meant for three people and demolishes the lot by herself. I asked her about it yesterday and she said it was 'brill' because James likes it. And you do, don't you darling?" she added. "I saw how you looked at her. Do you want us all to get as roly-poly as Kylie?"

"No," I said. "Kylie looks fantastic, but that sort of weight wouldn't suit everyone. But I admit I like some nice curves on a girl, and it's lucky I do, because that's the way Albert designed the stuff. More weight, especially on the bust."

This time Florence got everyone's attention with a gasp of dismay. Aghast, she stared down at her own vast breasts. As she saw we were all looking at her she humbly murmured, "Sorry, Master," and lowered her head into the submissive position.

"Florence," I said sternly, "it was for your body that your Master captured you. Your breasts are for your Master's pleasure, not your own. Their further growth will please him even more."

"Yes Master. Then it will please me too, Master."

The frightening thing about FUCK is that it was transparently obvious that she meant it. I had just notified her that she was to be transformed for my pleasure into an even more dramatic parody of the female form than she was already, and suddenly she wanted the same.

"Good," I said. "Go to the kitchen and eat. Eat whenever you can, as much as you can. Eat rich, fatty and sugary foods. Grow your breasts for your Master."

As she left for the kitchen Wendy and Alicia stared at me wide-eyed. There was no trace of disapproval on their faces; the look was almost one of awe. I knew how they felt; I could not believe how arrogant I was with Florence, and her meek and unquestioning acceptance of my authority seemed only to encourage me. 

The day ended with good news from Simone, who rang from Heathrow to confirm that George and Sue were safely on their way to New York; and bad news for Florence, whom I reluctantly sent back to her digs for fear she would be noticed if she were constantly around the house -- she was, after all, a hard girl to overlook. I told her she must apply herself to her studies and keep everything secret, especially concerning me and the nature of our relationship, while I worked out some long-term arrangement. But, as I confessed to Wendy that night, I had no idea what such an arrangement might be. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 33



XXXIII

"Clever. Very"

When I returned to the office next day after "lunch" – actually a very enjoyable session with Gina and an adorably cute black girl professionally called Sable, short but very curvy with nice big pendulous tits, an excellent choice – I was greeted by the news that I had had three urgent messages from an Elspeth Smith. On checking my cellphone I found no fewer than five further messages from her. Plainly something serious was afoot. With great trepidation I went to my office and rang her back.

Poor Elspeth was in a state of agitation and dismay. She was so upset I was unable to ascertain exactly what had happened, but she said that she had messed everything up, that she had let me down, that she had panicked and had not thought what she was saying. She was sure that I would be furious with her, "And you have every right to be. I've been so stupid." It was evident that the poor girl hardly knew where to put herself. 

I felt that if I left her in this state she might do even more damage than she apparently already had, so I decided to bring her fully under control immediately. "You'd better come to London right away to see me," I told her. "I'll meet you at Liverpool Street."

"Oh, James, I don't want to mess around with trains. Can't I drive up?"

I had not realised she had a car, but it would be more convenient, I thought.

"Are you sure you're all right to drive?"

"Yes, yes," she assured me. "I feel much better now I know I can see you. You'll know what to do."

"All right. But drive carefully." I told her to meet me at my local tube station in two hours. This allowed her ample time to get to London without feeling she had to hurry; it also gave me a chance to attend to one or two things at work, warn Fran and Connie that I should be letting them down yet again, and invent some story to justify such an early departure.

I arrived at the station five minutes early and was unsurprised to find Elspeth awaiting me. She was plainly delighted to see me but also seemed nervous and apprehensive. So much so, in fact, that I could not elicit a clear explanation of the problem but I gathered that it was something to do with a Dr Laura Stone, whoever she was. As Elspeth drove me the short distance home her agitation seemed to ease but she kept looking at me rather more often than was consistent with safe driving, and as we turned the last corner before my house she hit the kerb quite hard.

"Careful," I cautioned.

"Sorry, James. It's just that I'd forgotten quite how lovely you are."

I had, in fact, been thinking much the same about her. She had medium-length dark brown hair, parted in the middle, that framed a bright, lively face with a wonderful smile. Behind her round glasses her big brown eyes sparkled with intelligence as well as the lovelight that I was coming to expect as my due. She was wearing a shortish white dress that displayed an exceptionally graceful pair of legs, which, like the rest of her, displayed a rich golden tan.

My original plan had been to get her home and question her in more detail, but I feared that her nervousness might return and make it hard to get a sensible account from her. So I came up with Plan B, which was that I should take her upstairs and fuck her brains out. Obviously this would knock her out for some time, but when she recovered she would answer my questions without difficulty. It would mean a long wait before I found out what had happened, but on the plus side, I reflected, Kylie would be home from school in about half an hour and would help me pass the time.

Plan B was a great success. As soon as we got in the house I took Elspeth in my arms and kissed her. Such was her passion that her knees literally gave way and but for my firm hold she would have collapsed. With a little difficulty (I am not so young as I used to be) I picked her up and carried her upstairs as she kissed me and tried to squirm out of her clothing. Then I laid her on the bed and, well, laid her on the bed. It was done, I must admit, without a great deal of finesse but as always my balls seemed somehow aware of the presence of a new cunt and the flow of spunk seemed endless. 

Leaving Elspeth somewhere the other side of ecstasy I went downstairs for refreshment and to await the sound of Kylie's key in the lock next door. As soon as I heard it I called her to come over and soon she was lying blissed-out in Alicia's room.

Whatever anyone might say against FUCK, and it had certainly caused me a great deal of stress and anxiety over the past three weeks, there was no denying it lived up to its name. And take my word for it, if you are fat and nearly fifty, there is nothing like fucking an endless stream of enthusiastic young women to make you feel good about life.

While I waited for Elspeth to surface I turned on my computer and googled Dr Laura Stone. She had her own website, I soon found, and to my surprise her picture revealed not the forbidding middle-aged dragon I had imagined but a distinctly attractive woman in her twenties. I took a few details, including particulars of The Female Future, a book she had written. She was unmistakably intelligent; but why was Elspeth so worried about her?

In fact, even when Elspeth became available for questioning I failed to get to the bottom of the mystery because although she was wholly co-operative, she proved not to be in possession of all the facts. The full story, had she been able to tell it, would have gone something like this.

After questioning Elspeth the previous Thursday, Dr Laura Stone had formed the working theory that her student was probably having an affair with some married man on the academic staff. Her interest and her suspicion both thoroughly aroused, she had casually introduced Elspeth's name into conversations with colleagues. However, no one had reacted in a way that struck Laura as significant, although one or two of them commented that the girl's mind did not seem to be on her work. After these fruitless inquiries it is possible that Laura might have forgotten about the whole subject had her interest not been rekindled by an overheard conversation in the college refectory next day.

That morning all the popular newspapers had been full of a story about a Hollywood film star, famous for preserving his rugged good looks into his early sixties, who had been captured by long-lens photographers snogging a gorgeous publicity girl barely a third his age. Two female students were gossiping excitedly about this trivial piece of tabloid tittle-tattle and Laura, sitting with her back to them as she lunched alone, was trying to ignore them.

"Eurgh!" said one.

"I know," agreed her friend. "He's so old. What sort of girl would do something like that?"

"Elspeth," suggested the first. 

Laura stopped chewing and pricked up her ears. She no longer wanted to ignore the conversation.

"What, Elspeth Smith? What do you mean?" demanded the second student.

"Well," explained the first, "the other day we were walking to a lecture and I asked her, just making conversation really, what the Marjoribanks twins' birthday do had been like and was there any decent talent on show? And she said there were a few boys but they were really boring. I said they couldn't all have been boring and she said yes they were, boys our age were always boring, older men were the only ones worth bothering with. And then she went off on this long spiel about how older men were so exciting, sophisticated and sexy."

"Well, you know what that means, don't you? She's gone dippy over some old git. Did you ask who it was?"

"I didn't get a chance, we'd got to the lecture by now. But I bet it's the Marjoribanks girls' dad."

"Really? Isn't he married, though?"

"I gathered from Elspeth that she wouldn't see that as a problem."

"Did she say that? That's awful. Hang on a minute; isn't the twins' dad 'something in the City' with wads of cash?"

"So I believe."

"Well, there you are. That must be the attraction."

With that they went on to other subjects, leaving Laura to revise her working theory. Her blood was now definitely up. She liked Elspeth and wished her well, and it was disturbing that she should be mixed up with a man so much older than she and married to boot. And let it be admitted that old-fashioned feminine inquisitiveness was coming into play as well.

Laura happened to be away from Cambridge over the weekend so she could not immediately pursue the matter, but on Monday morning she had spotted Elspeth in the Junior Common Room, sitting by herself staring into space with a vacant expression on her face. She sat down next to her.

Elspeth, happily daydreaming of me, was taken by surprise. As they exchanged greetings she tried to think of an excuse to leave but Laura fixed her with a steady but friendly gaze and said she was worried about her.

"About me?" asked Elspeth, vainly trying to disguise her unease. "I'm fine, really."

"But you've been so distracted and preoccupied. It's not at all like you."

"Honestly, Laura, there's nothing wrong."

Laura could sense Elspeth's disquiet. "Elspeth," she said firmly but with a reassuring smile, "I've seen the symptoms before, you know. Who's the lucky young man?"

This was a cunning trap. Laura, who knew full well how much Elspeth hated lying, had deliberately phrased her suggestion so that the girl could truthfully deny it. "Oh, Laura," answered Elspeth with a relaxed laugh, "there isn't one."

It was the palpable relief that gave her away. On Laura's mental checklist a big tick appeared against the query "Older man?" But she did not pursue the matter directly. Instead she gossiped for a few moments about some friends of Elspeth's, worked her way skilfully round to the twins, and finally mentioned the birthday party. Elspeth answered warily and with a growing confusion and alarm that Laura did not fail to discern.

"It must have been a big do," said Laura. "Cambridge seemed empty that Sunday. Still, I suppose Mr Marjoribanks can afford it, can't he?"

"Yes. He's quite well off," answered Elspeth cautiously.

"I've never met him," said Laura casually. "What's he like?"

Again Laura sensed it as Elspeth relaxed. She was happy to answer questions about George Marjoribanks all day.

"Pompous," she replied. "He wants to make sure everyone knows how much money he's got."

Laura was surprised. She had an acute sensitivity to deception and evasion, and it seemed to her that Elspeth's reply was both frank and candid. Mentally she entered a tentative cross next to "Mr Marjoribanks?" But she needed to be sure.

"Don't you find, though," she asked, as if raising a point of abstract academic interest, "that there's something appealing about a man of substance like that? A slightly older man with a bit of experience, one that's done something with his life?"  

Elspeth was instantly suspicious. She had never heard Laura express any such sentiment before, and while she agreed with it wholeheartedly (although not as applied to George) she hesitated to say so. So she equivocated. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Laura, but I don't find George Marjoribanks at all attractive."

"Well, I don't know him; but," persisted Laura, "I was thinking more of older men in general."

Even such an honest person as Elspeth, forced into a corner like this, could see no alternative to outright denial. "Well, some girls might think so," she said, "but older men are definitely not for me."

It was a fatal misstep. Laura knew instantly that she was being lied to. But she did not make an immediate accusation. Instead she stood up abruptly, told Elspeth that she was glad everything was all right, and walked briskly off.

"James, I was terrified," Elspeth was telling me. "I knew I'd made some awful mistake, and she'd got what she wanted out of me. I couldn't think of anything except that I'd made a mess of things and I had to tell you about it."

I tried to reassure her (and myself). "Is it really that bad? She's obviously worked out somehow that something was going on at the garden party, but doesn't she think you're carrying on with George?"

"No," replied Elspeth. "That's not it. It wasn't when I denied liking George that she suddenly left; it was when I said I didn't like older men at all. She knew I'd lied to her; I could tell. But it beats me how she could be so sure; just like it beats me how she knew to start asking about the garden party. I always knew Laura had a brain, James, but this is getting eerie; it's like the woman has second sight."

"It's very disturbing," I agreed. "But what can she do about it? It's none of her business, really, is it?"

"But James, you don't know what she's like. When she gets interested in something, she makes it her business. She'll worry and worry away at it until she gets to the bottom of it. And she's clever. Very."

"We'll have to allay her suspicions," I said. "It was your distracted manner that first intrigued her, wasn't it?"

" 'Distracted'?" smiled Elspeth. "That's a polite way of putting it. 'Gormless' and 'lovelorn', I'd call it."

"Well, if we can bring you back to your normal self, maybe that will reassure her."

"James, you've done that already. I feel absolutely fantastic."

She looked it, too. Still on the bed stark naked, not that it seemed to bother her at all, she was by this time sitting with her knees drawn up and one arm resting across them to make a kind of platform on which she could lean forward to rest her chin. She was talking in a bright, breezy and intelligent way and every time she paused a huge satisfied smile illumined her face. Surely, I thought, quite wrongly as it turned out, if this Dr Stone saw Elspeth this way she would realise she had been getting all worked up about nothing.

I invited Elspeth to stay the night and drive back to Cambridge in the morning. I also made arrangements for the upcoming weekend, telling her to drive down to Surrey.

"You know the way," I reminded her.

"I'm not sure I do," she replied. "I knew I'd be drinking so I came by train last time. Just a minute, where's my bag?" She rummaged in a rather untidy handbag she had left on the bedside table. "I really must clear this out, there's so much clutter – Ah, here it is!" She held up a frayed piece of folded A4 paper. "The twins gave these out in case anyone was driving."

It was a map with very clear directions to George's house. On a fatal whim I took it from her, crossed out the date of the twins' birthday and substituted that of the coming weekend, drew a large circle round George's house on the map, and wrote "Elspeth, looking forward to having you – J". I gave her the paper back and she folded it carefully and replaced it in her bag.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 34



XXXIV

"I don't see what you expect me to do"

The next few days were dominated by preparations for my fiftieth birthday weekend. I telephoned all the girls I had primed and told them to present themselves at George's house on Friday. They were to travel separately so as not to attract attention. Most of them did not have ready access to a car so they would be arriving by train at the nearest station, nearly four miles away, where I would arrange to have them met. (I did not want local cab companies to wonder why they were ferrying so many beautiful women to the same house.)

I had decided to invite all my existing girls as well and make a good weekend of it. Besides, I wanted Wendy and Fran there to provide a bit of organisation. Vicky and Simone got special instructions to travel down on Wednesday and it fell to them to spend the whole of Thursday buying in food and drink and getting plastic sheets to cover the beds; there must be no trace of our activities for George and Sue to discover on their return. 

I saw Gina each lunchtime. She brought a new girl each day (two on Wednesday), all African or eastern European, and I invited all of them, plus Sable and Olga and of course Gina herself, to join us for the weekend. I was a little worried about how assorted London whores would interact with the twins' well-brought-up friends, but not enough to stop me from agreeing to Gina's suggestion that she bring a couple of new girls as well.

The financial pages of Wednesday's paper brought the interesting news that George Marjoribanks had been invited to join the board of his bank. He would be the only non-American director, and would continue to be based in London controlling operations not only in the UK but throughout Europe. The article hinted that the financial package attached to this was extremely generous.

I winced. It was not that I exactly had anything against George, but I was offended that he had tried to make me jealous of his opulent lifestyle, and what rankled even more was that in some measure he had succeeded; I had indeed felt pangs of envy. And now he was to be richer still. Moreover, it was not possible for me to avoid coming into contact with him. Not only did I have professional dealings with him, but, worse still, Wendy and I were obliged by social convention to reciprocate his hospitality and invite him and Sue to our home for dinner. So he would have plenty of opportunity to rub it in. 

It was at this point I made up my mind that in some way not yet determined I would have my revenge on George. The secrecy attendant on my fucking his daughters and using his house as a knocking-shop meant that these activities, although pleasing in themselves, were not sufficient for the purpose. I had to get at him, I decided, in some way that he would recognise. 

In the midst of all this I had on my conscience two further unintended seductions.

They were not my fault. The first one in particular I had foreseen as a problem, and I did what I could to prevent it.

My victim was a girl I then knew only as Ursula, who was the PA of the Chief Executive of a leading construction firm with which my company did a lot of business. Last time I had attended a meeting at their office she had taken notes and I had spent the whole time lusting after her. She was a drop-dead gorgeous raven-haired Australian with an over-the-top accent that made her sound like a reject from Neighbours; but with a body like hers, who cared about her voice? She had been very forward about her sexuality, wearing a low-cut outfit and leaning forward far more than strictly necessary and tossing her head sexily to keep that long black hair from falling across her face. I had thought at first she was there merely by way of eye candy but as the meeting progressed it had become clear that she was also highly proficient. But however bright and attractive Ursula might be, I had enough women to worry about and now that I had to attend a presentation in the boardroom of this same firm I was anxious not to ensnare her. 

I had planned it carefully. Above all I wanted to avoid sitting near her, so I made sure I was one of the last to enter the boardroom and I took my seat between two men and with only other men and a couple of older women anywhere near me. I looked round to check that Ursula was out of harm's way but there was no sign of her at all. Maybe she no longer worked there.

But no: her boss, Colin, started the meeting by welcoming us all and asking someone to take notes until Ursula arrived. He then invited one of his managers to give the first part of the presentation. One of the men next to me stood up and made his way to the top of the table and started talking; and it was at this point, of course, that the lovely Ursula entered with a word of apology about delays on the tube, and slid into the nearest available seat, which was the one just vacated next to me.

There was nothing I could do. I tried to concentrate on the presentation, which was on the reassuringly unsexy subject of tailoring insurance products to meet the specific needs of the construction business, but I knew it would be no good. Everything seemed to conspire to make me aware of Ursula's closeness. I could smell her perfume. My eye was caught by the toss of her head as she flicked the hair out of her face. Even the way she turned the page of her notebook seemed charged with sensuality. And I could hear her respiration; it was heavier than usual because she was out of breath after hurrying to get to the meeting. But as the presentation dragged on, her breathing did not return to normal; in fact, it seemed to be getting deeper still.

"Have I got that right, James?"

To my horror I realised that the presenter had addressed himself directly to me, and I had been concentrating so hard on not concentrating on Ursula that I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Er, sorry," I said lamely. "Could you run it past me again?"

He repeated his description of the structure of a special employer's liability policy I had put together for this client. At least this forced me to think about insurance. I told him he was nearly right except for a couple of minor points, which I explained, and he thanked me and went on with his talk. I tried to focus on what he was saying in case he picked on me again but he droned on interminably and Ursula was becoming more and more distracting. Her every breath was now a long, deep draught of air that she held as long as possible then expelled slowly until her lungs must have been almost empty, ready to suck the next pheromone-laden intake past her vomeronasal organ. She edged her seat nearer and managed to twist in it so that her thigh pressed against mine. I did not attempt to move away; what would have been the point?

Her notepad caught my eye. It started with line after line of small neat handwriting accurately summarising the manager's talk. But then the writing became less untidy and there were several crossings-out, and I saw that she had entirely omitted an important point that the manager had explained in some detail. A few lines farther on, she had noted my contribution carefully, ascribing it to "JAMES" in capital letters, and I could not see how she had got on after that because her arm was in the way.

But then she moved even closer to me, and I could see the whole page. The last six or eight lines simply read, "James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James James ..."

The stultifyingly boring talk finally came to an end and we broke for tea. I was about to get up but Ursula put her hand on my arm and asked me, in her jawbreaking Australian accent that she was trying with no success at all to modulate to a sexy purr, "Can I get you something? What would you like?" She leant toward me to give me the best view of her cleavage. I asked for a cup of tea.

"Anything else?" she persisted, leaning still further and breathing in deeply to force her breasts toward me (and incidentally sucking in yet more pheromones). "Anything I can do for you at all?"

"Not just now," I told her, trying to hint that I had received her message. She gave me a knowing smile and fetched my tea. Handing it over gave her another opportunity to bend right forward and give me the best view yet of a handsome pair of tanned brown tits. "Just what I need," I said appreciatively as I took the tea. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure," she smiled sexily, enjoying this game of double meaning. "Let me know if you want some more."

"I'm sure I shall, later."

She shot me a huge sexy smile. "Just give me the word," she said, and scribbled a phone number on the notes I had been taking. That afternoon I rang her and invited her to join the merry throng at George's house.

The second seduction was that same day and was also related to the delays on the tube. I gathered that they were having some trouble with signalling. The thought crossed my mind that they could usefully employ Ursula, who on today's evidence had no problems at all when it came to signalling.

On the way home that evening after visiting Fran's I had to wait a long time for a train. Normally by this hour trains were not too crowded but this one, obviously owing to the disruption, was very full, and I was lucky to be able to grab a seat where I wedged myself in between two men. At the next stop many more people got on, among them a young couple. The press of passengers forced them close to me and the girl's very shapely bottom appeared a few inches in front of my face.

The last thing I wanted was yet another girl on my plate, especially one with such an imposing-looking boyfriend with a protective arm around her, but I was not worried. This type of situation had arisen before and I had always dealt with it successfully. The technique was simple. It takes only a couple of minutes for the train to get from one station to the next, not long enough for FUCK to take effect, so I would simply get off at the next stop and wait for the following train, seldom more than five minutes later. Gentlemanly fellow that I am, over the previous couple of weeks I must have preserved in this manner at least half a dozen unknowing pretty girls from a life of sexual enslavement.

At this point the train came to a standstill in the middle of the tunnel.

Everyone sighed wearily, including the young couple in front of me. I mentally withdrew my previous complacent thoughts about how to cope with the situation. As I contemplated the pert little bottom in front of me and the rich golden hair hanging down from above, and remembered the cute precocious face I had glimpsed when she got on, I knew what would happen unless I quickly put some space between this girl and me. But how could I do it? The carriage was so densely packed that even if I had chivalrously offered her my seat it would not have been possible to move any distance away from her.

I was resigned to the inevitable long before the driver announced, "Very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I've just spoken to control and we're likely to be held here for a while." The girl lifted her boyfriend's arm slightly so she could turn round. He still had his arm round her but now she had her back to him and was facing me. He too, towering over her, was looking in my direction, but whereas he was staring blankly at their reflection in the window of the train, she had dipped her head and half-closed her eyes and anyone not in my position would have thought she was looking at nothing at all. 

But from where I sat I could see that under those almost-closed eyelids there were two piercing blue eyes drinking me in. When she saw me looking back at her she glanced away for a second as if embarrassed but she then returned her eyes to me and met my gaze squarely. When I smiled slightly she smiled back. The signs were tiny but I had been through this too often not to recognise them. The girl was primed.

I looked her up and down. Now that I could see her from the front I realised she was very young. Being small and dainty, she was not my usual type, but in her own way she was perfect. Behind her loomed her boyfriend, a few years older, also very blond but not remotely dainty; apart from his height, he was broad across the shoulders and it was a very muscular arm that he had draped across his girlfriend. There was something not-English about the pair of them.

Without warning the train lurched forward and all the standing passengers staggered. The boyfriend let go for a second and his suddenly ex-girlfriend, now my girlfriend, took advantage of her sudden freedom to fall forward instead of sideways and she would have tumbled on top of me, as I am sure was her intention, had I not put out a hand to save her. She blushed and said something that I presumed meant "sorry" in some language or other.

It was pointless, I knew, to try to resist the logic of the situation. My thinking now was not how to free her from my spell but how to detach her from her big boyfriend. Now the train was moving there was no time to waste because I did not know when they were due to get off, and I had an uneasy feeling that if their stop was before mine she would refuse to leave and possibly create a scene. 

I decided to force the situation. We had passed a couple of stations by now but we were still in central London, a long way from my own stop. Nevertheless, I started very conspicuously gathering myself together to show her I should be getting off at the next station. A remarkable silent conversation ensued.

She looked at me with panic in her eyes and shook her head ever so slightly. ("Please don't go.")

I continued to prepare for departure but made an encouraging gesture with my head. ("Why don't you come with me?")

She moved her eyes to indicate the hunk behind her. ("But my boyfriend ...")

I shrugged my shoulders ever so slightly and opened my hands a little. ("Well, I don't see what you expect me to do about him.")

Her eyes widened and the panicky look intensified. ("Help!")

I decided that my previous response had not been very helpful. I rummaged in my wallet for a business card, wrote my home and cellphone numbers on it and then, making sure she could see what I was doing, as the train pulled into the station I stood up and dropped the card on the seat. Quick as a flash she slid into the vacated seat, deftly picking up the card and hiding it away somewhere. The boyfriend never saw a thing.

"There's an Inge on the phone," announced Wendy a couple of hours later. So then I had yet another addition to the guest list for the weekend.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 35



XXXV

The Female Future

These two seductions caused me much concern. I had intended neither of them, but had been unable to avoid them even though I was well aware of what was happening. I knew that sooner or later, if this sort of thing went on, someone was bound to notice, and what then? I had nightmare visions of being emblazoned across the tabloid press; and I feared, too, that the civil authorities might take some action against me, although I hardly dared think what this might be.

Indeed, I thought, already someone had noticed, or at least had become highly suspicious. I kept thinking of Elspeth's warning about this Dr Stone: "She's clever. Very." So on the Tuesday I had looked in at a bookshop and bought a copy of The Female Future. The assistant gave me a slightly odd look, and I could see why. It was obvious even from the pastel-shaded cover that this was aimed at the young female market.

Over the next couple of days I worked my way through it, either in the office when I should have been working, or braving further strange looks on the tube. Dr Stone wrote in an easy, chatty style obviously aimed at a popular rather than an academic market, but she made some very interesting points. 

She argued (if I can do her justice in a few sentences) that the trend to greater equality between the sexes was the result of fundamental social changes. In the past, when societies had been based on arduous manual labour, with frequent recourse to warfare, men's attributes of physical strength and aggression were at a premium and the male-dominated social structures of the time had reflected this. But the move to economic systems based first on machines, and more recently on information, meant that women had become equally valuable. As a result, long-accepted norms of behaviour were becoming outdated. For example, she gave short shrift to marriage: an institution that required the parties to make promises about how they were going to feel in the future had always been fundamentally flawed, she argued, because people can promise only what they will do, not how they will feel; but when women were neither socially nor financially independent, it had at least had the merit of providing them with the protection and financial support they needed to raise a family. But now that women's qualities were at least as valuable as men's, they could look after themselves and marriage had become redundant. But in arguing this she was at pains to stress that she was no man-hater. She enjoyed the company of men as it was only natural for women to do, but now it could be appreciated for its own sake without the underlying agenda of seeking a life-long commitment as a basis for child-rearing. Seen this way, she emphasised, her outlook was liberating not only for women but for men too.

She concluded with the assertion that the changes that had enhanced the status of women had not come to an end; on the contrary, they were accelerating. Women's qualities of acuity and sensitivity would be even more valuable in the future; the day would come, if indeed it had not already arrived, when they would be more socially useful than men. They should recognise this and slough off the outdated conventions that held them back. The future was theirs for the taking.

Notwithstanding its popular style, the book was intelligently argued and I could see why it had achieved the flattering reviews it quoted from women's glossy magazines and the impressive sales it boasted on the back cover. I had never heard of it before, which is not surprising because it was not aimed at me, but when I mentioned it to Fran she told me that several friends had talked about it and she had meant to buy it.

Reading the book did nothing to quiet my unease about its author. My concern would have been greater still had I known what took place at a library at Cambridge on the Wednesday.

It was a beautiful summer's day and most students were too busy very sensibly enjoying the fine weather to waste time working, so the library was very quiet. But Elspeth was there, working furiously on an essay that (she had realised as she drove back on Tuesday) had to be in the following Monday; which, with her weekend committed, meant in effect that she had to write it from scratch in two and a half days. There was a large open area on the ground floor with desks equipped with computer terminals, and it was there that she was working when Laura, searching for a book on the first floor gallery, caught sight of her. 

Looking down unobserved from her vantage-point, Laura was surprised to see that the girl was apparently engrossed in her work, periodically referring to the books she had piled on the desk, or checking something on the internet, but most of the time tapping energetically away at the keyboard. Elspeth was in short, and in total contrast to her recent manner, the picture of the hard-working student. 

Intrigued by this abrupt reversion to type, Laura watched closely. After a while Elspeth paused in her labours to reach into her bag and draw out a sheet of paper. She looked at it for a few moments, as if deriving some kind of strength from it; then she resumed work with even greater energy. Laura noticed that she had not replaced the piece of paper in her bag; instead she had left it on the desk so she could glance at it periodically.

Elspeth, meanwhile, was focusing furiously on this wretched essay. I had told her to apply herself to her work and she was doing it, but I had not told her she had to like it. To motivate herself she thought of the forthcoming weekend in Surrey as a reward for all this effort, and she dredged out the paper with my writing on it to provide physical evidence of this incentive. Then, to her irritation, just as the essay was beginning to take shape, she discovered that a reference crucial to her argument was not to be found in the pile of books she had already accumulated. She folded the inspirational sheet of paper and slipped it into one of the volumes on the desk to keep her page -- it would not do for anyone to see it, after all -- and hurried off to search the shelves for the book she needed.

Laura, still watching from above, felt convinced that this piece of paper must be the vital clue. She rushed downstairs and, seeing no sign of Elspeth, retrieved the paper (not forgetting to mentally note the page number it had been keeping). She did not even look at it; she hurried to the copier, took a photostat, and replaced the original paper exactly where she had found it. Then she walked briskly off with the copy in her pocket. Elspeth, returning with her book a few moments later, had no idea that anything had happened. 

Only when Laura was safely out of the building did she allow herself to take the copy out of her pocket and look at it. When she saw my note with its obvious sexual double meaning, she flushed a little with a mixture of embarrassment at spying on Elspeth in this underhand way and triumph at having been right all along: it was a man. But who was he? "J" meant nothing to her. Maybe it was George Majoribanks after all, and "J" was a nickname or some private joke. It certainly seemed to be his house. Yet Elspeth had seemed so comfortable and relaxed in speaking dismissively of him; surely she was not that good a liar. Elspeth was due in her tutorial the following afternoon, Laura reflected; she would study her closely.

The tutorial only served, in fact, to heighten Laura's fascination and suspicion still further. For one thing, it was attended not only by Elspeth but also by Kathryn Hayward, whom Laura had almost forgotten about but who was just as distant and vacant as she had been the previous week, smiling absently and gazing out of the window all afternoon. It was a telling reminder of what both girls had been like the week before, but now Elspeth could hardly have been a greater contrast. She was bright and loquacious throughout, full of ideas, fearlessly challenging Laura on several points and more than holding her own in the ensuing discussion. At one level, Laura was delighted; she loved it when students behaved this way. But she was also deeply puzzled; it was obvious from the note and Elspeth's high spirits that her love affair was still going on, so why was she behaving so utterly differently?

Nor was it a simple matter of Elspeth's having reverted to her usual manner. It was more than that. Laura had always known Elspeth to be bright and breezy, but she was sometimes diffident in tutorials and very hesitant about crossing dialectical swords with a woman of Laura's formidable intellectual reputation. But not today; not only did she argue her points better and more persuasively than she ever had in the past, but she did it with an outspokenness and verve that Laura had never seen in her before. And she was more than bright; she was brilliant, joyous, exhilarated.

As the tutorial ended Laura asked Elspeth to stay behind only to find herself politely but very firmly rebuffed. She stood at her window and watched Elspeth leave at a brisk trot and get straight into her car, which she had obviously left nearby for a quick getaway. Laura could just see that before driving off Elspeth took a sheet of folded paper from her bag, glanced at it, and put it on the passenger seat where she could see it. Then she roared off.

Long after Elspeth's car had vanished, Laura was still looking out of the window and thinking deeply. She could not, she told herself, be imagining things. Something was going on, something more than merely an affair between a student and an unsuitable man. Yet she had nothing definite to go on. To try to put the matter out of her mind, she picked up the newspaper and idly leafed through it. On the financial pages her eye was caught by the distinctive name "Marjoribanks". The story she read was about George's new appointment, and it mentioned that he would be taking up his duties on returning to London after attending some more meetings in New York followed by a fortnight's holiday in America with his wife.

Laura chewed her lip with frustration. More than ever, she was convinced something was wrong, and for the first time it crossed her mind that Elspeth might even be in some kind of danger. If George Marjoribanks was in America, who was using his house? Who was the mysterious "J"? What kind of hold did he have over Elspeth? She looked again at the photocopy she had taken. The handwriting, she felt sure, was that of a man, and not a young man either.

That night Laura lay awake puzzling over Elspeth. She felt guilty about the devious way she had copied the note and she wished she were the type of person that could simply shrug her shoulders and forget about this sort of mystery. After all, she asked herself, what was she basing her suspicions on? She had assembled enough evidence to show that Elspeth was infatuated with a man, probably much older, married, and generally unsuitable, but what business was that of hers? It was not as if Elspeth would be the first young woman, or the last, to involve herself in such a relationship. Laura tried to tell herself that that was all there was to it, and that this deeper sense that so troubled her, that there was something altogether strange and sinister about it, was nothing but her imagination. She promised herself she would forget about it and worry about something else next day.

She tried, too. She was getting along well, busying herself around the college, until her mid-morning coffee break. A senior member of the Department came and sat with her. "Laura," he asked, "have you got a moment?"

"Of course," smiled Laura, glad of the prospect of some new topic to distract her. "What's the problem?"

"Well," said her colleague, "it's not a problem exactly. It's about a student. That Elspeth Smith girl."

Laura nearly dropped her coffee, but recovered before her colleague noticed anything.

"You tutor her, don't you?" he went on. "Have you noticed anything odd about her?"

Laura was cautious. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," he explained, "she had an essay to do for me. She gave it to me yesterday lunchtime, which I thought was strange because it isn't due till Monday morning and she usually gives in her work at the last possible minute."

"Like every other student in the University," smiled Laura.

"Yes. I was a bit surprised so yesterday afternoon I had a look at it. There were two things about it that struck me."

Laura's resolve to forget about Elspeth was crumbling already. She was intrigued. "Well?"

"The first thing was that it had been written in a hurry. There were lots of grammatical errors, repetitions, things like that. The kind of thing you would expect her to have spotted in a final check. Now, I can understand that sort of carelessness in work finished at the last moment, but not in something submitted four days in advance."

"I suppose that is a bit strange," replied Laura, "but there could be any number of reasons for it. In fact," she added, "she drove off straight after my tutorial yesterday so I assume she's going away for a long weekend. So there's your answer. What was the other mystery?"

Laura's colleague paused for several moments. He was not a man to give praise lightly. "Laura," he said finally, clearly choosing his words with care, "it was simply brilliant. She came up with points and arguments, good ones too, that I've never seen before, and I've written books on this subject. The whole essay was simply bursting with ideas, and it was argued with a confidence and bravura I've never seen from her before. She's always been bright and conscientious, but not what you'd call outstanding. And now, out of the blue she's produced one of the best student essays I've ever read."

"So you think she cribbed it off the web, and put in the mistakes to make it look like her own work?"

"That's what puzzles me, Laura; no, I don't. It referred back to points she's made in earlier essays, and besides, I recognise her writing style, her favourite words and phrases. No; I'm positive she wrote it herself."

"I think you're right," replied Laura. "I happened to notice her in the library on Wednesday. I was struck by the focused, intense way she was working. And yesterday, in my tutorial, she fizzed with ideas."

Any hope Laura had had of putting Elspeth out of her mind had now gone with the wind. As her colleague went on his way she was muttering under her breath, "So it's not my imagination! Something's going on here. I must know what it is."

It so happened Laura was due to attend a meeting in London that afternoon, to which she would normally travel by train, returning the same evening. But now she decided to drive, and invite herself to spend the night with her mother in Cheam. That would allow her to take a pleasant drive in the Surrey countryside the following day. She looked at the map and worked out a route that would coincidentally take her past George's house.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 36



XXXVI

James "Henry Ford" Walker

The previous evening -- that is, the Thursday -- instead of visiting Fran's I had gone straight home from work to rendezvous with Wendy and Alicia. We had our stuff already packed (not that we needed much) and set off in high spirits for my weekend party at George's. Kylie wanted to join us but was under strict orders not to miss the following day's school; I consoled her with a nice fuck while Wendy and Alicia got ready.

We reached George's at about nine o'clock. Elspeth had already arrived and was helping Vicky and Simone with preparations. The only other girls due that evening were Fran, Connie, Gabby and Yvonne, who were due to assemble at Fran's flat while Gabby, the only driver among them, collected a hire car. Because they had to wait for Yvonne, who was waitressing at some reception earlier in the evening, I did not see how they could arrive before ten. But it was only twenty past nine when the Surrey air was rent by the sound of a car engine being ferociously revved and a sporty red number roared up the drive and screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and flying grit.

The driver's door opened and a long olive-skinned leg languidly appeared. The limb was followed by its owner, looking cool and poised under a broad-brimmed straw hat. She slinked over to me and embraced me warmly; only then did she deign to say hello to Wendy and the others.

After a longish pause the passenger door opened and Fran emerged, quivering like an aspen, her face a sepulchral white dramatically framed by her red hair, her eyes staring with sheer terror. She staggered toward me. "James," she gasped, "I am never, ever, getting in a car with that woman again!"

"Relax, Fran darling," replied Gabby calmly. "I told you we'd be fine."

"You nearly killed us!" retorted Fran, her spirit starting to return. "James, darling," she told me indignantly, "on the motorway she went on the hard shoulder and simply flew past a cement lorry on the inside --"

"He was going too slow," explained Gabby.

"-- and then swerved right across all three lanes. I thought we were dead."

"James, lover, she's exaggerating," said Gabby.

"No she isn't," cut in Connie, who had now emerged from the back seat to join us. Normally irrepressible, she too was shaking visibly and in the gathering dusk the whites of her fear-widened eyes stood out starkly against the background of her black face. She would have been as pale as Fran, I suspected, had her skin pigmentation permitted it. "It was terrifying. And when she overtook that bus on that winding country lane --"

Gabby clearly felt this was not her fault. "These roads are too narrow," she said. "They should make them wider."

Fran turned on Gabby. "And another thing," she asserted; "when a traffic light's red, you're supposed to stop."

Gabby's expression suggested that no reasonable person would take seriously such an absurd regulation. "Fran, honey," she explained, "there was no traffic."

"There was an old lady crossing!" Fran retorted indignantly. "You made her run for her life!"

"These old people," said Gabby coolly; "they're nimbler than they make out." 

Yvonne had now joined us, and I asked her what she thought.

"Wonderful, sir," she grinned. "When I get a car, I'm going to drive just like Gabby. Only faster," she added.

I set the girls to work making preparations under Wendy's overall direction. It was a big day tomorrow and I wanted nothing to go wrong. I took them off duty one by one, of course, for some rotational fucking as I limbered up for the next day. By one o'clock everything was in readiness.

Our guests, having been instructed that they must first attend to any existing commitments such as lectures, school, or work, would be arriving next day in dribs and drabs. Only one or two had access to a car; the rest were to come by train, ringing when a few stops away. Wendy, Elspeth and Gabby were on standby to pick them up. I was not sure when to expect the first caller but two of the Cambridge girls must have got up very early because it was only a quarter to nine when they called to say they were approaching.

Arrangements in the house were simple. I had taken possession of the master bedroom upstairs and when each girl arrived Wendy or Fran would greet her and if I was available she would be shown upstairs without any more ado. If I was engaged, she would be given a glass of wine and invited to wait in the sitting room. We were careful to keep internal doors closed so that the hall, sitting room, and stairs were separated from the rest of the ground floor, which was the preserve of girls that had already been inducted.

The reason for these precautions was simple. The girls arriving on Friday had all been thoroughly primed at the garden party but until they were well and truly fucked they would not be totally under control. They had all been overwhelmed for nearly a fortnight by their craving for me but this did not stop them from feeling confused and bewildered about what was happening. As soon as they were met at the station the pent-up questions began. What was happening? Who was the woman meeting them, and what was her relation to (lovelorn sigh) James? Was it really true that in a few minutes they would see (more sighing) him?

Wendy, Gabby, and Elspeth all gave the same answer: yes, they were about to see James and as for the rest, he would explain everything. There were times, of course, particularly if several had arrived on the same train, when a number of girls, often known to each other, would be in the sitting room together, but Wendy, Fran, Gabby and others were there to keep the conversation general and deflect any more searching questions with the assurance that James would explain. Some of the girls had known since the garden party that they were not alone in their sudden devotion to me; for others it came as an unwelcome surprise, but the internal segregation of the house ensured that none of them realised the scale of my conquests.

When ushered in to see me, most of the girls took one look in my direction and any questions they had formulated were swept away by a surge of desire. I would take the girl there and then, stripping her if she was too confused to do it herself and fucking her senseless. I had no idea, most of the time, which girl I was taking, but I knew that Wendy and Fran, methodical as ever, were keeping note of names and would be able to fill in the details later. I noticed, of course, that some were taller than others, some were fair and some dark, and I was keenly appreciative of the differences between one pair of breasts or buttocks and the next. And the sex itself varied; some girls were extraordinarily passionate and others were more passive, but afterwards all were the same: gazing glassily into space with a huge dopy smile. Each girl would then be moved to one of the twins' bedrooms to get over it. Sometimes if the girl was not too heavy and I was feeling strong I would do this by myself; otherwise I had plenty of assistance to call on. I would then return to the main bedroom for refreshments and to await the next customer.

When girls recovered sufficiently to stagger unaided, Connie and the twins, who were responsible for after-care, would get them showered and lead them downstairs. Here they would recuperate further, chat to other girls about how much they adored me and how wonderful the sex had been, and generally unwind. In fact, any stranger wandering in (not that that was likely, or so I thought then) would have marked nothing but a perfectly normal house-party unusual only in that all the guests were beautiful young women and they were all butt naked. 

It was production-line sex of which Henry Ford would have been proud, I admit, but it had to be. There was no other way I was going to get through them all. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 37



XXXVII

"No! No!"

Some girls stood out, however. One was Tammy, whose cheesy name had led me to assume she was American, but who turned out to be English: from Billericay, of all places. She was a state-school girl who had got swept up in one of Oxbridge's occasional (and unconvincing) efforts to demonstrate that it is not the preserve of the middle and upper classes but will take people from Essex council estates too. The girl had character, I must say; her overwhelming craving for me vied with an equally powerful need to know what on earth was going on, and for a few moments the latter even got its nose in front. When I kissed her she responded with passion then seemed to force herself to pull away.

"What's the matter?" I demanded impatiently. I had a schedule to keep, after all.

She gulped in several deep breaths as she struggled to contain her obvious desire to throw herself back into my arms. "Oh, James, I feel so -- James, I want you so much -- but --" she stammered before blurting out, "What the fuck is going on?"

"Don't worry about it," I hazarded. It was worth a try, but she was not to be so easily fobbed off.

"But I'm so confused," she wailed. "I've never felt this way before, not about anyone. And Emma and Sara, downstairs, I could see in their eyes that they're the same. And the other girls I've seen here, the redhead that showed me up here, and the girl that gave me a lift from the station -- you must know the one I mean, she drives like a lunatic --; they're beautiful and they're yours, too, aren't they?"

I admitted it.

"And I saw some others, a couple of black girls, Elspeth from Uni -- all yours, too?"

Again I admitted it and she gasped. "But how many --? I mean, how do you --? All of us..." she trailed off helplessly.

"I just seem to have this effect on beautiful women," I told her modestly. "And you are lovely, Tammy," I went on, taking her in my arms. She was, too; she had big brown eyes in a bright (but currently troubled) freckly face; her auburn hair was cut quite short, not something I usually like but it suited her. Above average height with particularly good legs, she was generally trimmer than I prefer (but that, I thought, will soon be taken care of) and, crucially, she had a very nice pair of tits.

She flinched as if thinking of again pulling back but her urge to be close was too strong to resist and she put her arms around me. She had not finished arguing, though. Even as I ran my hands over her body and she writhed with pleasure and desire, she leant her head against my chest and whispered, "But ... but ... James, I want you, I need you, but ... but ... you're just inviting me to join your harem, aren't you? That's all it is; your own private harem."

I remembered the note she had written me at the garden party. "Tammy, Tammy," I murmured, "I thought you wanted to give me every hole you've got, and then some."

She hugged me even tighter. "Oh, James! You remembered. Yes, yes, that's just what I want. Ever since I first saw you I haven't been able to think about anything else. I've had this feeling, all the time ... I don't know how to describe it, it's just an endless aching lust. It's like my insides are tearing themselves apart. But," she went on, finding from somewhere the resolve to pull away again, "I -- I'm frightened, James. I don't understand what's happening."

With a little forcefulness I could, I knew, have taken her with only token resistance, but I did not want her that way. "Tammy, I'm not going to hurt you," I said soothingly.

"Look," she said, abruptly getting a grip of herself, "I'm no innocent. I fuck around a lot, I know I do. And why shouldn't I? I like it. And more holes is a big fantasy of mine. I mean, there just aren't enough, are there?"

I was taken aback by her sudden crude frankness. "Well," I thought to myself, "you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl."

"I've been around," she continued. "But I've never heard of anything like this. That's what scares me. You've done something to me, I don't know what, and I don't know how to escape."

"Would you?" I asked. "Escape, I mean. If you could?" 

She looked at me with helpless longing but did not reply. I held her tight again, and this time she succumbed totally to my embrace. 

"Listen to me, Tammy," I murmured. "That feeling you've had, that yearning need, can you feel it now?"

There was a long pause before her softly whispered "Yes".

"Can you resist it?"

"No." Even softer.

"Do you want to resist it?"

There was a long pause. She knew, or at least some part of her knew, that she was delivering herself up to something that would change her for ever, something unknown and terrifying; but she knew too that she was helpless before it, her destiny no longer hers to command, her fate sealed. 

"No," she finally said again. This was so quiet it was almost inaudible, hardly more than a breath of final surrender. 

"Then come," I told her gently. 

She seemed limp and helpless as I eased her out of her clothes, but she made no attempt to stop me. She lay on the bed and I moved her legs apart to enter her. And I fucked her. Her hesitation and the delay it caused only intensified my desire. Perhaps the effect on her was the same, because as soon as I penetrated her she bucked and writhed like a desperate animal. And of all the girls I had had in the past few weeks, and maybe because of the sexual experience she had boasted of, she was the first to retain sufficient self-possession during sex actually to try to make demands of me: "Oh, fuck!" she cried when I changed angle slightly, "do that again!" So I did, with more vigour, and sent her into the first of what must have been at least six thunderous orgasms before I finally exploded within her and sent her over the brink into oblivion. 

Late in the afternoon Wendy came to tell me that Gina had arrived with no fewer than ten other girls, squeezed illegally into a people carrier that was supposed to have a capacity of seven including driver. I hurried to the window where I could see them all, laughing and arguing as they disentangled themselves from the car and each other. It struck me that the girls were either very black, like Gina herself and Sable, or very white like Olga and three -- no, four -- other girls of probably East European origin. I recognised Gina and the six other girls she had introduced me to over the last week or so, but four were new and I asked Wendy to bring these up right away with Gina. 

I was naked on the bed when they arrived. "Right girls," Gina announced; "this is Jim, the guy I told you about."

This would not, I knew, be one of the world's toughest seductions, since they were all professional girls under the impression I was stinking rich, but I was looking forward to it nevertheless because I had never dared attempt four girls at once. I hoped my pheromone generation was up to the task.

I need not have worried about that. The problem turned out to be different.

Watched by Gina, and also by Wendy, Fran and Connie who had turned up to enjoy the show, the four girls advanced on me, two black and two white (Gina was nothing if not an equal-opportunities procuress). The blazing lust in their eyes was still financially motivated at this stage, but as they stripped off and clambered over me and kissed and caressed me, their manner subtly changed. Their breathing became deeper and slower, their eyes began to focus on me exclusively, their kisses became longer and more passionate. Which girl was which I neither knew nor cared, as black lips and white jostled for my mouth, while hands, lips, and tongues explored my entire body.

The black girl with the big tits was squeezing them against my face and a stunningly gorgeous East European girl was forcing her tongue down my throat so when the first cunt slid over my giant cock I could not tell whose it was or even which colour. But I thrust away anyway. The moans of pleasure had a guttural African flavour to them, telling me it was the tall, lithe black girl with the enormous thighs and beautifully rounded ass cheeks. The intensity of the experience meant that I could not hold myself back for long; but I was able to make sure that when I came inside this first cunt I kept plenty in reserve.

As the lithe girl -- Precious, I discovered later -- climaxed hugely and passed into oblivion I pushed her roughly to one side and pulled the gorgeous European girl on top of me in her place. Monika -- that was her name -- never knew what hit her. I had no time for any preamble; I simply drove my cock into her and unleashed a huge jet of spunk. Up to this moment her lips had still been clamped to mine but as I exploded she released their hold to let out a loud cry of mingled astonishment and ecstasy, then she too was limp and still and apparently dead to the world. 

Two down, two to go. The black girl with the big tits, not in Florence's league, admittedly, but more than a match for Alicia, seemed to know instinctively what was expected of her and she clambered over Precious's recumbent form and came forcefully down on me, her cunt hungrily swallowing my oozing cock. This girl, Mary, a little older than the others, maybe mid-twenties, was a hefty piece of luscious chocolate flesh, her huge bouncing bosoms complemented by meaty hips and thighs and another fine full African ass. I found out later there was a reason for all this bulk; she belonged to a tribe in a remote part of Uganda where large women were favoured, and at fourteen she had been betrothed to a cousin and sent to a fattening hut where she was forced to gorge on rich dairy produce and forbidden to exercise. Basically she lay in bed all day and ate and ate and her grandmother stood over her ready to beat her if she refused. But she dreaded the wedding more and more as it grew nearer, and a week or so before the big day she escaped, stowing away on the back of a lorry that took her to Kampala. There she was penniless and friendless, unable to go home to the family whose honour she had disgraced. It is painful to think what might have become of her but she had the luck to find a menial cleaning job. This took her into a lot of shops and offices where she attracted plenty of male attention and realised that her beauty and now fulsome figure were assets she could use. A businessman whose office she cleaned took a shine to her, bought her presents, and introduced her first to sex and then to the owner of an establishment he frequented, not the grim and filthy hellhole of ordinary African prostitution but an altogether higher-class establishment catering for wealthy businessmen and foreign visitors. Among the latter was an Englishman who told her how much more money she could earn in London. From there it was a simple matter to buy a forged passport giving her age as eighteen and get on a plane to Heathrow.

And here she was, an experienced and accomplished whore and, as I creamed her insides, my newest recruit.

But not for long; I had still managed to hold something back for the final girl, Nina. As I pushed Mary off me and she slid across Monika's body and fell with a thump onto the floor, I found that it was Nina's lips and tongue that had been enthusiastically kissing and licking my bollocks as all this went on. I grabbed her arms and pulled her toward me. She looked left and right at the prone bodies of the other three girls and for an instant confusion and fear flashed across her face as even in her lust-crazed state she realised that something was wrong. "B-but ..." she stammered.

I had no time to still her fears; any second now everything I had left was going to explode from my cock whether I was inside her or not. I let go of her arms and grasped her hips to position her for entry. Panic welled up in her eyes. "No!" she shouted, and struggled to escape. She was slick with sweat and might have got away but Wendy and Connie, who had approached to try to help Mary, saw what was happening and gripped her tight. Gina rushed up and grabbed her too; Fran I noticed made a move toward us but then stopped.

Nina squirmed and struggled but she was held fast by three determined women. "No! No!" she cried again and I had just time to see an awful look of helpless terror in her eyes before I roughly drove my cock deep into her and felt it give an enormous spasm as a great final jet of spunk gushed forth. She let out a huge roar of -- what? Fear, horror, pain? Joy, rapture, ecstasy? It was impossible to say.

As Nina's body went limp I withdrew from her and stumbled off the bed so that Wendy and the others could rest her in the place I had vacated. Gasping for breath, I stood by the bed and looked down at her, suddenly appalled at what I had done.

It was not my first rape; I knew that. I had taken Kylie when she was blissed out and incapable of signifying consent, but that was a technical rape, a lawyer's rape if you like, because I had known full well that when she came round she would not object (in fact she had pronounced it "brill"). But this was different; this was layman's rape. I had taken a terrified girl by force. And three women, among them my wife, had helped me do it.

Connie and Gina did not seem to think that anything remarkable had happened but Fran's gaze met mine and we simply stared at each other in silent dismay. Wendy looked up at me to speak but whatever she was about to say died on her lips as she saw the expression on my face and the answering look on Fran's. Then she too lapsed into silence, biting her lip.

I staggered to a chair and collapsed into it, still gasping for air. My first thought was to damn Albert to hell. But no; the responsibility, I told myself, was not his but mine. I hated myself for what I had done. If someone at that moment had proposed branding the word RAPIST onto my forehead with a hot iron I should have accepted it meekly as the least I deserved; and if a policeman had come into the room I should have given myself up on the spot.

But when the door opened, it was not a policeman that entered. It was Vicky, with a large tray of food and drink. I had no appetite for it but I knew I was exhausted and in need of sustenance so I ate and drank mechanically. As I did, women gathered round me and tried to find words of consolation. 

Connie made the first offering, demonstrating that she had at least worked out what the problem was. "She'll be fine about it when she comes round," she said.

"She wasn't fine about it when I did it, was she?" I retorted.

"We did it, darling," urged Wendy. "It wasn't just you. I'm also guilty."

"You are," I agreed, "but I don't see how that's any comfort."

"I know," she said. "You're right. It was just the power of the moment. It seemed to overtake us all."

"Not all of us," I corrected her. "One of us still knows right from wrong." 

I looked at Fran. She was clearly upset and confused. "I was going to help hold her," she said, "but something stopped me. I just couldn't. The way she was struggling -- I could see she was so scared."

"You didn't see her eyes," I said bitterly. "I did, and still I carried on." 

No one replied. Full of self-loathing, I thought for a bleak moment of asking Vicky whether her father kept a gun in the house, but the idea seemed melodramatic and absurd so I simply sat there eating in miserable silence.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 38



XXXVIII

"That's it"

When I had finished eating I sat back and stared blankly in front of me. I wanted to shut my eyes but every time I tried it I saw that awful look on Nina's face as she realised she was about to be raped -- no, that last clause is a cowardly evasion, scratch it. I should have written as she realised I was about to rape her.

Wendy was the first to break a very strained silence. "James, darling," she muttered softly, "there are three more girls waiting downstairs. Elspeth's gone to pick up another two from the station."

"Oh, God," I moaned. I shut my eyes in anguish only to open them immediately as I saw Nina's terrified face again.

Fran, the only person with any moral standing at that moment, squatted down before me and took my hand, rubbing it gently. "James, darling, I know it will be hard for you but you can't let them down," she coaxed.

I groaned incoherently.

"James," she said, a sudden note of insistence in her voice, "look at me."

Reluctantly I complied.

"I've been there," she said. "Take my word for it. I was going crazy for you for only a few days; they've been suffering for nearly a fortnight. I can't begin to imagine what that would be like. They must be almost demented. And if you've told them they're going to have you today, then when they get here you tell them they can't, I don't know what will happen. It would be inhumanly cruel. You can't do it, darling."

She looked up at me imploringly. Her eyes, despite the tears that were starting to form, had a strange new intensity about them and they glinted in a way that was almost metallic, as if cobalt had reinvented itself as a shade of green instead of blue. It struck me that despite all I had been through with Fran I had never properly looked at her eyes until this moment. And as I stared at her it seemed to me that she alone really understood what had happened and how I felt. The realisation swept over me that she had achieved after all what she set out to do when we spoke in my office the day after Albert's funeral. She had not stopped me from loving Wendy, which I had done for over twenty years until it was part of my soul, but at that moment I knew that I loved Fran too.

"All right," I said dully. "Give me fifteen minutes and send the next one up."

The others helped me remove the four whores to the twins' rooms to recover and I sat on the bed awaiting, and dreading, the next caller. I could not remember the last time I had felt so unsexy. Finally there was a knock at the door and Wendy ushered in Arwen, the fragile-looking blonde. Her eyes widened in wonder as if she could not believe that we were face to face at last; then she gripped the white blouse she was wearing and literally ripped it apart, buttons flying in all directions, to reveal her breasts.

I remembered now how this same girl had brazenly grabbed my cock at the garden party and written me a note simply saying "Fuck me" without even supplying a name. This sexual forwardness was such a dramatic contrast to her delicate, almost ethereal appearance that I felt a twinge of excitement and my flaccid cock slightly stiffened. I was ashamed of this reaction but I had no time to worry about it because she was already rid of the rest of her clothes and she literally threw herself at me, pressing her lips to mine and frantically groping for my cock. "She's in for a disappointment," I thought, but I was wrong. In the few seconds it took her hands to home in, their target had become proudly erect.

My conscious mind still had no appetite for sex but my baser urges took over. Hardly knowing what I was doing, in fact feeling almost like a spectator, I thrust inside her. She looked so fragile that I thought I ought to try to exercise some control and treat her gently, but she forced herself down upon me with a series of powerful hip movements and came massively. The sight of this delicate frame tossing in the throes of ecstasy was too much for me and any idea of gentleness vanished in a frenzy of fucking. Shaking with sexual tension she came again and again and then great jets of hot spunk flooded into her and after a last huge convulsion she was still and limp.

And so the conveyer belt resumed; one happy lovelorn girl seemed to melt into the next. Wendy or Fran would call the name as each girl entered but I hardly took it in. Even some of the faces seemed unfamiliar; I realised that the process of fancying women and generating the right pheromones must have been going on that day in the tent at an unconscious as well as a conscious level. Inge, the Danish girl on the tube, drifted by at one point, I noticed, but most of the time I was just fucking, fucking, fucking I knew not whom.

I took a bit more notice when Fran announced Ursula's name. Having given her some erotic attention even before FUCK entered my life (although sadly she had not been present when I did it), I was determined to give her a good show. She was, as I had hoped and anticipated, very forward and confident sexually. She was almost stripped before she entered the room and ran to the bed immediately and held out her arms for me to join her. Her whole body was a glorious golden brown that seemed perfectly even from head to toe, and as she lay down she gathered those silky raven tresses so that they rested on top of her, negotiating the obstruction of her beautiful firm round tits and going on to reach well past her waist. As I had half expected, she was immaculately shaven.

She drew up her legs and spread them wide to pull apart the lips of her cunt. Already I could see the glistening of her juices. I leapt on top of her, pausing briefly to kiss and caress her breasts as I manoeuvred into position. As soon as I started to enter her, she lifted her legs and locked them behind me, flexing them powerfully to drive me deep inside as she gasped and moaned in sexual passion. She was everything I had dreamt of the first time I saw her. I thrust inside her as hard as I could. "Yes! Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!" she cried in that coarse antipodean accent as I pounded her to one climax after the next.

I had been trying all day never to let myself go totally; always to hold something in reserve for the next girl. But as I fucked Ursula for all I was worth and she orgasmed uncontrollably beneath me and still cried for more, restraint was impossible. I felt the warmth of the spunk rising within me and my cock tensed itself to force it into her. She seemed to sense the end was near because her legs, still locked behind me, flexed more violently than ever and forced me down onto her and into her as I gave a final desperate thrust. A huge blast of hot sticky cum gushed forth, followed by another and another and another as I squeezed every drop from my balls and with a piercing, almost triumphant, ululating cry she exploded into an enormous final climax and lay still.

I rolled off her and lay back panting for air. After a few minutes I realised Wendy was in the room, holding her checklist of girls and looking at me with a strange smile for which I was unable to account. As I struggled to speak Fran, Connie, and some others came in too.

"I'm sorry," I finally gasped. "I need a break before the next one." 

"That's it," said Wendy, entering a tick on the list.

I pulled myself into a half-sitting position. "What do you mean, 'That's it.'?"

"I mean, 'That's it.'," she replied, looking thoroughly pleased and proud. "You've done it. That's the lot. She was the last one."

I looked at the blissed-out Ursula and back at Wendy. "I've done it?" I echoed weakly.

"Thirty-one girls," announced Wendy, "in --" she turned to Fran. "How long?" 

Fran checked her watch. "Twelve hours, forty-three minutes," she replied. "That's, er," she paused a moment for mental arithmetic, "just under twenty-five minutes each, on the average."

I had had no idea they were timing me like an Olympic athlete.

"Thirty-one girls in twelve and three-quarter hours," repeated Wendy. "An astonishing achievement, darling. I'm so proud of you. We all are."

"Er, thanks," I said modestly. I was still trying to take it in. I had had no thought of completing my labours on the first day alone; some girls, I had expected, would have to wait an impatient night to be seen to in the morning. I struggled to stand; Fran and Connie rushed up to support me.

"Do you need to rest, darling," asked Wendy solicitously, "or can you manage the stairs?"

"I can manage," I said weakly. Fran and Connie moved aside leaving me standing unsteadily but unsupported and from behind me some female hands -- I had not even the strength to turn round to see whose -- helped me into a huge white dressing-gown many sizes too big even for a large man like me. I followed Wendy out of the room, Fran and the others following behind.

As I began to descend into the hall I was stunned by a sudden eruption of noise. The whole place was crammed with naked girls, all looking up at me with huge smiles and adoring eyes and applauding for all they were worth. I thought for a moment I ought to make a speech but I could think of nothing to say, so I raised my hand to acknowledge the clapping and slowly followed Wendy down the stairs. At the bottom I had to press my way past outstretched hands and naked bodies. "Thank you, thank you," girls said, or simply called my name. The scene was extraordinary, totally unexpected, and somehow very moving.

I scanned the smiling faces until I saw Nina. It was no wonder I had trouble finding her; happily applauding, she in no way stood out from the rest.

Wendy led me into the dining room where a handsome meal was waiting. I smelt it before I saw it and realised I was, not surprisingly after my exertions, ravenously hungry. As I ate, girls came alone or in small groups and simply gazed fondly at me. If I made the slightest move to reach for the salt or to refill my glass one of them would step smartly forward to do it for me. When I had finished and sat back replete, I looked for a napkin to wipe my mouth but a couple of girls appeared so that I should not have to perform even this tiny task for myself.

Wendy sat with me and congratulated me again on my performance, and I told her how moving I had found the acclamation she had organised for me.

"How many?" I asked, struck by a sudden thought.

"Thirty-one", she confirmed.

"Sorry," I explained; "I mean, how many altogether? All my girls are here, aren't they? How many have we assembled in all?"

She paused for calculation. "Forty-nine," she replied, "including me."

"One for every year of my life," I pointed out; "until tomorrow, anyway."

After eating I relaxed in the drawing room. The place was full of gorgeous naked girls, but they seemed content to look at me lovingly and made few attempts to speak. For a while I was equally happy to look back at them, for there was astonishing beauty wherever my eye rested, but finally I asked Fran to accompany me into the garden. I wanted a serious word with her. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 39



XXXIX

Starry skies

It was an idyllic night, clear, still and moonless. The stars shone with an almost unnatural brilliance. In silence Fran and I walked into the darkness. I was desperate to speak of my new-found feelings for her but I felt unaccountably shy, like a lovestruck teenager.

Unable to find the words I needed, I slackened my pace so that I fell slightly behind and could watch Fran walking in the starlight. There was something odd about her, I realised; I had never noticed before that she walked in such a graceful way, almost sinuously, and somehow she seemed taller. It suddenly dawned on me that although she was barefoot she was walking on the balls of her feet; her heels never touched the ground. 

"Starry skies," murmured Fran eventually.

"Cloudless climes," I replied, waving a hand at the sparkling and unblemished heavens.

"Cloudless climes and starry skies," she repeated. "That's Byron, isn't it?"

"It is," I confirmed. I could have added that I had the happiest memories of this particular poem. On two occasions in my student days I had trotted it out in circumstances not unlike these, walking a girl in a secluded spot on a starlit night, and it had got me laid both times. Nor, may I say, had I any bad conscience about having put Byron's wonderful lines to this use; from what I knew of him, I felt he would have approved. In fact, I am sure that was why he wrote the poem in the first place, to get inside some girl's knickers (not that girls wore knickers in his day).

I hardly needed poetic assistance to get inside Fran's knickers, of course (not that she was wearing any either), but the poem still seemed fitting. In a low soft voice I recited.

"She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies,And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies."

Fran stopped and turned to me. She sighed deeply and melted into my arms. Every young man starting out in life, I thought, should do himself a favour and learn these lines by heart. "Oh, James," she breathed, "that's so beautiful." She turned her face up toward mine. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open. I shut my own eyes and slowly lowered my head, my lips seeking hers as she raised her heels higher, reaching up for me. As our faces brushed together a frisson ran through us and I heard her small intake of breath as tenderly we brought our lips together ...

"Hey, guys, is this a private party or can anyone join?"

A precious moment shattered beyond recall, we spun round to see Connie, wearing nothing but a broad grin and holding up a large bottle of wine. "The girls told me you'd come out here and I thought you might fancy a drink," she said.

"Connie --" began Fran reproachfully.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?" asked Connie disingenuously.

I heaved a resigned sigh. Maybe it was for the best, I thought. I really ought to speak to Wendy before saying anything to Fran. "Never mind, you're here now," I said, extending a hand for the bottle. The three of us sat on the grass and chatted, passing the wine to and fro.

"James, you were fucking unbelievable today," said Connie.

"It was a remarkable performance," agreed Fran.

Connie corrected her. "It was hot," she said. "Hot, hot, hot. One after another, bang, bang, bang, thirty-one happy girls sorted just like that."

She had touched a sore point. "Thirty happy girls," I pointed out, "and one rape victim."

"But James," argued Connie, "she's fine about it. I talked to her afterwards. She said, [and here Connie made a woeful attempt at a Polish accent] 'I was silly and frightened but it was fantastic. I should have known he would never hurt me. I'm his now, for ever.' 'You and all the rest of us,' I told her."

I pondered this. "Well," I said doubtfully, "I suppose it's good she feels all right about it but it was wrong, all the same."

"James," insisted Connie, "you mustn't go on beating yourself up about this. She's OK with it. I told you she would be, remember?"

"You didn't see the look in her eyes," I said. "I don't know if I'll ever forget it. She was scared, really terrified."

"Yes," agreed Fran. "It must have been awful for her. Rape must be every girl's worst nightmare. The thought of it is bad enough; I can't imagine what the reality would be like. So, Connie, I know you mean well but I don't think you should make light of it because you can't know how she felt unless you've suffered it yourself, can you?" 

"Er --" began Connie, and paused.

Alarmed, I gripped her by the arm and looked her straight in the eye. "Connie," I asked gravely, "have you been raped?"

"I'm not sure," she replied.

Fran and I exchanged perplexed looks. "How can you not be sure?" I asked.

"It's like this," explained Connie. "Back home in Ghana, I suppose I must have been eighteen, I was at college and to earn some money I worked in the evenings at this lawyer's office. Gus, his name was. Big bloke, about forty. I knew he liked me but he never tried anything until one day, we were working very late and everyone else had gone and he called me to his private office. As soon as I went in he grabbed my arm and twisted it right up behind my back and pulled me against him and kissed me full on the lips. I struggled but he was much too strong and he had my arm twisted so far I thought he was going to break it. Then he leant right over on me to force me down on the desk, still holding my arm twisted under me. With his weight on me I couldn't move and then with his other hand he reached down and unzipped his trousers."

Fran held her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Connie, how awful!"

"Go on, Connie," I said.

"He was such a big powerful guy I knew I couldn't escape and my arm was hurting so much and I knew I was going to get it whether I wanted it or not, so I thought maybe he wouldn't be so rough if I played along. So I reached up with my free hand and patted and stroked his face. He sort of smiled and released my arm a bit, but he still held me down. I didn't resist when he reached up under my skirt and pulled my knickers down and then he clambered up on the desk on top of me, among all his files and papers and this big framed photo of him and his wife and kids. He came down on me and he had me, right there in his office."

Fran took Connie's hand and squeezed it. She oozed sisterly sympathy. "That must have been so horrible. Was it -- I mean, was he the -- er, were you still a --?"

"A virgin?" Connie seemed taken aback at such a suggestion. "Jeez, Fran, you haven't been listening. I told you I was eighteen, didn't I?"

"Eighteen?" echoed Fran. "But I was twenty when I first let a boy --"

"Twenty?" interrupted Connie incredulously. "Twenty?" She shook her head in astonishment. "Fran, Fran," she said, "I've really got to like you over these last few weeks but sometimes I think you're --" she paused and waved a hand vaguely at the stars above us, "from out there somewhere. Why, by the time I was twenty I must've ..."

I called the meeting to order. This was fascinating stuff, to be taken up at some later date no doubt, but we were getting sidetracked. "Connie," I reminded her, "you were telling us about this lawyer."

"Oh, yeah. Well, like I say, he had me on the desk but Fran's wrong, it wasn't horrible at all. I thought it would be wham-bam and all over in a moment but once he realised I wasn't going to scream or fight or try to get away he took it quite slow, almost tender, like he was expecting a response from me. 'Not a chance,' I wanted to tell him, but for once I had the sense to keep my mouth shut so he carried on, taking his time, shifting angle slightly to see how it felt. Then, I just couldn't help myself -- I heard myself moan and felt my insides go tense and I thought, 'Holy shit, this guy knows what he's doing!' and before I knew it I was going for it just like he was and in the end I came like a train. And after that, we used to work late several times a week if you know what I mean, and when my course finished and I stopped working there he gave me a bonus of two weeks' wages."

"The pig!" said Fran indignantly. "I hope you threw it in his face."

Connie seemed unable to respond to this directly. Instead she turned to me for clarification. "James, Fran is kidding, isn't she? Sometimes I can't tell with these brainy types."

"I think you'll find," I said, "that she's dead serious."

"In that case," said Connie, pointing skyward once more, "she's definitely from Planet Zog. Anyway, what I'd like to know, and I've wondered about this a few times over the years, is when Gus had me that first time, was it rape? Legally, I mean."

I pondered her question. It raised nice issues about the exact nature of consent and what Gus thought was going on at the time. I was about to suggest that she should have asked him when she had the chance -- he was a lawyer after all -- when Fran cut in. 

She was clearly poised in some awkward halfway house between appalled and amused. "Constance Amoah," she scolded, "that's the most disgraceful story I've ever heard! How could you go with him after he'd forced himself on you like that? How could you take money from him? Have you no morals at all?"

Connie matter-of-factly answered these questions in the order put: "He was a good fuck. I was skint. I guess not."

From the back of Fran's throat there emerged an outraged Scotch noise that defies transliteration.

Sensing the reproof, Connie refined her position. "Well, okay," she conceded. "Maybe I have got some morals. I don't steal things and I wouldn't kill anybody. But I don't see what morals have got to do with fucking."

"And what do you think," demanded Fran, "the world would be like if we all lived by your rules?"

Connie thought about it for a second. "Well," she shrugged, "everybody'd get laid a lot more, I guess."

"That would never do, would it?" I said, taking her arm and drawing her close to me. I had fully recovered from my exertions by now, and all this talk about sex had my cock swelling nicely. I was hungry for the both of them, right there on George's lawn, Connie first and then Fran. With Connie I had to hold something back, but I really let Fran have it. 

I had not thought about it before, but whenever Fran showed signs of getting on her high moral horse, which in spite of all that had happened she still had a rather endearing tendency to do, I would feel this overwhelming urge to knock her off it by giving her a right royal fucking, which is certainly what she got under the stars that night. I was getting to know her well enough to be able to play with her, bringing her to the edge of orgasm without pushing her over. She had been kissing and cuddling me while I fucked Connie so she was well warmed up and she came as soon as I climbed on top and entered her, but when I had worked her up almost to another climax I slowed the rhythm and thrust less deeply and she teetered on the brink, exquisitely poised. Her breath was coming in tiny irregular pants as she gasped out, "J-J-James, p-please, I I...". Still toying with her, I speeded up ever so slightly so as to bring her tantalisingly to the very edge, but then, even as she gulped in lungfuls of air for the explosion she thought must come, I slowed things all the way down so that I was simply sliding gently in and out of her.

Her breath was coming in slow deep draughts now and she could speak once more. She was smiling but tears were running down her face. "James, you're so cruel. You're such a horrible cruel man." She raised her fists and playfully drummed me on the chest, then put her arms around my head and kissed me passionately. Unbidden by my conscious mind my thrusting began to accelerate. 

I suddenly became aware that Connie was watching us excitedly, her face close to ours. "Attagirl, Fran," she whispered. "Great move. You've got him going now." Thus encouraged, Fran kissed me even deeper than before and it was only with superhuman willpower that I managed to assert control and slow my movements right down again. "That's it, James," hissed Connie. "Don't let this red-headed harpy hustle you. Show her who's boss." Fran gave a suppressed snigger at these interruptions, but held the kiss. My cock was desperate to pound away and as I struggled to restrain it I was beginning to feel the same exquisite agony of suspense I had inflicted on her. She knew it, too; maintaining the suction of the kiss and exploring ever farther with her tongue, through her nose she drew in deep lungfuls of air that forced her diaphragm down so as to press her lower body further onto my cock. She breathed out as far as she could; then in again, even deeper, setting up her own slow rhythm in competition with mine. She knew that she was winning the struggle, that little by little I was losing the control I had somehow managed to assert. 

(All the time Connie was gleefully egging us on, whispering advice and encouragement first to one and then the other. "Thanks for your help," I told her sarcastically later. "Yes," agreed Fran; "whose side were you on, anyway?" "No one's side," said Connie indifferently. "I just like to see a good even fight.")

And suddenly all restraint gave way and I was bucking frenziedly up and down as I drilled my cock as far into Fran as I could only to withdraw it almost totally and ram it in again. For as long as she could she held my head so she could maintain the kiss but then she had to release me so she could gulp in air through her mouth as my pounding became even faster. An enormous smile of ecstasy alloyed with triumph spread across her face, then she shook violently and as huge wads of spunk flooded into her she climaxed with a massive cathartic cry that must have been audible well beyond the confines of George's grounds.

Afterwards the three of us lay on our backs side by side, staring up at the stars. The girls' silence had nothing to do with post-coital trance; Fran and Connie had had so much of me by now that it affected them for only a few minutes, if at all, so they could have spoken if they wanted. 

But no one did. Long minutes passed, marked only by the sound of our breathing and barely audible night noises. As I gazed into the night sky an awareness swept over me of the unimaginable vastness of space and I seemed no longer to be lying on my back in a Surrey garden but to be travelling through the infinite void, lost among the stars, overwhelmed by the sense of my own tininess and insignificance. 

And there was a kind of raptness about Fran's breathing that told me her state of mind was similar: that she too was in some far place, deep in awe and wonder. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a profound feeling that in some mysterious way she and I were together, not in the way that partners in a mere sexual union are together but in a sense that was purer and far more complete, as if we were exploring some transcendent realm and were poised on the brink of finding some more perfect state of oneness. 

"God, I love to fuck!" announced Connie suddenly, for the second time that evening blasting a fragile moment to smithereens and bringing Fran and me back to earth with the rudest of bumps. 

We were still laughing when somewhere far off a clock struck twelve. 

"Happy birthday, darling," said Fran.

I was fifty.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 40



XL

"I have to see Miss Smith"

It was my birthday and I wanted to enjoy it. I had worked very hard the day before, and I felt entitled to reward myself. I was going to have a nice, easy, relaxing day fucking whom I chose when I chose, with no conveyer belt, no rotas, and no surprises.

Things never work out as we plan them.

I had slept in the main bedroom with Florence and Kylie, who had arrived the evening before and who both, I felt, needed my attention. Florence had evidently been obeying my orders to eat; she was noticeably bigger and her monster of a bra was beginning to pinch her most uncomfortably. She looked much more at ease wandering the house naked, and the sheer size of her tits drew fascinated looks from the other girls. 

As for other sleeping arrangements, I noticed that a certain pecking order, based on seniority, had tacitly asserted itself. Wendy came top, of course. As a much older woman than the others, as the chief organiser, and above all as my wife, she was treated with due respect by all the other girls. This was only to be expected, but I also noticed that the earlier recruits to my harem seemed to assume, and were generally accorded, a degree of priority. Fran was the head of this group but Connie, Gabby, Alicia and even Kylie found themselves deferred to and took advantage to claim the best sleeping quarters in the twins' rooms and the three guest bedrooms. With much bed-sharing about a dozen girls slept in relative comfort leaving all the others to find what resting-places they could in a variety of chairs, sofas, sleeping bags and, if all else failed, blankets on the floor.

Wendy exempted herself from the general rule of nakedness, either because of her status as my wife or because, as a woman in her forties, albeit looking very good for her age, she could not compete with the more youthful flesh displayed elsewhere. She wore a light summery frock well suited to a weekend in the country. Going clothed was her idea, not mine, but I decided not to interfere.

After breakfast in bed and a refreshing shower, I turned my attention first to the twins then to Elspeth and Yvonne, all of whom I wanted to thank for their efforts the day before. I had just carried the latter two off to recover and was relaxing with a cup of tea before inviting Gina and another (perhaps Olga, I thought) to join me. After that I might go downstairs and chat with a few girls and try to put a few names and personalities to the fleeting faces I remembered from yesterday. It was at this juncture, when I was feeling thoroughly smug and self-satisfied, that Fran rushed in with a look of alarm on her face and, what worried me even more, a handful of clothing. As she struggled into it she told me breathlessly there was a mystery woman outside. At that moment the doorbell rang.

Laura, for it was of course she, waited at the door with growing unease. Ever since she had arrived at her mother's house the night before, she had been haunted by a fear that she was about to make a monumental idiot of herself. Her mother had asked shrewd questions about her sudden decision to visit and Laura, feeling that it was impossible to explain the situation to anyone else, had been obliged to give vague and evasive replies. In the morning as she sat in her car in the driveway of her mother's house she seriously thought for a moment of giving the whole thing up and going straight back to Cambridge. 

But the thought that she might thereby pass up a unique opportunity to discover what on earth was going on was even harder to bear than the prospect of making herself look foolish. "And there is something going on," she said aloud. "I know it." So she turned right instead of left and headed into deepest Surrey. 

As Laura drove she reviewed the situation. That Elspeth was seeing an unsuitable man and lying about it she knew for sure, but by itself that was none of her business and would certainly not have brought her all this way to investigate. What was so disturbing about it was the way Elspeth's manner had changed in ways that were too sudden and dramatic for normal explanation. At the least, the girl must be on drugs of some kind, but she had never seen or heard of symptoms like these. And there was more to it even than that; Elspeth's responses to questioning had been not merely evasive but peculiar, as if she herself were confused. Laura's best guess, at this point, was that Elspeth had got mixed up with some cult, was probably in thrall to its charismatic leader, and was taking some sort of drugs it supplied to devotees. She was far from satisfied with this theory, which left far too much unexplained (Elspeth did not remotely fit the personality profile for involvement in cults. Why would such an organisation use the house of a leading City banker? What had caused Elspeth's sudden academic brilliance?). But for the moment she could come up with nothing better.

Laura was backing her instinct, too, her emotional intelligence. She did not share the disdain felt by most of her academic colleagues for "female intuition". She thought in its way it was every bit as valid and useful as more formal reasoning; the latter had the merit of producing definable and provable results but was (as she argued in her book) limited to matters that could be reduced to mathematics or very formal language. But women had a sensitivity to subtleties of expression and behaviour far too fine to be expressed in words; they should, she argued, show more confidence in this valuable aptitude and make more use of it. So this morning, she was following not only her intuition but her own advice.

She little knew where they would lead her. 

When she reached the house she was disappointed to find that it lay at the end of a long drive. She stopped outside the gateway (there was no actual gate) and pondered what to do. Her hope had been that some activity would have been evident that was either so reassuring that she could drive off unnoticed or so alarming that she would be justified in taking some definite action such as calling the police. But there was nothing; all she could see was the house at the far end of the drive and a few cars parked in front of it. The green one looked like Elspeth's, but from this distance she could not be sure.

She did not want to enter the premises. She was terrified that Elspeth would suddenly appear with some totally innocent explanation of all that had been going on. How then would Laura explain herself? It would be bad enough being seen on the public highway: "Hello, Elspeth, what a coincidence! I just happened to be driving by." It would be a tough sell, but maybe she could get away with it. But, "Hello, Elspeth, I was just going for a quiet drive into the grounds of this private house," was hardly practical politics. 

Nevertheless Laura, having come so far, could not back off now. Heart in mouth, she drove slowly through the gateway and up to the house. The front door was closed and, oddly on a lovely summer's day, the curtains of all the downstairs windows were drawn. There seemed to be no one about. Cautiously she got out and walked over to the green car. She could not be certain, since Elspeth's registration number was one of the few things she did not have in her head, but the car certainly looked like Elspeth's and it had a Cambridge City parking permit in the windscreen.

Laura peered at the car, then at the house. Suddenly she thought she caught the faint sound of girlish laughter. She approached the front door and listened intently. Were those voices, female voices, she could hear? 

At this moment Fran, happening to pass the upstairs window and idly glancing out, was horrified to see an unfamiliar car outside. Warily approaching the window, she saw an unknown woman by the front door, standing very still, possibly listening for something. Fran grabbed her clothes and ran to find Wendy and me.

Laura had reached a decision. She had to come up with an excuse to ring the doorbell. The best she could think of was that her car had overheated and she needed water. Even now she hesitated a moment at the door. Yes, she was sure of it now; she could hear women's voices from inside. She rang the bell.

In the house the atmosphere was one of stealthy panic. Fran and I were hastily dressing in case we needed to confront this unwanted visitor; meanwhile Connie and Gabby were despatched to tell all the other girls to be quiet and to keep to the back of the house. I wished the twins were available, in case this was some friend or neighbour they would be able to get rid of, but they were in Simone's bedroom recovering from their recent fuck. Maybe, I thought, if we stayed quiet and kept our heads down the caller would go away. Wendy, Fran and I crept to the upstairs window and watched cautiously. At first we could see nothing of Laura but the top of her head, but then, tired of waiting, she stepped back a few paces and I got a better view of her.

Even then it took me a moment or two to associate the face I saw with the pictures on her website and the cover of her book. When the penny dropped, I almost followed its example. Reeling in horror I turned to the others. "It's Dr Stone!" I hissed. "What the hell's she doing here?"

I had told Wendy about Laura Stone after Elspeth's visit earlier in the week and now in hushed urgent whispers I updated Connie (who had crept up to see what was going on) and Fran. Their eyes widened in alarm. I sent the still-naked Connie to get dressed and the rest of us crouched at the window as Laura took another good look at Elspeth's car and paced up and down in front of the house.

She was, in fact, in an agony of indecision. She felt in her bones that the house was occupied; there were cars outside, and she had heard voices (although they seemed to have stopped now). If it was all innocent, why did no one answer? And yet, and yet, what if there were some humdrum explanation after all? It was a beautiful morning; maybe the occupants had simply gone out for a walk. Maybe the voices were a radio carelessly left on. Maybe she, Dr Laura Stone, had got herself all worked up over nothing and was about to cover herself in ignominy. But the drawn curtains troubled her; who would do that on a day like this? She walked up to the door and rang the bell, twice this time.

Her persistence was enough to convince me that she had more concrete grounds for suspicion than was in fact the case. I decided that Wendy and Fran would have to answer the door and get rid of her. I needed to stay in touch so I borrowed Fran's cellphone and dialled my own number, having put my phone on vibrate. Wendy then answered my phone and put it in her pocket so I could listen on the open line as she and Fran went downstairs and answered the door.

Laura was well on the way to persuading herself that the house was unoccupied after all, so the sudden opening of the door caught her by surprise. She quickly gathered herself and at a rapid glance took in the two women standing before her. She had hardly known what to expect -- outlandish figures in druidical robes, perhaps -- but she found herself confronted by a middle-aged woman with shortish dark hair and, standing somewhat behind, a much younger, very attractive redhead. They both looked entirely normal and respectable, but maybe slightly nervous, as if on their guard.

Laura had decided on boldness. "Hello," she said confidently. "I'm Dr Laura Stone, from Cambridge University."

Wendy was not to be out-bolded. "Hello," she replied with equal assurance, extending her hand. "I'm Mrs Wendy Walker." 

Laura was determined to get inside the house. Advancing to shake Wendy's hand, she kept up the momentum and was stepping into the hall even as she asked, "May I come in, please?"

The suddenness of this move took Wendy by surprise but she tried to stay on the front foot. "What can I do for you, Dr Stone?"

"I believe a student of mine, a Miss Smith, Miss Elspeth Smith, is here," said Laura. "I'd like to speak to her, please."

Wendy dared not deny that Elspeth was on the premises since Laura had obviously seen her car outside, but she could hardly admit the girl was fucked into oblivion upstairs. She decided attack was the best form of defence. "It's a long way to come just to see a student, isn't it, Dr Stone?" she asked.

It was a good question. A lesser woman might have been deflected by it, but not Laura. "It's very urgent," she said brusquely. "Please let her know I'm here, Mrs Walker."

Listening upstairs in mounting alarm, I still managed to marvel at the incredible formality and politeness of this conversation.

Fran made a clumsy attempt to intervene. "Would you like a cup of tea, Dr Stone?"

This blatant attempt to stall her served only to goad Laura into even greater insistence, but she remained frigidly correct. "No, thank you. I'd like to see Miss Smith, please, now."

It occurred to Wendy that she could use the conventions of polite society to gain a few seconds' respite in which to think of some way to deal with this formidable woman. "Dear me, my manners," she reproved herself with an attempt at a relaxed smile. "Dr Laura Stone, Miss Frances Stewart." (It was only later, when we reviewed these events, that it struck us what utter folly it had been to volunteer our real names.)

Laura fumed inwardly as she was obliged to shake Fran by the hand. "Dr Stone", said Fran respectfully. "Miss Stewart," responded Laura frostily. The brief exchange gave Wendy long enough to decide that if this woman felt able to turn up at a strange house and barge in without a proper explanation, then she, Wendy, was also able to take up an unreasonable position and stick to it.

"Dr Stone," she announced firmly, "I'm afraid it's not convenient for you to see Miss Smith just now. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you back at Cambridge. I'll let her know you called. So nice to have met you, Dr Stone." She made an optimistic move as if to usher Laura to the door.

But Laura was not an easy woman to fob off. Besides, she was now convinced that something sinister was going on. "I'm sorry, Mrs Walker, but I've come a long way and I have to see Miss Smith urgently. I must insist."

Wendy had her back to the wall now. This woman was unstoppable. "I'm sorry, it's not possible," she said.

"What do you mean, 'not possible', Mrs Walker?" demanded Laura. "Why can't I see her? Is she ill?"

"She's indisposed," said Wendy desperately.

"Fine," said Laura. "You won't mind if I just satisfy myself of that." She took a stride toward one of the firmly closed doors that led to the rest of the house. Wendy and Fran moved to block her path.

Upstairs I had not been idle. As soon as it became obvious that Laura would not be easily got rid of I had hurried to Vicky's room where Elspeth and Yvonne were recovering. Unceremoniously hoisting Yvonne, fortunately not one of my heavier girls, over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and still holding the phone to my ear with my other hand, I carried her to the main bedroom. At the same time I told Connie to put Elspeth in Vicky's bed, as opposed to sprawled on top of it, so that her nakedness would be decently covered and the spunk oozing out of her would be concealed. Then I shut all the bedroom doors, except Vicky's, and hurried down the narrow rear staircase I had noticed when I checked the place out on Thursday (its original purpose, in an old house like this, would have been to allow the servants to pass unobtrusively between floors). It was as I entered the garden that I heard Laura expressing her determination to see Elspeth's condition for herself. Fearing that Wendy might feel obliged to try to stop her by force, I whistled shrilly into the phone.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 41



XLI

A well elaborated delusion

In the hall there was a fairly tense stand-off in progress. Wendy, hearing the whistle and grateful for any interruption, pulled the phone from her pocket. "Excuse me a moment, please, Dr Stone," she said, but the courtesy of these words was belied by the determined way she stood her ground and the fierce glare that wordlessly said, "Don't even think about using this diversion to get past me."

Laura paused. Even she was not immune from the strange but universal rule that someone engaged in a telephone conversation may on no account be disturbed or interrupted.

"Hello," said Wendy into the phone.

"Wendy, darling," I said, "you've done everything you can. Let her have her way. Take her upstairs to see Elspeth. She's in Vicky's room. I'm in the garden. Oh, and put the phone on loudspeaker so I can join in the conversation, it's not fair to leave you alone to deal with this termagant."

It was all very well for me to call Laura names, because she was seriously getting on my nerves by now, but I was also conscious that she was a beautiful woman, even more so, by what little I had seen from the window, than the pictures of her suggested; moreover, she had obvious qualities of intelligence and determination that I should normally (were they not being so ruthlessly employed against me) find highly attractive. In short, I had little doubt that FUCK would work its magic if I met her face to face. This, I thought, gave me an insurance policy, but meanwhile I wanted to stay well away from her because I still had hopes, admittedly not high ones, that if she were permitted to see Elspeth she would go away.

Laura, Wendy and Fran entered Vicky's bedroom just as Connie finished rearranging Elspeth in the bed. "Here she is," I heard Wendy announce.

Laura gave an audible gasp of shock and dismay. "Elspeth? Elspeth?" she said quietly. "It's me, Laura Stone." There was, of course, no response, and Laura's next words were angry ones, addressed to Wendy. "What have you done to her?" she demanded.

"She's fine. Really," said Wendy in a vain attempt at reassurance.

"She's drugged out of her mind on something," said Laura (not a bad guess actually). "I'm going the police if you don't tell me what you've pumped into her, and I'll -- yes, young lady, what's so funny?"

Connie had failed to suppress a snigger at Laura's unwittingly apt choice of words. "Nothing, nothing. Sorry," she said hastily.

Laura leant over Elspeth to examine her more closely. "I've never seen anything like this," she muttered. Then she stood up and spoke in peremptory tones: "Mrs Walker, there are laws in this country. Tell me what you've done to her or I'm calling the authorities right now."

It was time for me to intervene. "Ask her yourself," I said. "She'll be right as rain in an hour or two."

There was a pause as Laura looked round for the origin of this new voice. Then she saw the phone, which Wendy had placed prominently on the dressing-table. "Who's this?" she demanded.

"I'm Wendy's husband, James. Hello, Dr Stone. You're welcome to wait till Elspeth recovers, then you can talk to her as much as you like."

"I don't just want to talk to her. I don't know what you've got going on here, but I'm taking her away. I'm not letting you keep her here like this."

"Who's keeping her?" I asked. "She's here by her own choice. She's free to leave any time she likes."

"Are you telling me, Mr Walker," asked Laura angrily, "that I can take her away with me? It's as simple as that?"

"Yes, of course, if she wants to go. What do you think is going on here, Dr Stone? It isn't a prison."

"I don't know what it is," said Laura, "but it stinks. As soon as I get Elspeth safely away from here I'm going to have the authorities down on you like a ton of bricks."

"Would you like to wait here, Dr Stone," asked Wendy courteously, "or down in the hall?"

"I'll wait here," said Laura firmly. "Elspeth, Elspeth," she said more gently. "You poor kid. What have they done to you?"

I cut in again. I had come to a decision. What little hope I had entertained of getting rid of this woman had now vanished. There was nothing for it but to capture her. But before I did, I was curious to see what she would make of my little set-up, while her mind was still unaffected by FUCK. 

"You'd love to know, wouldn't you?" I asked.

"I'm going to find out," she replied with decision. "I'm going to get to the bottom of it and then I'm putting a stop to it."

"All right," I said. "If you're that keen to know, I'll tell you."

And I did. I told her about the serum, the power it had given me, the deliberate and accidental capture of dozens of women. Her reaction surprised me. I had expected the same scepticism that I had got from Fran that day in the office, but instead she seemed to accept the whole thing. Then I realised she was humouring me.

"Well, James," she said when I had finished (and I noted that she was calling me uninvited by my first name and in a distinctly patronising manner), "I certainly must congratulate you. That's one of the best elaborated delusions I've heard for a long time."

"So that's all it is, is it?"

"Please," she said; "I've written papers on this sort of thing."

"Then how do you account for Wendy, and Fran and the others?"

"Well," she said, "I agree it's a little surprising you've got these women to go along with you, but there are plenty of cases on record where an attractive, charismatic man has managed to draw apparently quite sensible and level-headed women into his fantasy world. But it doesn't alter the fact that it's a delusion. It would be quite amusing if not for its effect on women's lives."

I decided that two could play the humouring game, and the first-name game. "You certainly seem to have it all worked out, Laura," I told her.

"I have," she said complacently.

"All right," I said. "Wendy, I think perhaps Laura would like to see the rest of my delusion. Let's show her what's going on here. Take the phone off loudspeaker a moment, please, darling, and pass me to Fran, if she's there."

I told Fran that she and Connie should go downstairs and tell the rest of the girls to relax, the emergency was over, they should go back to whatever they had been doing before the interruption. If a woman with clothes happened to pass by they were to pay her no attention even if they recognised her (as many presumably would) but if she spoke to them they were to answer frankly.

So Laura, led by Wendy and with Fran and Connie tagging along, undertook her tour. I listened in to begin with, but after a few initial comments Laura lapsed into almost complete silence, so I turned to other matters. Wendy took the tour slowly, so that Laura stayed a considerable time in each room and had ample time to take in whatever was happening before she moved on.

First they attended the library, where activities were relatively decorous. Until Laura's arrival at the house Wendy, with Alicia's assistance, had been running an impromptu deportment class for a few girls, and now Alicia was carrying on alone. Although remarkable in that teacher and pupils were wearing nothing except high-heeled sandals, this was a quiet, orderly scene punctuated only by the occasional thump as some valuable volume borrowed from George's shelves fell from a girl's head. Laura, who took pride in her appearance, felt she was actually picking up some useful points for bearing herself as she watched the girls practise. But she was surprised there were so many girls here (six, including Alicia) and that they were all so young and pretty; moreover some of them were vaguely familiar from Cambridge. This James man is clearly mad, she thought, but he must be dangerously charismatic.

"Is that it?" she asked eventually.

"Oh, no," Wendy assured her. "That's only the start."

They passed into the drawing room, which housed George's immense (of course) plasma-screen (of course) television. Laura suppressed a shudder of distaste as she saw the hardcore pornography on the screen. It was Connie, inevitably, that had decided that the weekend would be enlivened by a stock of triple-X multiple-penetration DVDs and these had found a ready audience; there must have been ten or a dozen naked girls dotted around the room, all utterly fascinated, several feeling themselves suggestively. Laura recognised among them more faces she had seen around Cambridge, and was shocked that young women would watch this material. It did not need an expert psychologist like her to know that the normal female reaction to this sort of thing was indifference at best, and much more often disgust. How could these girls lap it up? She spent some time vainly scrutinising them for any possible clue until her eye was caught by one particular activity on the screen that repelled her so much she had to move on.

The dining room, however, was hardly an improvement. There were even more girls here, about fifteen, and one of them, a buxom black woman a little older than the others (this was Gina) was standing on the sturdy oak table giving a talk describing, in unsparing detail, exactly how a girl goes about pleasing a man. Entirely naked, she held a large black dildo with which she demonstrated, on herself, various possible moves and explained their advantages and disadvantages (strictly from the point of view of the man). She held her audience spellbound. 

After a while she put the dildo aside. "Now," she explained, "what we really need here is Jim. But he's busy," she smiled, and the girls laughed as from the garden there came the distinct sound of a massive female orgasm, "so you'll have to make do with me." With that she rummaged in her holdall and emerged with an even bigger dildo, this one of the strap-on variety. She put it on and announced, thrusting it proudly forward, "Right, I'm the man. Who wants to come up here and be the girl?" Every girl in class raised her hand. 

Laura watched in fascinated horror and revulsion as a student called Penny, whom she knew to say hello to, was plucked randomly from the audience and quickly and skilfully steered through a succession of gross sexual acts during which every possible hole was penetrated and throughout which Gina maintained a non-stop commentary, pointing out good moves and bad moves and offering all manner of suggestions and handy hints. It was a veritable fucking masterclass.

Finally the smiling and sweating Gina sent Penny back to her place and announced, "Right, that's one-girl. But often guys want two girls; then we have to work together. Any volunteers?" Again a forest of hands went up. As Gina picked out a couple of girls, Laura decided she had seen enough, and the tour proceeded to the sitting room. Here, at least, nothing disgusting was going on; naked girls were simply draped lazily around the room, chatting and laughing, drinking wine or eating fruit, or merely gazing blankly into space with blissed-out smiles. Laura relaxed a little, dully asking Wendy whether this completed the full stock of women.

"I think a few have wandered out in the grounds," said Wendy, "but otherwise, yes, that's the lot."

Looking round, Laura saw those idiot Marjoribanks twins giggling together on the sofa; she knew them from Cambridge, of course, but she could never remember their first names nor, for that matter, could she tell them apart. Then she was shocked to see a much more familiar face.

"Kathryn!" she exclaimed. "Kathryn Hayward! What are you doing here?" 

It was at this moment, back in the garden, that I happened to tune in again. I had been otherwise engaged for some time. It had been obvious from an early stage that the tour would be very boring to follow by phone, and besides I had a raging erection as it must have been almost two hours since my last fuck and after what I had got used to the day before this seemed an unduly protracted abstention. I was not sure which girl I wanted -- any would do, let me be frank -- so I took pot luck and waited behind a hedge, reckoning that on such a lovely day it would not be long before someone took a walk in this direction.

Only a few minutes passed before I heard approaching voices, then Olga, the blonde Estonian goddess, hove into view talking with a pretty student with shoulder-length brown hair whose face I vaguely remembered from yesterday. It was good, I thought, to see girls from such different backgrounds getting on so well. They were surprised to see me but, of course, delighted. 

Considering that I had given her the fuck of her life the day before and that she now loved me with utter devotion, I thought the brunette might be offended that I had to ask her name. But not a bit of it; she told me it was Megan and added sympathetically, "Poor James, it's so good and generous of you to see so many of us. It must be so very difficult for you."

"It's tough work, but very satisfying," I told her, and got down to some daylight open-air fucking to complement my nocturnal activities in much the same spot with Fran and Connie. I took Olga first so that I could really let myself go with Megan. It was her cries of ecstasy that interrupted Gina's lecture.

It was as I sat between their prone bodies that I picked up the phone in time to hear Laura's surprise at seeing Kathryn. Laura was, in fact, almost kicking herself at her failure up to this point to connect Kathryn's lovesickness with what was happening to Elspeth. This vital clue had been right under her nose and she had failed to realise its significance. 

"Hi, Laura," said Kathryn with a casual wave.

"What are you doing here?" repeated Laura.

Kathryn looked hesitant. "Answer freely, dear," encouraged Wendy.

Kathryn rolled her eyes and let out a sigh that started at the soles of her feet and got stronger all the way up. "James," she breathed.

"That libidinous man of mine," said Wendy, shaking her head but smiling.

Laura ignored this and focused on Kathryn. "You mean this man just summoned you here to, er, make love?"

"To fuck," corrected Kathryn cheerfully. "He brought me here to fuck."

"I can't believe it," said Laura quietly, more to herself than anyone. She sounded subdued, almost crushed, certainly a little scared. Then she turned to Wendy, not angrily now, but almost pleadingly. "But you, Mrs Walker --"

"Wendy," said Wendy.

"All right, Wendy. You seem like a sensible, balanced sort of person. How can you let this go on? How can you be so blasé? You must know it's all wrong."

"I know nothing of the sort," replied Wendy firmly. Then she continued in more sympathetic tones, "Laura, I know this must be very hard for you to understand, but none of the women in this house, me included, would have it any other way. Since my darling James acquired his -- well, gift -- my life has changed out of all recognition, and all for the better. My only regret is that it didn't happen years ago."

"You're not telling me," said Laura hotly, her spirit returning, "that if someone had offered you this life before it happened, you'd have wanted it."

"Oddly enough," Wendy replied, "James himself asked me something like that the other day, and I'll tell you the same as I told him. You're right. I shouldn't have wanted it because --"

"Ah!" cried Laura.

"Wait, hear me out. I shouldn't have wanted it because I could never have imagined what it would really be like. I never dreamt anyone could be as happy and fulfilled as I've become these last few weeks. And if I'd known that, if I'd really understood what it could do for me, then yes, of course I'd have wanted it. Anyone would."

"Not me," said Laura in horror. "You've given up self-respect, free will, everything that matters, everything that makes you a real person."

Wendy was plainly affronted at not being considered a real person. "Rubbish", she snapped. "What do you think is happening, Laura? Do you think there's some different 'me', buried away inside somewhere, that's being held prisoner by the serum? That's not how it works. I'm still the same 'me'; that's the only 'me' there is. And I've still got my free will."

"But the serum's controlling you, it's changing how you feel and what you think."

"Tell her, Fran," said Wendy. "Tell her your Law."

"Laura," explained Fran, "these feelings we have, we know they're caused by the serum, but that doesn't mean they're not real feelings."

"But can't you see?" implored Laura. "It's changed you, it's made you different."

"Of course it has," agreed Fran calmly. "But so do lots of things in life change us, make us different. The thing about the serum is that the changes are so positive."

"Positive?" echoed Laura in disbelief. "They're appalling."

"Listen, Laura," said Wendy. "Let me tell you some not very ancient history. The difference between 'me' now and 'me' a month ago isn't that we're different people; it's that I was miserable then and now I'm not. I was fed up with James and thinking of divorcing him even though I knew I'd be just as unhappy without him as I was with him, and lonely to boot. What sort of life was that?"

"A free one," said Laura firmly.

"A free miserable one," said Wendy. "And now I've got a free happy one. Which would you rather?"

"This is grotesque," declared Laura. "I'm not bandying words with you any longer. I'm taking my student and I'm leaving you to your 'free happy life'. It's one of subservience to a sexual monster."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," said Wendy.

"May I please see Elspeth now?" asked Laura with exaggerated politeness.

"I should think she's taking notice by this time," replied Wendy. "Let's go and find out."



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 42



XLII

The teacher taught

They found Elspeth sitting up in bed, bare-breasted but not caring, looking dazed but definitely conscious, and radiantly happy. Laura ran up to her and grasped her hand. "Elspeth, are you all right?"

Elspeth appeared to have trouble focusing on this difficult question. She blinked. "Laura? So it was you earlier?"

"Yes, I was in here before but I didn't think you were awake."

"I was. I could hear you but I couldn't move or speak, I just felt so lovely all over. I thought you must have been an hallucination of some kind. How on earth did you get here, Laura? Are you one of the girls now?"

Laura uttered a wordless cry of horror at the very suggestion. "No, of course I'm not!" she declared. "I'm here to rescue you from this awful place. Get dressed and we'll leave now. Then I'll get the law on these people."

Elspeth laughed. "Laura, this isn't like you. Don't be silly. I don't need rescuing."

"Elspeth, you're not thinking straight. Look at you. You're eyes aren't focused, you're grinning like an idiot, can't you see what they've done to you?"

Elspeth really wanted nothing more than to sit back and savour the feelings of well-fucked satisfaction still washing over her, but it was obvious Laura would not leave her alone unless she pulled herself together and proved she knew what she was doing.

"Look, Laura," she said in a much firmer voice, "there's nothing wrong with me except I've had an amazing fuck. You don't know what it's like, I've got this lovely warm tingle all over my body and I feel so alive. It's wonderful, Laura, you've just no idea how wonderful."

"Not wonderful enough to lose your brain for."

"I haven't lost my brain."

"Maybe I'm the better judge of that."

Elspeth was beginning to get annoyed now. "Laura, why can't you just accept what I'm telling you?"

Laura's reply was evidently a quote – from where, I had no idea, but in all the circumstances it was brilliantly apt. "Scepticism," she said, "like chastity, should not be relinquished too readily."

After the merest pause for thought Elspeth retaliated in kind. "The body is an instrument, the mind its function, the witness and reward of its operation."

Even in these slightly unusual circumstances the teacher in Laura could not forbear to cheer. "Good quote," she slightly grudgingly acknowledged. "Who was it?"

"Same as yours," said Elspeth with a touch of smugness; "George Santayana."

"I didn't know," admitted Laura.

Elspeth was beginning to enjoy herself. It was not often she got the better of Laura in this sort of discussion. "The wisest mind has yet something to learn," she said condescendingly.

Laura sounded crushed. "Santayana again," she said meekly.

I cut in. "Well, Laura, if we've established that Elspeth is still in possession of her brain, do you think she can be permitted to stay here if she wishes? Nice quotes, by the way," I felt obliged to add, since I admire learning and had been highly impressed by these exchanges.

"Fascinating," agreed Fran. "Who is this man George San–?" 

Fran's inquiry got no further because at this point Connie erupted. The explosion had, in fact, been brewing for some time. Since Laura's arrival Connie had conceived a steadily growing dislike for this stuck-up, interfering woman to whom everyone was being so unaccountably polite, and all through the tour she had been looking for an opening that would allow her to air her views in her customary forthright manner. But now, so far from permitting this, the conversation had soared off to lofty intellectual heights from which she felt totally excluded. She was literally grinding her teeth in frustration and rage, and so far as she was concerned these expressions of approval from Fran and me were the last straw.

"Jeez-us fucking Christ!" she exclaimed. "I don't know why James plays along with you brainy types! It gets right on my tits. Fran, this is just like that bloody stupid argument you had with him, remember? What a waste of time that was! Let's just tell Madam Nosy-Parker here to piss off back where she came from so we can get back down and dirty with James."

Laura was not the woman to be deterred by this sort of interruption. "Thank you for that helpful intervention," she said disdainfully. "But I'm not going anywhere until I've got to the bottom of what's going on here." 

"What's the big mystery?" demanded Connie. "We all fancy James like mad. So we fuck him. That's all there is to it. The only mystery is how people that are supposed to be brainy can make such hard work out of something that's so … fucking … simple!" (She pronounced the final three words with a rising intonation and very slowly, as if each were a sentence by itself.) 

"It's not intelligence, Connie," I told her. "It's education."

"Is it?" said Connie, still fuming. "Well, if that's what it does for you I'm glad I ain't got it."

Laura was shocked. This statement went against everything she believed in. "That's a dreadful thing to say," she said.

Fran unexpectedly came to Connie's support. "No, Laura, she's got a point."

Laura turned on this new adversary. "You don't mean that. You seem like an educated person –"

"BA with Honours from St Andrews last summer," said Fran.

St Andrews University, Fran had once proudly told me, was chartered in 1413 by a bull of Pope Benedict XIII. This means it has been around long enough for even Cambridge to take notice of it. When Laura resumed it was evidently with a little more respect for Fran. "Well then," she asked, "are you saying you wish you hadn't had that education?"

"Well, no, of course not," conceded Fran, "but I've come to realise it sometimes makes me think too much and worry too much and lose sight of what really matters. Connie never does. You heard what she said: 'We all fancy James like mad. So we fuck him.' That's Connie for you. While people like you and me get involved in grand debates and analyse everything endlessly, she decides what she wants and just goes for it, and she's all the happier for it. And a better person, too," she added graciously.

Connie sounded genuinely touched. "Gee, thanks, Fran. You're okay yourself, especially now that James has, er –"

"Corrupted me a bit?" suggested Fran.

"Well, come on, Fran honey," urged Connie. "You gotta admit it needed doing."

I felt I was not entitled to all the credit. "Well, Connie, I think you gave the process a bit of a helping hand along the way," I said.

"Sure I did," agreed Connie. "It was fun."

"Well, I'm sure I'm very much obliged to the both of you," said Fran, getting embarrassed now. "But the point is, Laura," she went on, returning to the issue at hand, "when the serum first affected me I almost went out of my mind with desire for James. I wanted to marry him."

Wendy was startled. Neither Fran nor I had ever got round to telling her about this. "What, my husband? Fran, I'm surprised at you. You shameless hussy," she scolded with a smile.

"Don't worry," Fran assured her. "He was very loyal. We ended up having this preposterous argument Connie was talking about, but she's wrong. This isn't the same. I was already affected by the serum and I wanted and needed James more than anything, and there was no way he could persuade me otherwise. And believe me, he tried. But Laura's different. She's not under the influence yet. You're free to go, Laura. But," she added, "you're a fool if you do."

This final comment so appalled Laura that for a moment she struggled for utterance. "What do you mean?" she finally managed to ask.

"She's right, Laura," chimed in Elspeth. "You heard Fran's description of herself, how she thinks so much she doesn't know what she wants. That's you, too, isn't it, Laura, only much more so?"

Laura was horrified and confused by the unexpected turn the discussion had taken. It was supposed to be about whether Elspeth was going to be one of my girls, but somehow the focus had suddenly shifted onto Laura herself. "Er – no, that's not true, I, er –" she stammered.

"It is true," insisted Elspeth. "Remember what you once said to me about sex?"

This is what comes, thought Laura grimly, of inviting a favourite student to share a few drinks in the Senior Common Room. She and Elspeth had got rather drunk together a few months ago and she was aware that by the end of the evening her remarks had become less guarded than usual. She was also acutely conscious that control of the current discussion had slipped away from her and she tried desperately to assert herself. "That was a private conversation, Elspeth, don't you think we should leave it that way?"

"You said," persisted Elspeth, undeterred, "that sex was such a silly, messy, undignified business you couldn't see why anyone got excited about it."

"I –" Laura began but Elspeth rolled over her.

"You said you'd tried it with men, you'd tried it with women, but now you couldn't be bothered with it and you hadn't done it with anyone for over a year."

I was intrigued. "Really, Laura?" I said. "That's not the impression I got from your book."

"You've read my book?" asked Laura weakly. This conversation was not going at all according to plan. She desperately needed a respite to think.

"I have," I told her, "and it gave me the impression of a vivacious, outgoing, exciting young woman, the life and soul of Cambridge social life, and very confident and forthright about her sexuality, a bit of a man-eater if anything."

"I never said that."

"Not in so many words," agreed Elspeth, "but the whole book carefully gave that impression. You knew your market. No one would have bought the book if you'd said you just sat in your room alone every night, reading."

Laura tried to defend herself. "I admit I enjoy my own company."

Connie obviously felt obliged to take some further part in the conversation, and show these academics that she too had some learning. "Not me," she interjected. "I'm more the gregorian type."

Laura was more confused than ever. What on earth was the girl talking about?

"Connie, it's gregarious," smiled Fran.

Elspeth was determined that this diversion would not let Laura off the hook. "So Laura, in view of all this, are you really saying you can't see why all these girls want to be here with James? You don't think it's got anything at all going for it compared with reading Ibsen by yourself back at Cambridge?"

"I love Ibsen."

"Answer the question, Laura," said Elspeth sternly. "Isn't there any little bit of you that wants a taste of what Wendy's got? Fran's got? I've got?"

Laura had had enough. Rather than answer this question she was ready to throw in the towel. She picked up the phone and addressed me directly. "James, you win. You can keep Elspeth. I won't interfere with your activities. Am I free to leave?" 

She clearly intended this sarcastically, but it was a good question. Could I possibly let her go, knowing what she did, relying merely on her promise to keep it to herself? 

"Laura," I told her, playing for time, "you're very attractive. If all I wanted was to capture you I could have done it hours ago."

The light suddenly dawned on Laura. "Ah, so that's what this is all about! You want to salve your conscience for ruining all these women's lives."

This got past me completely. "I'm not sure what you mean," I said lamely.

"It's obvious. If you got me to submit to you voluntarily, without the influence of your serum, you wouldn't feel like such a selfish life-destroying bastard. Well, I'm not going to give you the satisfaction, you creep."

That is the trouble with these brilliant Oxbridge psychology dons. You think you have them on the ropes and suddenly they come back at you with something like this. I had not liked the way she put it, but I had to admit to myself that fundamentally she had a point. It would hugely boost my ego, and ease what remained of my conscience, if a woman like Laura – proud, clever, independent – joined me without pheromonal encouragement. Above all, it would go a long way to prove Wendy's assertion that "any woman out there" would want what I offered if only she truly understood it. With acute perception, Laura had articulated an idea that I had been pursuing without even being conscious of it.

Now that she had kindly pointed it out, I found the notion more than attractive. But how could I achieve it? She was obviously on the point of departure and I was faced with a tricky dilemma between letting her go, which was impossibly risky, and exposing her to FUCK, which would probably mean restraining her by force. It would have to be the latter, I thought, and I had the necessary womanpower to do it, but I was repelled by the idea of having her physically held down so that I could get close enough for long enough for my pheromones to work.

I was still trying desperately to think of some other way when Laura spoke again. "Goodbye," she said. "I can't say it's been a pleasure."

Seeing no alternative, I had opened my mouth ready to order Wendy and the others to prevent her from leaving when another voice intervened. 

"Laura, wait!"

The voice was Elspeth's. She was probably the only person present for whom Laura would have so much as paused.

"James may be willing to let you go," said Elspeth, "but I'm not. Not until you answer my question. Isn't there any part of you –?"

"I remember the question," snapped Laura crossly. "Really, Elspeth, where did you learn to be so persistent?"

"I had a good teacher," replied Elspeth. "She also taught me that that kind of response is an evasion. Answer the question, Laura, now."

There was an extraordinarily long pause. I could tell that everyone was looking at Laura. No one wanted to let her off the hook on which Elspeth's stubborn questioning had impaled her. Besides, I think the others were as awed as I was by the way the pupil was becoming the teacher with every moment. After at least two minutes of dead silence Laura mumbled something, but in a voice so low that no one could hear.

"Say again," insisted Elspeth.

"Yes, yes, yes, curse you all!" shouted Laura. I thought she was about to turn tail and flee to her car, forcing me to order my girls to stop her, but instead I heard her take a deep breath and continue in carefully controlled tones indicative of acute embarrassment. "I am very sorry. It has been a difficult day but that is no excuse for such an intemperate outburst. Let me do Elspeth the courtesy of answering her question properly. 

"I admit that there is a certain interest in what James seems to be able to do, and I acknowledge –" the words were coming very slowly and hesitantly now, this was clearly very painful for her "– that it has troubled me sometimes that the physical aspect of my life is, er … I mean, compared with other people I, um…"

Elspeth helped her out. "You mean, when it comes to sex you're missing out on something good."

"Yes, if you like," admitted Laura. "So, to answer your question, there is a part of me that is drawn to this but," she went on more firmly, "there is a far bigger part that wants nothing to do with it."

"What are you frightened of?" persisted Elspeth.

"Loss of independence, loss of free will, loss of control, of course," snapped Laura.

"I haven't lost any of those things," replied Elspeth calmly.

"It's the serum that makes you think that," said Laura. "From where I'm standing, it's obvious."

"You're wrong, Laura. You're letting societal norms cloud your judgment."

This stung. In her book Laura had inveighed against women's tendency to allow themselves to be inhibited by undue respect for societal norms, like monogamy, that had outlived their usefulness.

"If only –" began Laura, and stopped.

"If only?" urged Elspeth.

"I was going to say, if only there were a temporary version of the serum so I could experience the effects but then return to normal."

I had to intervene. "I'm sorry, Laura, but so far as I know it's permanent and irreversible. It's a one-way street."

"But that's just unreasonable. It means no one can experience it without risking everything."

"Laura," I said, "this isn't a negotiating session. It works the way it works. I couldn't change it if I tried."

"But think what I'd have to give up. My career, my work –"

"Why should you give those things up?" asked Elspeth.

"I could still go on with my work?" asked Laura.

"You could do whatever you wanted," I told her.

"Ah," said Laura, "but that's the catch. I'd do whatever you wanted."

"Laura," I assured her with perfect sincerity, "I admire your work."

"So what you're saying is, you'd let me carry on with my work because you admire it."

"The way I'd put it is that your continuing with your work wouldn't displease me."

She pondered this. "But what if it one day did? Displease you, I mean. You'd make me stop."

"I shouldn't make you stop. Once you realised I didn't like it, you just wouldn't want to do it any more."

"Is that likely? That you'd become displeased about my work?"

It was my turn for a quote. "It is at best futile, and at worst immoral, to offer or solicit a binding promise about future feelings or sentiments."

"George Santa-whatsit again?" asked Wendy.

"No," replied Laura grimly. "Laura Stone. It's from my book. You're not making this easy for me, are you, James?"

"It isn't meant to be easy. I want you, Laura, with your eyes wide open."

Laura did not reply. She sat on the bed and Elspeth took her hand.

"Laura, Laura," said Elspeth softly. "Listen to me. I'm not your student, I'm your friend. You want it, Laura, you know you do. Don't be afraid."

"It's so hard," whispered Laura. "How can I see something like this and not want to know what it is?"

"Don't be afraid," repeated Elspeth. "What matters is, you're free, your mind's unaffected, and you want it."

"I want it," said Laura in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

"I'm coming into the house now, Laura," I said. "I'm about to come up the stairs and join you all in the bedroom. There's still time for you to leave."

Laura's mind was made up. "If I did I'd never know. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good girl," I said. I was on the stairs now. "I'd like you to tell me what happens, from your point of view. This is a new experience for me, too."

"Yes, I'll do that."

At the top of the stairs now, I finally disconnected Fran's phone. I did not need it any more. I appeared at the doorway of the bedroom and went in.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 43



XLIII

"An unusual birthday present"

As she heard my approach Laura stood up and faced the door with bated breath and an expression of fascinated terror on her face. But as I entered, she all but collapsed. All the air seemed to go out of her as if she had taken a haymaker in the midriff and with a kind of combined snort and chortle she sat down abruptly on the bed.

I pulled up a chair and sat near her. Very red in the face, she was gasping for air and her eyes were watering, and she avoided looking at me.

"What's the matter?" I asked in some concern.

"I'm so sorry," she said, recovering her composure somewhat. "That was very rude of me. It's just that, well, er --" She hesitated.

"Please be absolutely honest," I implored her.

"Well, I'm sorry, James, but you weren't at all what I was expecting. I thought you'd be, well, different somehow, and you're just, well --"

"Fat, bald, and fifty?" 

"I was going to say 'ordinary'. If I passed you in the street I shouldn't look at you twice. I'm sorry for the way I reacted, but to be honest, I'd built up this picture of you as so imposing and charismatic and it was just such an anticlimax."

"That's all right," I said. "I want you to be honest. Have you noticed anything else?"

"Not a thing. In fact, if you really want me to be honest, I'm beginning to think some of my students have decided to perpetrate an incredibly elaborate practical joke."

"If they had," I suggested, "they'd have found a more glamorous leading man."

"And, and ..." Laura's mind was clearly in a whirl with this idea, but then she rejected it. "A nice girl like Penny would never have demeaned herself like that, just for a hoax. It must really be true, but I don't feel anything."

"You wouldn't expect to. It takes a few minutes to work. Just keep talking."

"Well, I hardly know where to start. It's been such a strange day. I keep thinking it's some sort of dream I'm about to wake up from. Let me talk about Elspeth." She took the girl's arm and gave it a congratulatory squeeze. Elspeth gave a gratified nod of acknowledgment. 

"You know," said Laura reflectively, "colleagues often told me that one of the humbling things about teaching at a place like Cambridge is that, no matter how good you are, sooner or later you'll have a student cleverer than you. I always pretended to agree with them, but to tell the truth it was false modesty on my part because I didn't want to sound arrogant. The fact is, although I've had some very bright students I've always known I was better, and I suppose I didn't think that would ever change. Until today, that is."

Elspeth was now looking embarrassed, even a little contrite. "Laura," she said in a quiet, halting voice, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just had to make you see that you were wrong."

"Elspeth, don't apologise," said Laura firmly. "When you think someone's wrong, you argue your corner and never give up. That's what I've always tried to teach all my students. And as for hurting me, you haven't at all. My colleagues were right; I see that now. I was bound to find that cleverer student one day, and I'm glad it turned out to be you. You were magnificent." She turned to me. "Weren't you impressed, James?"

"I was."

"And you, too, actually, James," she went on. "Maybe I was a bit hasty when I first saw you. I don't know your background but you come across as an educated man."

I was beginning to realise that to call someone "educated" was the greatest compliment Laura knew how to bestow. I nodded my appreciation and, following Fran's example, gave the degree-holder's equivalent of name, rank, and serial number.

"Oxford, 1978."

Laura, a Cambridge girl through and through, sniffed disdainfully. "Oxford? Oh, well, so I was mistaken."

We both laughed quietly at this harmless academic banter.

"And," she continued, "I've noticed that when you smile your face puckers in a way that's actually quite attractive. You've got very intelligent eyes, too."

I used them to gaze at her steadily. "Thank you," I said softly.

"Oh, god," she muttered. A strange combination of fascination and fear, tinged with awe, slowly spread across her face. "It's started, hasn't it?" she whispered. 

"Just keep talking."

She took a deep breath. That familiar sparkle began to appear in her eyes, and instead of looking around the room at intervals she now gazed squarely at me. "I've got such a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. All my muscles seem to be tensing. I feel flushed." She shifted to the edge of the bed to be nearer me. "I'm so sorry I was rude when you came in. I don't know what I was thinking of. You're a lovely man. It's no wonder all these girls like you."

She paused and for a few moments simply sat there gazing at me. Then her academic outlook reasserted itself and with a visible effort to concentrate she spoke in a more analytic vein.

"It's extraordinary," she said. "Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed. You're still the same man I saw when you came in the room a few minutes ago, but now everything about you is just perfect."

"My age?" I suggested. "My weight?"

"Exactly," she agreed. "You're so mature and experienced. And your build is beautiful, so much of you to love."

"And my bald pate?"

She smiled. "You mean your intelligent brow? Oh, James, I know exactly what you're getting at and yes, of course you're right. At some intellectual level I know -- or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I remember -- that these are features I'd never normally have found attractive in a man. And I also know that it's the drug that's made the difference. But James, believe me, whatever your uncle's potion does, it does it in spades. The effect is overwhelming, irresistible. And why should I want to resist it? As I sit here now, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man I'm looking at is more than just handsome and desirable: he's the best and finest man there could ever be, and I simply have to be with him if I can." 

She reached out a hand and touched me just above the knee, but tentatively, as if she expected me to object or recoil. When I did neither she put her hand on my leg more firmly and began to run her fingers up toward my thigh. Laura had eyes only for me but I was able to glance about the room and see Wendy, Fran, Connie and Elspeth all with looks of delighted encouragement on their faces.

"Keep talking," I reminded her.

"Oh yes, I forgot. You're too distracting, that's the trouble. James, you're the cleverest, most beautiful man I've ever known. Oh, James, James, please, I need you, I need you," she murmured.

With that she tuned out again and simply sat on the bed drinking me in, pressing her hand gently against my inner thigh. It seemed to me she was perfectly primed. This time I did not remind her to speak. I stood up slowly, drawing her up with me. I kissed her. Then I lifted her up and carried her to the main bedroom.

And the sex? I wish I could say that this uptight academic was an animal in the sack but in fact, although enthusiastic in theory, she was awkward and clumsy in practice. After the first climax she seemed to warm up a bit but overall her lack of experience was evident. Even when I spunked inside her she seemed to fight the breaking orgasm for a few moments, as if she did not recognise it for what it was or were afraid of it, and when it overcame this resistance it was such an overwhelming explosion that she went straight into her trance without, I felt, having got as much from it as she might have done. As I put her to one side I thought this was a girl that needed to do this more often.

Afterwards, I went looking for Elspeth to congratulate her again on her performance. She had got up but was still in the bedroom, talking to Wendy, Fran and Connie. (I noticed that the latter two had shed their clothes already. Elspeth had been naked anyway. Wendy retained her simple frock.) 

Elspeth was justifiably proud of herself. "I just can't believe it," she exulted. "I beat Laura in a fair fight. I flat-out won, no doubt about it."

"You've never got the better of her before?" I asked.

"That's just it," said Elspeth. "I don't think anyone has. I'd have heard about it."

"It's certainly not easy," agreed Wendy. "I'm no pushover in an argument --"

"I can vouch for that," I interjected.

"Thank you, darling -- but in the hall earlier I just couldn't hold her."

"I'm sorry I wasn't much use to you," said Fran.

"Don't worry," I reassured her. "It's all worked out in the end. You know," I recalled, "the funny thing was, however tense it got, you all, Laura too, stayed so totally formal and proper. It was all so frightfully English of you."

Fran gave a significant cough that she managed to infuse with distinct Scottishness.

"Sorry, British," I corrected myself.

"It was a close thing," said Wendy. "Do you know, James, before you intervened I was thinking I was going to have to hit her with something."

"I'm glad you didn't," I told her. "And she's under control now. We shan't have any more trouble with Laura."

"No," agreed Wendy. "In fact, she makes a nice even fifty for you, darling, on your fiftieth. It's all so fitting, somehow."

"That's a pleasing thought," I agreed, "and it's Elspeth we have to thank more than anyone. An unusual birthday present, Elspeth, a Cambridge don, but very thoughtful of you. Thank you."

Elspeth gave a little naked curtsey. "My pleasure."

"I think you've also proved FUCK doesn't impair intelligence," I added. "In your case, it seems to have enhanced it."

"No, it hasn't," said Elspeth. "I was thinking about that just now. It hasn't made me cleverer; it's just made me more confident. Arguing with Laura always intimidated me before, but not any more." 

"Never again," I told her. "You're the master now."

"What's 'gregorian' then?" asked Connie. 



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 44



XLIV

"A birthday to remember"

The rest of the day was spent as idyllically as I could have hoped. I wandered about the house and grounds, watching Gina's fucking class, or looking at the girls watching the porn (I felt little need to watch the actual porn films themselves, my life having turned into one), or simply enjoying the topsy-turvy world in which you first of all fuck a girl to unimagined levels of ecstasy and only later do you chat her up. Still something of a slave to societal norms myself, I felt a little guilty that there were still so many girls I could not positively put a name to. For instance, it troubled me that when Laura had referred to "Penny" I had had no idea whom she was talking about, so I made a point of seeking the girl out. As the day wore on I filled in as many gaps as I could and every so often I would take girls upstairs in twos and threes for fucking.

I allowed myself the occasional indulgence (it was my birthday after all). For instance, at one point I had a sudden bright thought and called for four much-favoured girls: Fran, Ursula, Connie, Kylie. I hustled them upstairs and took them in rapid succession, in the order named.

It was Connie that spotted it. She, Fran, Kylie and I were chatting and getting our breath back (Ursula, with less experience, was still entranced) when Connie suddenly gave me a cheery slap. "James, you crafty rascal!"

I pretended to be innocent. "What's up?"

"I was wondering why us four," said Connie. "I get it now."

Fran and Kylie looked puzzled and I merely smiled. 

"F," explained Connie, pointing at Fran, "U," the recumbent Ursula, "C, K," herself and Kylie.

Kylie sniggered. Fran looked reproachful at having been used so frivolously (but still pleased at having been used at all): "James, darling, that's awful."

"Later you can do me and Ursula again with Natalie and Tammy," suggested Connie brightly.

"Don't encourage her, darling," urged Fran. "Use Cassie or Charlotte instead."

As I strolled about the house and grounds I felt truly blessed. Time and again I found myself appreciating the individual beauty of some stunning girl that until then had merely been part of the scenery. Consider Eve, for instance, whom I had almost overlooked until now. She was one of the two girls Gina had offered up on Wednesday. I had been in a bit of a rush that day and had not expected three girls, so frankly I had got straight down to fucking without much ado. She had arrived yesterday with Gina's other girls but since she was already captured she had not received my attention. But when I saw her today, my jaw dropped.

Eve was black. But that statement hardly does her pigmentation justice; she was astonishingly dark, a far deeper colour than the usual chocolate. And there was more to it even than that; this skin of the darkest umber had a strange sheen to it. I had never seen anything quite like it before. How could a surface so dark be so reflective? If she had been a car for sale she would have been advertised for her metallic finish. She was taller than many of my girls and very pretty, with a little of Yvonne's dramatic curvature and quite a lot of Gabby's languid grace, but it was her remarkable skin coloration that secured her the honour of being taken upstairs by herself. 

I also mused, as I contemplated the loveliness all around me, on Uncle Albert's "refinements". In my longer-established girls, these were already becoming evident. Breasts were fuller and buttocks rounder than I remembered from our early meetings. But there were other changes, too. Wendy, Fran and other early recruits were now completely bereft of body hair, not that this feature made them stand out particularly since it was universal among the whores and remarkably common among the well-brought-up Cambridge girls.

It was Alicia that pinned down the baffling changes in girls' legs. I had heard so many complaints from so many women about painful calves that I knew something was going on but it was only when Alicia pointed out that Fran and Connie had taken to walking as if in heels even when barefoot that I recalled Fran's unusual gait the night before. As we were discussing the subject, Wendy happened by, wearing heeled sandals and her summer frock, and I called her over. I mentioned that she had not complained about sore calves lately.

"No," she said. "I've been wearing high heels. It's a lot better."

I asked her to slip out of them and to rest her bare feet flat on the ground in a normal posture. She just about managed it, but as she took an experimental step or two she winced at the pain. "My calves feel stretched," she complained. "It's so uncomfortable." When she rose up again on the balls of her feet she looked much happier. "I can walk all right like this," she said, "even without the shoes."

"Alicia's spotted that Fran and Connie are the same," I said. "It must be hard for Connie, she's always worn trainers. Now she'll have to get heels for the office."

"It's another of Albert's refinements," said Wendy. "I hope you like high heels, darling."

I had to confess that high heels in themselves have never done much for me one way or another, but I like the gracefully sinuous walk that tends to go with them.

I made a point of debriefing Laura when she came down from her trance. For one thing, I hoped her trained mind would provide interesting psychological insights about the effects of FUCK. But the results were disappointing. Maybe it was too soon to ask her; she still seemed overwhelmed and had little to add to what I had heard from other girls. But my main reason for talking to her, for which purpose I brought Elspeth with me, was to satisfy my curiosity about how she had found out what was going on. Her answers were deeply troubling, because it was clear that all she had really done was keep her eyes and ears open, then add in some intuition and intelligent guesswork. I was left with the gloomy conviction that it was only a matter of time before someone else did the same.

Meanwhile, I did not allow myself to forget that I had promised myself some fitting vengeance on George Marjoribanks. Talking to Vicky and Simone, I began to think how I might achieve it. Apparently George was in more trouble with Sue than I had realised, and my poor Alicia was the innocent cause. What a married middle-aged man would see in a gorgeous eighteen-year-old blonde with massive tits must, of course, remain one of the eternal mysteries, but the fact remains that she had clearly made a major impact on him. He had, apparently, asked the twins after the garden party whether they knew anything about her, and during the following week he had behaved out of character at home, being unwontedly quiet and drifting off into reveries. Sue, smelling a rat as any wife would, actually accused him of daydreaming about Alicia but like a sensible man he denied it stoutly and tried to laugh it off. 

But on the following Saturday, the night before flying to New York, he had contrived to confirm Sue's suspicions. After dinner he had dozed off in an easy chair and when she rocked him by the shoulder to wake him to go to bed he had drowsily addressed her as "Alicia".

This gave me food for thought. I should make it clear that although I had no great affection for George and was keen to repay him for making me envious, I had no desire to ruin his life. I did not, for instance, countenance ideas such as getting Alicia to entice him into some marriage-wrecking indiscretion. I do not consider myself a vindictive man, and what I wanted was a fitting revenge, not a disproportionate one. I decided that I wanted George to be unable to see me or think of me without feeling a sharp pang of envy. I mulled it over.

In the evening I again found myself with Fran and Connie, this time joined by Elspeth who, I noticed, was making a late entry into my inner circle. We were chatting, drinking wine, and reviewing the day's events. Despite a very nasty scare over Laura it had been, all in all, a wonderful birthday so far.

"Cow," said Connie, referring to Laura. "That woman was so far up her own ass I bet she could see daylight."

I boggled at the grotesque image this conjured up. "Now, now," I said; "she's one of my girls now."

"Too right," agreed Connie. "I hope you nailed her good and proper. Bitch."

Elspeth came to her teacher's defence. "She wasn't a very happy person, you know, Connie. She just pretended to be. She'll be much better now."

"I've laid plans to make sure of that," I said. 

Connie looked at me gleefully. "What are you gonna do to the harpy, James? Can I watch?"

"I'm not going to do anything to her," I said. "But yes, you can watch. Everyone can." I called a passing girl, one of those I was still unable to put a name to (Elspeth told me later she was her best friend, Rebecca), and asked her to pass the word that everyone was to gather for a special event in the dining room at ten o'clock, in other words in an hour's time. 

"You won't hurt Laura, though, James, will you?" asked Elspeth.

"Of course not," I assured her. "But don't forget she would have hurt us. She wanted to break up everything we've got. So, no, I'm not going to hurt her, but."

They pondered for a moment what "but" might mean, then Elspeth raised an important point. "When you think about it, James, it was a very narrow escape. I mean, suppose it had been a man that worked out that something was going on, or an ugly woman."

"I know," I replied. "I've thought of that. Sooner or later it's going to happen. It's not just the unusual set-up that might attract attention. It's the physical changes, especially the loss of body hair and the raised heels. How could we ever explain that if doctors became aware of it? And I can't help capturing new girls, and nor frankly do I want to. Some day we're going to have more trouble unless we can think of a way of preventing it."

The girls looked concerned. "What a terrible idea, having to give up all this," shuddered Fran. "When I think what my life was like before ... It's changed everything for me, James darling, loving you this way."

"And fucking you this way," added Connie. "Don't forget the sex, Fran. You didn't get much before, did you?"

"A bit personal, isn't it, Connie?" I cautioned.

"It's all right," said Fran. "Connie's right. The sex is wonderful. It's at the centre of it, really; trust me to try to romanticise it while she gets down to the nitty-gritty. And I suppose I wasn't getting much sex at all before, was I?"

"The speed-dating man?" I suggested.

"But that hardly amounted to anything. And there was David at University; he was very sweet, he was my first you know," she went on, drifting into reminiscent mood. "He graduated the year before me and we promised we were going to stay together but somehow we didn't, and then there was this other boy in my last year, but it only lasted a few weeks."

"Yes," said Connie eagerly, "and ....?"

"Well, that's it," said Fran, "except for my beautiful James and of course those two boys last week, I still don't know how you talked me into that."

Connie was incredulous. "Six? Six? Fran, honey, a nice-looking girl like you? Six guys in your life? You poor kid. No wonder you were so uptight."

"Not so much of the 'poor kid'," retorted Fran haughtily. "I'm two months older than you are."

I did not see why poor Fran should be the only one under scrutiny. "What's your tally, then, Connie?" I asked. 

"More than six," she replied firmly, adding after a pause for reckoning, "but less than a hundred." Then a doubt seemed to afflict her. "I think," she concluded.

"You haven't had a hundred boyfriends," Fran scoffed. "You're only twenty-two."

"Well, they weren't all boyfriends," conceded Connie. "There's a lot of one-nighters in there."

And so Connie proceeded to disclose her sexual past, which for a woman her age was impressive. She had had several more or less serious steady boyfriends over the years, but she had, she told us with a wicked grin, "never been faithful to any of 'em yet." She acknowledged that some people thought she was a bit "free and easy", but she felt it was not entirely her fault. "It's this ass. Guys can't keep their hands off it. Fortunately," she concluded.

Fran, who had a very religious upbringing, was moved to a rebuke. "Connie, you told me you believe in God; how can you carry on this way?"

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," replied Connie, revealing unsuspected qualities as a theologian. "If God didn't want me to fuck guys, why'd He make them so yummy?"

After Fran's and Connie's disclosures it should have been Elspeth's turn but by now it was nearly ten o'clock so she escaped. "More than Fran, but fewer than Connie," was all we had time to get from her.

I had thought of something for Laura that would take her down a peg or three, besides giving her some much-needed sexual practice. I had told Gina I wanted an extra-special fucking lesson; did she and her friends have any more strap-ons? Fortunately they did. At ten o'clock it was standing room only as all fifty girls and I crowded into the dining room, where the sturdy table had been shifted against a wall to make a stage. Gina and two of her friends, Precious (the lissom black girl) and Nancy, a strapping Polish girl, proudly thrusting forward their huge rubber cocks, stood on the makeshift stage and explained that everyone had been enjoying these triple-penetration sex films so much they thought it would be instructive to demonstrate the skills involved. With three "men" on stage, all they needed was a girl.

I think everyone expected a request for volunteers, and a lot of girls looked disappointed when Gina pointed an aggressive finger straight at Laura. I had told Gina and friends that I wanted them to put some back into it, so for the next half an hour the rest of us enjoyed the spectacle of Dr Laura Stone being ravaged pitilessly in every hole. At first she seemed quite passive, almost bewildered, but soon her new FUCK-enhanced sex drive began to assert itself and although she did not appear to come she certainly got into the spirit of things. It was good (and very arousing) to see her sucking vigorously on one rubber cock while bucking her hips up and down on another and using a free hand to spread her buttocks for the insertion of a third. I was well aware that our audience had a high proportion of Cambridge students; they would, I knew, see the fearsome Dr Stone in a different light for ever after. 

This memorable show was not just about humiliating Laura (although that was part of it). It was also about awakening her sexually; if I were to be fucking her in future, those inhibitions simply had to go. But since, as I say, I do not consider myself vindictive, I like to think it was also about giving her a good time in a way she had never imagined possible before.

Laura was not the only one enjoying herself. All the girls were shouting and cheering and as for me, under my loose dressing-gown I had a growing cock that dwarfed anything on the stage. In the end, I could restrain myself no longer. Rudely barging girls aside, I rushed up to the stage, losing the gown as I went, and dragged Gina's dildo off and fucked her there and then in front of everyone. Then I took Precious and Nancy, and it all gets rather vague after that. 

Naked bodies were all over me as I lay on my back on the stage. All I could see was a succession of mouths and cunts pressed to my face. Soon someone hit upon the tactic of having two girls facing each other on their knees and straddling my head, their cunts pressed against each other and oozing with pussy juice. A third girl would support my head and hold it against this double quim so that I could nibble, kiss, and lick every crevice. And this is the only part of the activities of which I can give any clear account; what was going on with my cock I can report only by touch, as cunt after cunt enveloped it. I tried to do my best by the girls by always holding something back when I spunked, and I suspect someone got some sort of organisation going at that end too because as soon as I came and the girl climaxed she would be removed in a manner that suggested she was being physically lifted and another dripping cunt would instantly slide into place. With the best will in the world I sometimes ran out of juice and my cock would go limp, but then eager mouths and tongues would suck and caress it until it stiffened again.

At one point I remember that, fearing dehydration from loss of fluids, I insisted on a ten-minute break during which I drank four pints of milk one after another. Then back to the fray. Which girls I fucked and sucked, and how many, I have not the faintest idea. 

It was two in the morning when I had to call a halt for sheer exhaustion. The table and the adjacent floor area were covered in blissed-out cum-oozing girls but there were still plenty of others, alert, randy, and raring to go. But there is only so much a man can do even with FUCK coursing through his veins. I somehow managed to stumble up the stairs and collapse into the bed.

"A birthday to remember," Connie had said. She never spoke a truer word.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 45



XLV

The ideal career

The next morning for some inexplicable reason I felt quite sleepy and I stayed in bed (entertained by visitors, of course) until nearly eleven. Then I showered and asked Wendy to come and see me. This could, I thought, be a difficult discussion.

Not a bit of it: never underestimate the power of FUCK. It turns the world upside down. Things that used to be easy, like taking a tube ride without seducing some gorgeous girl, get very tricky; and things that one would expect to be difficult, like telling your wife of twenty years that you love another woman, become strangely straightforward.

I stressed that I still loved my wife, that I had no intention of divorcing her, that she was still indescribably precious to me. But I confessed my feelings for Fran; that she was equally special in a different way.

Wendy was initially perturbed by the portentous way I told her we had something very important to discuss, and maybe I did not help matters by rather beating about the bush, but once she realised where I was heading she took the whole thing in the easiest and most relaxed way imaginable, as if it were nothing at all remarkable or unusual: a natural development, perfectly understandable, even inevitable, and certainly nothing to get upset about. "Don't keep apologising for it, darling," she said eventually. "You can't help how you feel. And don't forget Fran's a favourite of mine, too. She's lovely, she's clever, and she loves you very deeply. And she kept her head in that Nina incident, which I didn't; that must count for something, too."

"I didn't either," I reminded her. "Yes, that was what made me realise how I felt, but I have to be honest and say this has been coming on for a little while."

"I know. I'm not blind. I can see it's what you want. So I want it, too. Go and tell her, darling. She's a lovely person and it will make her so happy."

With this generous blessing I hurried downstairs to invite Fran to walk with me outside.

It was deeply affecting. Fran wept tears of utter joy. She told me how she had hoped for this and dreamt of it but thought it could never be. 

She was, bless her, desperately concerned about Wendy. She insisted on taking me back to the house so that she could assure herself in my presence that Wendy was as supportive as I claimed. Before long the two women were embracing and crying and saying how much they loved one another and each was telling the other how lovely she was ("lovely" was definitely the key word that morning), and things got so thoroughly girly that I was, I ought to be ashamed to say, glad to slip away and leave them to it while I went downstairs for a fuck.

Several fucks, as it turned out. I was conscious that time was passing and soon I should have to give up my temporary occupation of George's house. The thought of leaving these idyllic surroundings and beautiful girls was almost too much to bear, and the idea of going to work next day seemed almost absurd. But it had to be done, so I told everyone that they must assemble in the sitting room at four o'clock. I needed to talk to them all together.

So I slowly wound down. The newer girls would take longer to recuperate so I worked my way through as many of them as I could, then after about one o'clock I turned to my longer-established girls. Of course I left Wendy and Fran to last, then the three of us showered together and made our way to the sitting room.

As we entered we were met by a thunder of applause from the roomful of happy girls. There was not much space to spare but a corner had been kept clear for me and I took my position flanked by Wendy and Fran. As the ovation died down I motioned the girls to sit. The higher-ranking girls had staked their claim to chairs but the majority sat cross-legged on the floor. This is a posture more commonly associated with small schoolchildren; adopted by naked young women, it meant that throughout the ensuing discussion I had to struggle to maintain my concentration in the face of dozens of gaping cunts, all of them directed uncompromisingly straight at me.

Wendy, Fran and I alone remained standing. Wendy was in her frock, I in my dressing gown; Fran, like everyone else, was still butt naked.

For a few moments I could do nothing but gaze at the sea of lovely faces and glistening fannies looking back at me. The girls were so young, so beautiful, so available, so utterly mine. I felt ashamed that there were still eight or ten to whom I could not confidently put a name. 

I pulled myself together and began to speak. After thanking them all for coming (big laugh) and hoping they had all enjoyed the weekend (I gathered they had), I turned to the practical considerations that were the true reason for this assembly. First, I stressed that there must be no trace of our presence at the house. We must leave it as we found it, and take away everything we brought with us, "especially Connie's DVDs." Then travel: the majority were going by train (this included Fran and Connie, whom I had not the heart to order into Gabby's car again). They would be ferried to the station in small batches and they were to stagger their journeys and avoid drawing attention to themselves; I did not want anyone to wonder why this obscure branch line was suddenly flooded with gorgeous women. 

I also warned them about the side-effects; the weight gain, the loss of body hair, the raised heels. Not only that: for some years, although not permanently (I was taking Albert very much on trust here), their periods would stop and they could not become pregnant, but their sex drive would be ferocious. They should try to ensure that these changes did not come to other people's notice, especially doctors'. In fact, they should generally seek to avoid doctors, which ought not to be difficult because they would seldom or never fall ill.

All these instructions were heard with quiet respect. It was when I started to talk about their future relationships, with other men and with me, and more generally about the ordering of their lives, that I became aware of a certain undercurrent that I found hard to define. It was certainly not a refusal, or even a reluctance, to obey my orders; they were far too firmly under control for that. But I got a sense that my audience was no longer wholly receptive and passive as I told them that they should return to their studies or jobs and avoid arousing any suspicion among their friends and families, and while I was happy for them to have as much casual sex as they liked they must have no steady boyfriends.

The outrageous selfishness of the last requirement, especially since with the best will in the world I should be able to see many of them only at long intervals, would seem to anyone unacquainted with FUCK to be the likeliest bone of contention. But the slight restiveness of my audience had set in before I came to that point. Having finished what I wanted to say, I surveyed the faces gazing at me and saw that Connie looked particularly fidgety.

"All right, Connie," I said, "I can see you're bursting to say something, get it off your chest."

She jumped to her feet. Everyone looked at her and suddenly she became nervous. She was, I well knew, a good and voluble talker, never happier than when at the centre of a large crowd of friends, but, like so many people, she was very uncomfortable in any situation savouring even remotely of formality. Tongue-tied and clearly embarrassed, she struggled to find words for what she wanted to say. Eventually she blurted out, "James, I wanna fuck," and everyone laughed.

"We all want to fuck, Connie," I said. "That's why we're here."

"Oh, James, that's not what I mean. I don't wanna go to work tomorrow, I'm not cut out for it and it's boring. I wanna fuck for money, like Gina."

At this there was a general murmur of assent. I registered it, but it was so unexpected that I had no idea how to react, so I focused on Connie while I decided what to do.

"You mean you want to be a --" I was about to say "prostitute" but I thought a stronger word would bring home better the implications of what she was suggesting, "whore?"

I should have known better than to try to shock Connie when it comes to sex. "That's it," she agreed brightly. "I've talked to Gina. She says I'd be a natural. I'd fuck guys all the time and rake in a fortune, and any time you wanted me, James precious, I could drop everything and come running."

I had to admit, if only inwardly at this stage, there might be something to be said for this idea. It was certainly true that Connie and the insurance business seemed to function in different conceptual universes; sooner or later she was going to get the sack. The girl loved sex and had to make a living somehow, but I was not willing to agree here and now.

"All right, I'll think it over," I said, and nodded to show she should sit down. She clearly wanted to say more, but she obeyed at once.

I thought I had better find out how widespread this sentiment might be. "When Connie suggested her career change I got the impression," I said drily, "that one or two of you might be thinking along the same lines. Show of hands, please."

Instantly it seemed that every single hand in the room shot up.

I say "seemed" because as I recovered from my surprise -- I am not sure what I had expected, but certainly not this -- I realised that dotted around there were girls with their hands still down. But then I saw that they were Gina, Olga, Precious and the other girls that were whores already. Them aside it was unanimous. I looked for Elspeth; her hand was raised: Alicia; hand raised: Laura; hand raised too. Apart from the whores, only the two women beside me kept their hands down. Then, before my eyes, ever so slowly and almost reluctantly, Fran's hand went up too. I looked back to Wendy; her hand stayed firmly down and she gave a small shake of the head. 

I made a gesture that the girls could lower their hands and turned to Fran. "I admit I'm a little surprised at you," I said with a calmness I was far from feeling. "Could you explain your thinking, please?"

"James, darling, I think I can make you happier this way," she answered. "It's like Connie says. I'd be financially secure and I'd be available much more readily than if I were working in an office."

"And the fucking?"

She seemed surprised that I thought that would be an issue. "That'd be fine. I like fucking," she said in a tone she might have used to say she liked gooseberries.

"And your career? You know you could be a high flier in business."

"And end up on the board of some big insurance company. Would that please you, darling?"

"Not particularly," I had to admit. I turned to the woman on my right. "What about you, Wendy?" I asked. "You seem to be a minority of one."

"I know," she sighed. "I'm just too old. I'm sure I can make you happy in other ways."

"What if you were twenty-five years younger?"

"Oh, in that case, yes, I should think so. Why not?"

I turned to face the rest of the room. "Has anyone else any thoughts she'd like to share?"

Elspeth stood up. "James, I can see you weren't expecting this but a few of us have been talking about it today and, frankly, everyone I've spoken to is envious of Gina and the others because when you think about it, whoring is the perfect job for your girls and your girls are the perfect whores. Gina's been telling me all about it. She fucks all day, which thanks to you is exactly what she wants to do, she's her own boss so she can see you any time you want her, and do you know how much money she's making? So James, it's your decision, and I'd never do anything you objected to, but I can't see why you wouldn't agree to this."

This brief but powerful speech got a big hand.

"All right," I said, "I'll think about it." 

I did. For a good ten minutes the girls watched and waited in respectful silence, while I stood there mulling it over. From what Gina had told me about the sex trade I knew that lovely girls like these could work with reasonable safety and security at the top end of the market, and clear instructions from me would stop them from doing anything silly or risky. They would be able to fuck pretty well non-stop, which I knew they would appreciate, and best of all they would all be based in London and would be handy for me whenever I liked. But on the other hand, I did not feel I could allow them all to plunge into the sex business first thing tomorrow, as they appeared to wish. I made my decision.

"I've thought about it," I announced. They stared up at me, agog to hear my ruling. Relishing my power, I made them wait several moments before I continued. "You're all going back to your jobs or studies tomorrow morning, just as I said before." A wave of disappointment swept over the room, but there was resignation too. I had given my decision and no one dreamt of arguing.

"But," I continued, and they all looked at me in renewed hope, "I will allow you all, with one or two exceptions whom I shall notify separately, to wind up your current commitments in an orderly manner. You are to take your time in order to concoct reasonable and plausible explanations for the benefit of your families and friends. You are on no account to call attention to yourself by sudden dramatic changes in behaviour. Only when you have thoroughly readied the ground may you begin your new career. Girls in work and final year students can start their preparation right away. Other students will first have to finish their degrees, to which they will apply themselves diligently. [There were several groans.] Sorry, girls, education is important. Any questions?"

Ruth stood up. She was one of the girls that floated past on Thursday; I remembered her because she looked a bit younger than most of the Cambridge girls. "I don't graduate for another two years," she complained. "James, can I whore during the holidays?"

"A most reasonable request. Yes, provided you can arrange a good cover story, and don't flash the money around during term."

She sat down looking much happier.

There being no further questions, I closed the meeting at 4:53 pm.



Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 46



The end

All this was a year ago. Perhaps I can best wrap the story up by offering a series of incidents during the intervening twelve months that strike me as particularly interesting or significant (or sexy or amusing. Or, in one or two cases, grim).

*

Last summer's birthday weekend was the turning point. Once all the girls were safely captured, and the decision had been taken to go wholesale into the sex business, everything seemed to fall into place. I was very strict about ensuring girls had made all the necessary arrangements for this dramatic change in their lives. Doting parents were told whatever their daughter thought would best reassure them: that she had saved some money and was taking a year off, that she was doing some lucrative freelance job, that she was being kept and pampered by some mysterious wealthy man, and so on. One or two of the broader-minded parents actually got the truth, or a relatively lightly edited version of it. 

Naturally some girls needed longer than others to prepare the ground so they arrived in the sex business in ones and twos over the next few months, not all in a rush. Gina gave advice and support, and it was her idea that the girls should work independently rather than give a slice of their earnings to agencies. The result was the institution that Wendy calls "the Stable". This is not so much an agency as a loose federation. Wendy took voluntary redundancy from her job to help co-ordinate it; she maintains the records (which for obvious reasons are kept to a minimum), while Gina, in such spare time as she can manage (for she is still a whore first and foremost), provides the girls with what I suppose I can best describe as technical support. (I hear her taking calls from the girls and saying things like, "Yeah, I knew a guy once that asked for that. Weird, innit? Listen, hun, this is how you do it...")

There are several reasons that the administration is not too onerous. In the first place, we can trust our girls implicitly. Secondly, they are all in touch with each other so they can make arrangements directly between themselves if an extra girl is needed somewhere or if one of them finds a client she thinks would particularly appreciate one of her colleagues. The third reason is that we do not take a commission off the girls, or at least, not in the normal sense. Basically, what they earn (and they earn plenty) is theirs to keep. All we ask (since we have to eat) is an occasional subvention, which means that I pick on a few girls at random and ask them to donate whatever we need; two days' earnings (which they hardly miss) from five girls drawn by lot will typically generate about six to eight thousand pounds, which pays the bills for weeks.

*

It will be gathered from this that I have left the insurance business. It had become obvious to me, even before my birthday party, that FUCK was simply too powerful to allow me to lead a normal life without risking constant accidental captures such as Ursula's. It is not the capture itself that troubles me – I am delighted that Ursula is on board and so is she – but every girl has family, friends, and colleagues and every uncontrolled capture of this kind increases the chances of detection.

So a few days after the party I asked to see Brian and told him that since, owing to the company's financial problems, he would need to cut down on staff costs, I should like to negotiate a retirement package. Generous terms, I suggested, would be a fitting reward for my corporate loyalty in cosying up to George. He seemed a little surprised, since I had never before shown any interest in leaving, but I told him that what my late uncle had left me meant that I had no need to work any more. He assumed the look characteristic of him when he was pretending to be intelligent and he told me that he entirely understood and was sure something acceptable could be worked out.

The settlement we arrived at was, in fact, highly satisfactory from my point of view and I felt it was good of Brian to honour the terms of what was, after all, only a gentlemen's agreement. True, I gave some very obvious sidelong glances at the drawer where the incriminating "CONFIDENTIAL" file was kept, coupled with some casual comments about how I was now in constant touch with my old pal George, but it would be churlish to suggest this had any bearing on the outcome.

I realised that a house and garden in the suburbs no longer suited my needs and I looked for something much more central, yet secluded from nosy neighbours. My new home is a mews house in Marylebone. It is perfect. It is the only house on this side of the mews, hence no party walls and no chance of being overheard if a girl gets a bit noisy. Upstairs it has two respectable double bedrooms beside an immense master bedroom, in which I installed the biggest bed I could find, comfortably accommodating me and four girls. Downstairs there is a large reception room and a kitchen-diner, the rest of the ground floor being occupied by a built-in garage. At the rear is a paved yard with a small pool, protected from prying eyes on one side by the house and on the other by a twelve-foot wall separating us from the rear gardens of the houses in the main street. If there is anywhere else in the middle of London that so wonderfully combines comfort, convenience and privacy, I should like to know where it is.

It did not come cheap. Even when I added together my life savings, my payoff from the company and the proceeds from selling my house and Albert's house, I was still some way shy of the asking price. I had to fill the gap with my biggest-ever subvention, asking all the girls to give me all the money they made in a whole week. I even broke one of my strictest rules and told girls still studying that they should cut classes for a week and come and help out. The girls all knew what the money was for and worked extra hard, taking no time off at all, and at the end of the week Wendy, Fran and I found ourselves looking at an unbelievable three hundred and forty thousand pounds, all in fifties and twenties, neatly piled in bundles of a thousand on our dining table. I had dealt with much larger sums in the course of business, of course, but it had been cold, remote money, mere electrical impulses in a bank's computer. I confess that seeing more than a third of a million pounds of hard cash made me go quite weak. Added to my other monies it more than met the cost of buying and furnishing my new home, plus a big housewarming and thank-you party (or orgy) for the girls.

*

I ought to mention that while I was still at the old house I settled my accounts with George Marjoribanks. Wendy and I invited him and Sue for dinner, as of course we were obliged to, and since it was such a golden opportunity to be annoyingly condescending about our relatively modest home he naturally accepted with alacrity. He seemed a little surprised when I commented what good company the twins had been when we dined with him, and I asked him to extend the invitation to them too. 

By the time the agreed date arrived I had gone over my plans with Wendy, Alicia and the twins. They all knew what was expected of them. For Wendy and me it was something of a farewell; we were already looking for a new house by this time so it was the last time we should entertain formally in a home we had lived in for fifteen years. So when it came to the cooking Wendy, aided by Alicia (who under her expert guidance was showing great promise in the kitchen), truly surpassed herself. 

I could see as soon as he arrived that George was still fascinated by Alicia. Whenever Sue's attention was elsewhere he rested his eyes on her, drinking her in with palpable lust. I wanted him to get a good idea of what he was missing, so I asked her to keep an eye on him throughout the meal, and while Wendy, the twins and I kept Sue busy she was to shoot sexy smiles at him, push her bust in his direction, look away giggling shyly if he too obviously stared back, and generally be as forward and provocative as she could without getting him into any trouble.

After dinner the twins carefully steered Sue into the front room and talked to her about hardy perennials (she had been trying for years to interest them in her hobby of gardening, but with no success until that night – and none since, incidentally). Alicia and I also left the dining room, leaving George and Wendy talking, but we got no further than the hall, where we could eavesdrop without being seen.

It was obvious that Alicia had done a first-rate job of getting George going because he broached the subject the moment he and Wendy were alone. How did we find her, where did she work, that sort of thing. Wendy answered all these questions with the relaxed good humour characteristic of her. 

Then George started to unburden himself. "You know, Wendy, you're a remarkable woman."

"I try," she replied modestly. "But what makes you say so?"

"Well, um, about Alicia, you don't seem, er..." he faltered.

"Sorry, George, I'm not sure what you mean."

"Well, you know, she's absolutely lovely, and a lot of wives wouldn't feel at all comfortable with a girl like that about the house."

Listening in, I reflected that the phrase "a lot of wives" could safely be taken to include Sue.

"What, you mean because of James?" asked Wendy with an immaculately simulated air of surprise.

"Well, yes, I mean I'm sure James would never, er... But he's only human, after all, and with a beautiful girl like Alicia any man might, er –"

"James and Alicia?"

"Well, yes, I'm sure they never would but –"

Wendy gave a merry peal of laughter. "Why, George, you are silly. Of course James sleeps with Alicia. I should have thought it was obvious."

George made a strangulated sound. "He... he does? You know? I mean, er –"

"Of course I know, George. I'm not blind."

George was still having trouble articulating. "But, er... I mean, you don't mind?"

"Why should I mind?"

"Well, most wives would," replied George with considerable feeling, and once more some sixth sense told me that he was thinking of Sue, whom I could hear faintly in the front room babbling about gardenias.

"Well, George, I'm not 'most wives'. The way I see it is this. As James's wife I want whatever's best for him, and since this girl Alicia has been here, he's been twice the man he was before. He's brimming with vitality, confidence and good humour, and I'll let you into a little marital secret, George," she lowered her voice confidentially and I had to strain to catch her words; "whatever he gets up to with Alicia, he's never been so ardent with me, not even on our honeymoon. So you see," she went on in a normal tone, "I benefit too, and Alicia seems more than happy about it and you've seen what a help she is to me about the house, and there's not the least doubt in the world that James benefits, the old rascal, so why on earth should I mind?"

George did not reply for some time. When he did it was to say they should be joining the others, so Alicia and I hurried into the front room and took our seats just as Wendy and George came in. I shall, I am delighted to say, never forget the expression on his face: it was a combination of astonishment and desire, overlaid by a consuming jealousy. Even Sue noticed something was amiss.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm fine," answered George hoarsely. "Just a bit of overindulgence in Wendy's delicious cooking."

He took little part in the ensuing general conversation. Even when Sue started to brag about his wonderful new job he could not bring himself to join in. Instead he kept looking at Alicia, then at me, then at Wendy, and back to Alicia again.

Just after midnight, Wendy, Alicia and I were outside the house seeing our guests off. Sue and the twins (who had behaved impeccably all evening, giving no indication of their true relationship with me) kissed me decorously on the cheek and I gave George a firm manly handshake. He gave me a long look that was even more gratifying than the previous one: not only did it speak of a horrible, yearning, hopeless envy but also a grudging yet powerful respect.

"Goodnight, James," he said. "You're a lucky man. I never knew how lucky until tonight."

"Goodbye, George."

It sounded final because it was meant to; I wanted his final image of me to be in his rear-view mirror, sandwiched between Wendy and Alicia, each of them with one arm round me while they waved goodbye with the other. I never expected to meet him again. And to date, nor have I; but the business had an interesting and unintended sequel.

A few months later a couple of the girls were at my place, sitting around chatting after recovering from a good fucking, and as they idly discussed clients they began to think they might have one in common. I had not been paying a lot of attention but it gradually dawned on me that the man they were discussing sounded familiar. I logged onto the website of George's bank and found a picture of him. The girls instantly confirmed that this was the man; he had become quite a regular over the last couple of months. So I showed his picture around, and a few other girls also recognised him. He was a bit of a starfish in bed, the consensus went, but his money was good. In fact, I calculated that he must have spent nearly six thousand pounds in the last four months on my girls alone (and there must have been others, since I do not control every whore in London (at least, not yet)).

The only use I have made of this information, incidentally, is that to avoid what would be a most embarrassing encounter I have forewarned Alicia and, of course, the twins (who took the news reasonably philosophically).

*

As my girls gradually moved into prostitution, a small but significant change took place in my own life. Ever since infancy I had been "James". My parents actively discouraged the more familiar version of the name, although personally I had no objection to it and tentatively experimented with it in my twenties. But then I met Wendy, whose strong preference for "James" settled the matter, and the only time since then I had used "Jim" was when I first called on Gina, when I suppose it served as a psychological disguise. But she naturally introduced me to other whores as "Jim" and I found I quite liked it. Besides, after my birthday party, I found it helped me to keep track of developments if I got girls to call me "Jim" once they had made the transition to whoredom, so by now I am "Jim" to almost everyone. I gave Wendy and Fran a free choice and they both adhere to "James" but Connie says "Jim" suits me a lot better, and I think I agree with her.

After a couple of months the effects of FUCK stabilised to the extent that although my sexual potency and desire were extraordinarily powerful they did not further increase. The randiness never really goes away – even if I have fucked myself into near insensibility I still like the idea of sex – and even after a good ejaculation I can be ready for further action within minutes. But it is about an hour before further relief becomes a pressing need and I can go ninety minutes if necessary. At night I seem to tolerate slightly longer intervals and my usual practice is to sleep with four girls, one of whom will normally be either Fran or Wendy, and I wake up a few times to drill whoever comes to hand. 

Usually I invite girls to my place but sometimes I visit them; a group of girls with the day off will assemble in one of their flats and I go along for a nice orgy. A change of scene does me good. Between all the sex I still find time to relax in front of the television or with a book, and of course many of my girls are well able to offer educated conversation. 

As an aside, the ability of some of the girls to do this has proved surprisingly popular with certain clients. Elspeth was telling me, when she was working during the last University vacation, that one man booked her for what proved to be fifteen minutes of rather mechanical sex followed by nearly three hours of quite deep discussion about determinism. He seemed more than happy with what he had got for his money and was keen to book her again. It takes all sorts, I suppose. For my part, I am available to talk determinism to anyone for two hundred and fifty pounds an hour, but somehow I doubt whether the market is there.

*

I have continued to recruit in large numbers. In fact, in that respect the move into the sex business has been a godsend (probably not the most fitting word to use, on reflection). My girls move freely in the strange sexual parallel universe they inhabit, are well acquainted with my tastes, and are constantly on the lookout for girls with the right attributes. Every few days one of my girls rings to say she would like to send someone along, and my tally is now nearly two hundred. I feel it is best and safest to recruit girls already in the business, since the tricky process of handling family and friends is automatically taken care of (either they know what she is doing, or she has her cover story in place). I tend to favour girls from overseas; recruits are chiefly drawn from Africa or eastern Europe but I have added some very nice orientals and latinas to my collection. Fortunately London's thirst for new young girls seems unslakable; the supply is such that there is no need to compromise my high standards.

With so many girls it no longer troubles me that I cannot remember all their names. Besides, they almost all have two; a working name in addition to their own. Apart from the fact that some of their own names are too homely or otherwise unsuitable for the sex trade, I think this dual identity helps them separate working from their personal lives. Mostly I let them choose their own working names; Connie, for instance, insisted that she was Randy. I told Fran that she had to be Fanny; it took some time for her to appreciate this choice of name but it made everyone else smile.

I have continued occasionally to capture girls from outside the sex business, but sparingly because of the risk. However, I sometimes take walks around London and very occasionally, particularly in areas frequented by students, I see a girl of such exceptional quality that I have to possess her. But the most recent such instance illustrates what can happen. I saw a gorgeous black girl near London University and followed her from a safe distance. When she got on a bus I ran for it and got on too, managing to sit fairly close so FUCK could take effect. Within a few minutes she was looking doe-eyed at me and licking her lips so I got off. As I walked down the street I realised, however, that not only she but another girl too, an oriental, had got off to follow me. This other girl was very attractive but not exceptional and at the conscious level I had not noticed her at all, but FUCK had worked its magic just the same. She has, as it turns out, proved to be a thoroughly welcome acquisition but the fact remains her capture was accidental. The story illustrates why I avoid public transport.

Many people would say that this addiction to young flesh is depraved in a man of fifty, and part of me might even agree, but I would point out that I do not bring these girls from far lands to work in the London sex trade. The great majority are in it already, and they are, in some cases at least, frighteningly naïve and vulnerable. Some of them have been beaten by their controllers and a few are getting drawn into drug abuse and other types of destructive lifestyle. I put a stop to that. True, my girls sell their bodies, but they also look after them. They do not smoke or use illegal drugs; drink is permitted only in moderation. And I ensure they work as safely as possible. In parties and parlours there are always other people around in case of trouble; and escort work means wealthy clients who are unlikely to risk everything by maltreating a girl. Moreover, although my girls dress well and live well, I make sure they all save; there will come a day when they need a nest egg. After only a year some of my original girls have savings far into six figures; Olga, the record holder, is about to buy herself a very nice flat for cash.




Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 46



This special pleading would be more persuasive, I know, were I not shagging these girls all day and all night; but for what it is worth, there it is.

*

Connie took to whoredom with a gleeful enthusiasm that was a joy to behold. She was promiscuous in any case (I never realised quite how much until my birthday weekend), but FUCK has sent an already strong sex drive into orbit. Her enthusiasm and capacity for fucking draws admiration even from experienced whores. She gets relatively little escort work because clients willing and able to pay for this rather expensive service tend to prefer perfect European teenagers to big-assed African girls, but in any case (and like a lot of my girls, actually) Connie prefers parlours and parties: "More guys," she explains.

Connie seems insatiable and inexhaustible. "Don't you get tired?" Fran once asked her. "Or sore?"

"A bit, now and then," Connie conceded, "but if I just keep going it soon wears off."

This conversation led to a friendly bet. Connie wagered that she could work in parlours and parties for at least twelve hours each and every day, without a break, for a solid month. Not only did she do it; at the end she was still bright-eyed and fresh as a daisy and hungry for more.

An awed Fran paid up cheerfully. Five thousand pounds is little more than small change for my girls.

*

Maybe Connie is exceptional but in truth, virtually all the girls adapted with surprisingly little difficulty. Their new desire for constant sex, of course, gave them every inducement to do so, and it has to be said that the money did not exactly deter them either.

Laura possibly had more trouble than anyone to sever her existing commitments. Her entire life, professional and (such as it was) personal, was so much bound up with Cambridge University that it was hard to break away. In the end she had to tell people that she had realised that such a wholly academic existence was too far removed from normal experience for her to be able to write the second book for which her publishers were pressing. So she took leave of absence in order (she told everyone) to seek employment in a field in which her academic qualifications would be irrelevant. Having thus created the impression that she was going to work in a chip shop in Gateshead, or something equally mundane, she left for the life of a high-class London whore. 

Although she clearly relishes her new life, and has unbent to the extent of actually being quite good company, she has not left academic ways altogether behind. She remains thoughtful and analytical, and she and I have had some very interesting conversations about how her life has changed. I asked her whether she could put her finger on the biggest single difference.

"It's not the actual sex," she replied, "great though that is. It's not even the orgasms. It's the passion; the way I clench up inside with a wonderful, unbearable hunger. I never knew it was possible to feel this way so I never missed it, but now I can't imagine life without it." Laura's comments on sex, and selling sex, are always intelligent and insightful, and sometimes very witty; if she ever gets round to writing that second book it will be well worth a read.

*

I ought to say a little more about the girls in general and their relationship to me.

First and foremost, they are in love; passionately, rapturously, overwhelmingly in love. Every waking moment they think of me, and when they sleep I inhabit their dreams. Women have loved me deeply before – not many, but Wendy certainly did during our courtship and the early years of our marriage, and so did one of my University girlfriends, if only for a term or two – but never have I known anything like the absolute and unconditional devotion I get from my girls.

They bless the day they met me. I can do no wrong in their eyes; they put the best possible light on everything. My ruthless promiscuity, for instance, shows my generosity: I am sharing my magnificence as widely as possible. Of their work as whores, they tell me I am one in a million, so caring, so understanding; what other man would let them do this without getting jealous? The rule against other boyfriends shows (they say) how important each girl is to me; and why should she want anyone else anyway, when she has a share of me? I am so clever, so witty, so wise. Jim knows best. 

Uppermost in their minds, even stronger than their physical desire for me, is the wish to make me happy. Newly recruited girls, I notice, tend to assume that what I want from them (apart from their bodies) is deference and obedience. But as they get to know me, and see how I behave with established girls, they realise that (except in a few cases, such as Florence) I prefer girls to behave in a more natural way, and they begin, tentatively at first, to treat me more familiarly and informally. They learn that they are not required to like cricket or the Marx Brothers merely because I do, and they gain the confidence to express their own opinion, to volunteer requests and suggestions, even to disagree with me about something. All this I permit, even encourage, because we all know that, in the end, what I say goes.

There is one important constraint on this freedom of speech: the complete inability of my girls to offer any moral judgment on me. This is not of my doing; rather, it seems to be imposed by FUCK. It can be quite limiting. It means that if I ask a girl's honest advice about what I ought to do, the course of action she recommends will be the one she thinks will make me happy. 

For instance, girls planning brief visits home to Africa or eastern Europe often tell me in great excitement that their native district is full of poor but beautiful young women whom they could easily lure to London on the promise of waitressing jobs and the like; the idea is that they will then introduce them to me, and FUCK will do the rest. It is important to be clear that they are not suggesting this because they think I want to hear it; on the contrary, they are well aware that I have set my face against dragging naïve girls into prostitution in this way. They are suggesting it because they think having hordes more young beautiful girls would make me happier (and I have an uneasy feeling they are right).

When I tell them that what they are proposing is morally wrong, it simply fails to compute. To most of them, it is simple: my happiness is the supreme good, so anything that promotes it is morally right by definition. The more thoughtful girls can grasp at an intellectual level that there might be a difference between moral rightness and my pleasure, but even to them it is mere abstract theorising with no possible application in the real world. Recently, some girls have started to turn the ethical argument against me, arguing that it would be a praiseworthy act to import young women wholesale from poor countries; they would make money and have fun, their families and the local economy would benefit from the money sent home, and (this is presented as the clincher) the girls themselves would get to meet and fuck the most magnificent and desirable man in the world. Everyone would win, in fact.

So far, I am resisting this. But I know how FUCK has eroded my own standards of conduct, so I wonder how long I shall hold out. 

The upshot of all this is that what few moral constraints exist are those I supply myself. Nina's rape still troubles me more than anything. I had no idea that I was capable of such an act, and I have taken great care that there should be no repetition, but nearly a year on that look in her eyes still haunts me. 

*

All my girls have put on weight, of course, and in the great majority of cases look far better for it. The process seems to stabilise after a while, but no two girls are affected quite the same way. Florence, I have to say, is a sight to behold. Her tits are now so big that it is an effort for her to get up from bed, and when she sits down they rest on her legs. It would be impossible for the poor girl to lead a normal life, but in this profession, her bust is what the advertising industry calls a USP: "unique selling point". A tit-man takes one look at her and she can virtually name her price. She cannot go out very much (she travels by taxi) and I let her spend a lot of time here when not working, so that she can display not only her tits but her now abject servility. Despite my normal aversion to cosmetic surgery I shall allow her a drastic breast reduction when she stops working.

As for the other changes FUCK has wrought in my girls, the sex industry is the exact place they are least likely to attract attention. Body shaving, high heels and lots of sex go with the territory. If anything makes my girls stand out from the general run of London whores, it is not the FUCK-induced changes but their honesty and reliability, their absence of piercing and tattoos, and their clean-living aversion to cigarettes, drugs, and heavy drinking.

Perhaps they are also unusual in that they work so hard. Most ordinary whores, Gina tells me, will work only a couple of days each week, or perhaps more intensively in short bursts interspersed by periods of taking it easy. But my girls are driven by the remorseless sex drive and spectacular orgasms that FUCK induces, so they typically work all day, day after day. They take the odd day off to relax and unwind only at intervals of a week or more, and even then the craving for sex never really leaves them alone.

It is fascinating to listen to my girls talking about their work; it reminds me of hearing specialists in some technical area of expertise – law or medicine, perhaps. They constantly swap tips and ideas about how to attract clients and make them happy, and frankly I am bewildered by some of the vocabulary they have developed to describe the finer nuances of sexual activity.

(To take but one example: I simply had to ask for an explanation when I heard one girl warn another that a particular client, although a nice guy, was a terrible "starfish". It turns out to mean a notably inactive lover: a client that asks the girl to go on top and simply lies there, limbs splayed out, leaving her to do all the work.)

The girls in general form a kind of loosely affiliated sisterhood. When I venture out I constantly bump into them in twos and threes, enjoying a day off shopping their way along Oxford Street or looking for a nice restaurant somewhere. They socialise together, gossip together, and shop together. They share flats, clothes, sexual hints and tips, clients, and even the occasional non-paying male friend.

*

Here is a vignette. The aural details are correct; the visuals and a few other particulars are from my own imagination, but I doubt I am far off the mark.

The luxuriously appointed bedroom of a fashionable West End apartment: between the satin sheets lie entwined two perfect young lovers. Their sighs of pleasure as they caress each other are disturbed by a cellphone on the bedside table. The man groans; this kind of interruption is painfully familiar. The girl calmly answers the phone. Her accent has only a slight suggestion of eastern Europe. "Yes ... right ... thanks, good," she says, and replaces the phone. She thinks she has rung off but in fact she failed to press the button properly and the line remains open.

"You must go?" asks the man sadly, for he knows the answer already.

She holds his head close to hers. "I can give you one minute," she tells him.

"But –" he begins to object, then gasps slightly with surprise and pleasure as she performs some practised act of stimulation.

She giggles in delight at her own expertise and his reaction to it. "Plenty of time," she says.

He utters a little cry as she again exercises her skill and suddenly he is inside her, thrusting in a frenzy of lovemaking. She responds, bucking her hips and moaning with arousal but yet retaining some vestige of control. Then with a subtle but irresistible move she drives him to climax and as she feels his seed within her, her own orgasm breaks and waves of pleasure wash over her.

Since she thought she hung up the phone precisely fifty-three seconds have elapsed.

Abruptly she pushes him aside and is out of the bed, scampering to the ensuite shower and manipulating the taps. She stands at the shower door and claps her hands briskly. "Playtime's over. We gotta move it, move it!" With that she is in the shower busily lathering herself while he groggily drags himself from the bed and fumbles for his clothes. "Get me a cab," she calls from the shower. "Five minutes. Numbers by the bed." By the time he has found his phone in his trouser pocket and made the call she is out of the shower and towelling herself off. She claps again impatiently. "Quick, quick." He begins to dress with more purpose while she opens the wardrobe and rapidly searches through it. She has already stepped into a pair of high-heeled slingbacks but is otherwise wholly naked. She is nineteen. The pale flawlessness of her skin is emphasised still further by her complete lack of visible body hair. Her movements are graceful and she might be a catwalk model but for her very full breasts and rounded buttocks. Her allure, however, is not diminished, but rather enhanced, by these suggestions of voluptuousness. 

As they continue to get ready they casually gossip about a friend of hers. It is obvious that the man is the other girl's lover too, but neither of them considers this fact embarrassing or even remarkable. She picks out a long elegant evening dress and eases herself into it. She wears nothing underneath it. Then she sits at the dressing-table to comb her long golden hair. 

"You seen the guy before?" he asks.

"Mmm-hmm," she confirms. 

"What's he like?" he asks with studied carelessness.

"Jealous?" she smiles. "Don't be. Fat, bald, and fifty."

Dressed now, he stands behind her chair and massages her shoulders tenderly while she dabs perfume on her wrists. "Poor you," he consoles.

"Keep your sympathy," she laughs. "He's a very nice fuck. One thing I've learnt from this business," she muses aloud, "you can't judge a book by its cover." She stands. "Do me up, please."

There is no need for this request, for she can easily reach the zipper herself. But why not use his services since he is so readily to hand? 

The door intercom sounds and she answers it: "One moment, please."

She turns to the man, putting her arms around him. "Why don't you get me warmed up?" She kisses him passionately and he responds, holding her tightly as their lips lock together. For a few moments they lose themselves in the kiss. Then suddenly she pulls away. "That's enough. Mustn't overdo it. Thank you," she smiles. She picks up her bag and her phone, and they leave. In the street below she kisses him on the cheek and gets in the cab alone. He watches her disappear into the night, and walks slowly away. Only when she tries to call ahead to say she is on her way does she realise the phone has been connected all this time.

*

These non-paying lovers were a development I had not foreseen. They began to appear quite early on. Girls would go out dancing or socialising on their days off and, not surprisingly, attract the attention of amorous young men, whom they would sometimes take home. I had no problem with this, of course, but I wanted no attachments to form so if the girl felt that she had found a man with potential she would pass his name and number to other members of the Stable and a day or two later he would be surprised to get a call from an unknown girl saying she needed a date for the evening and her friend had given her his number; could he help out?

Assuming he lived up to my girls' exacting standards the man would find his social life taking a remarkable turn for the better as he found lovely girls constantly calling him out of the blue. Often he would arrive at a girl's flat to find she was with a friend, who would be equally beautiful and highly flirtatious. A favourite trick of girls in this situation is to change clothes right down to the skin without any attempt at modesty and chatting unconcernedly of neutral topics the while. Unable to believe his luck, he would find himself with a succession of gorgeous and sexually promiscuous young women, provided of course he did not allow himself the fatal indulgence of developing too strong an attachment to any particular one of them. If he did, he would find that the phone calls abruptly ceased and his messages would go unanswered. 

The girls have deemed a few men to be of such outstanding quality that they have encouraged them to find work as escorts for female clients. This is not, of course, a service provided by my Stable but with their contacts in the wider sex business my girls were able to provide plenty of advice and useful numbers. I gather that at least three of these men are now earning a good living brightening up the lives of lady clients (divorced businesswomen in their forties apparently feature largely), and of course they still socialise with my girls when they can.

I had not anticipated these developments but I did not intervene. So long as nothing interferes with my prior claims, the girls are free to find their amusements as they please. Gina, however, strongly disapproved and told me I should put a stop to it.

"Why should I?" I demanded. "I can't see what harm it does. If a girl has a bit of time to herself and wants some fun, what's the problem? She'll still come running to me if I want her."

"I don't care what you say, hun," insisted Gina. "If she wants a fuck she should go back to work. It ain't right, giving it away like this. It's unprofessional."

"But," I pointed out, "you fuck me without charging."

"That's different," she explained. "That's payment for services rendered."

*

Of course, my girls have been involved in occasional incidents and difficulties over the months. Perhaps the worst was when a Russian businessman treated one of them very roughly, not so as to make her fear for her life but badly enough to leave some cigarette burns and quite severe bruising. Instantly the word swept across the Stable and indeed beyond it, for at parties and parlours my girls took every opportunity to spread the warning. Of course, I know this kind of alert would not cut off his supplies completely, but I like to think the thug suddenly found it harder to get girls and had to pay more for poorer quality.

Another case that I found disturbing, as did many of the girls, concerned a fairly prominent London solicitor, a senior partner in a major firm. He was a familiar client and seemed unremarkable until one day he poured out his heart to a girl about his money worries. She told me about it and since she liked him and found him good company she suggested that maybe I ought to tell the girls not to take his business any more. I was sympathetic to this suggestion but rejected it. My reasoning was that there is no shortage of whores in London, so even if we banned him he would still spend just as much money on women; the only difference being that my Stable would not see any of it. So my girls continued to see him. Then one day his cheque (a few regular and trusted customers are allowed to pay this way) was refused by his bank. A day or two later I saw in the paper that he had declared personal bankruptcy (which, apart from the disgrace, meant the end of his legal career). The day after that he hanged himself. He left a youngish widow (second wife) with three small children. Nothing was said about prostitutes at the inquest but it was revealed that he had been gambling heavily. He was well liked by the girls that had met him and they were very upset about his death, as indeed was I. Indeed, I still am, even though it happened months ago and logic tells me that he was on a self-destructive streak and there was nothing we could have done to avert his death. All the same, it leaves a bad taste.




Free Universal Carnal Knowledge Pt. 46



There has been one other tragedy. In the middle of wild and exciting sex an apparently fit and healthy client of about forty suffered a heart attack. He died instantly. The girl had to call the police, who it must be said were very discreet and understanding about it. They even spared the widow's feelings by telling her that her husband had been found dead in the street. The girl was deeply distressed, even though she was in no way to blame. Gina's suggestion that she use it in her advertising was unworthy of her.

The girls have also, of course, suffered more mundane misfortunes unconnected with their work. One or two girls have lost close relatives; one girl was mugged in the street; another came off her motorcycle in a daring attempt to swerve across three lanes of traffic in the Haymarket, fortunately suffering no worse than cuts and bruises. On each occasion it was heartening to see the way everyone rallied round to offer emotional and practical support.

*

Speaking of advertising, as I was a moment ago, reminds me that the girls have developed a variety of methods of bringing their wares to the attention of the paying public. The internet is very important, of course; and the girls tend to link their sites to each other so that potential clients (to say nothing of cheapskate voyeurs, out for nothing but a cheap thrill) can, so to speak, wander around the Stable to see what takes their fancy. You have to display the merchandise, naturally, and a surprising number of girls seem to be happy to show themselves in the most blatant way with no attempt to hide their features. Others conceal their face by cropping it or electronically blurring it or, like Fran, by ensuring that their hair falls artfully across it. And word of mouth, from client to client or by recommendation from one girl to another, is maybe an even better form of advertising.

My girls do not resort to cards in telephone kiosks; nor, of course, do they walk the streets seeking trade. Having said that, however, it has to be admitted that there is a certain je-ne-sais-quoi about a working girl. This is not a simple matter of their dress or appearance; my girls look great and dress well but not so as to stand out from the many other attractive women around London (a city, by the way, singularly well furnished in this respect): it has more to do with their aura of confidence and assurance, and the fearless way they will meet a man's gaze. At any rate, it is a quality to which some experienced punters are sensitive, so it is not entirely unknown for a girl on her own in a shop or bar to be the subject of an approach; nor is this unwelcome if the man is reasonably subtle about it and is willing to embrace the financial consequences as well as the girl. 

This sort of contact shades imperceptibly into the activity known as "fishing", in which a girl will go out to some likely location with the intention of getting herself picked up by a wealthy man who is, in the initial stages, entirely unaware that his allotted role is that of potential client. He, poor sap, is under the impression that he is making a great hit with this sexy young woman, and she will lead him on with every possible encouragement until he suggests they slip off somewhere together, at which point she breaks the bad news that for this service there will be a fee. Surprisingly often, I am told, the man takes the disappointment in his stride and after a brief negotiation the deal is struck and matters take their normal course. Even when the man withstands the girl's powers of persuasion ("I promise you I'm worth every penny": this with a wriggle of indescribable sensuality, a dazzling smile and such a wicked glint in the eye), the parting is almost always on amicable terms and the girl goes her way with a slinking walk designed to heighten the man's awareness of what he has passed up. 

One of the reasons the girls enjoy "fishing" is the exciting possibility of capturing a man for whom this is an entirely new experience, someone that has never before paid for sex. Once such a fish is hooked, she will spare no effort to give him the experience of his life: his first time maybe, but, if she has anything to do with it, far from his last.

One day Olga, a particularly adept angler, was round at my place preening herself on having thus corrupted a businessman of nearly sixty who, until he set eyes on her, had over thirty years of blameless marital devotion to his credit. Since that day, she told us proudly, he had seen her twice more plus at least three other girls whose numbers she had given him. On hearing this story Fran characteristically felt a qualm of conscience, and said so. Olga shrugged.

"Is good for business," she said. "Increases customer base."

At such cynicism Fran shook her head sadly. "Oh, Olga, that's an awful thing to say. Isn't it, James?"

"Well," I said, "it was certainly a tart remark."

*

Virtually all the girls have among their clients a number of regulars and they are very welcome as providing steady and reliable income, but inevitably such a relationship can get out of hand and we have had quite a few cases where a client becomes fascinated by a particular girl, either sexually obsessed or emotionally attached. Sometimes he wants to rescue her from this degradation, and there have been a number of apparently serious proposals of marriage. Fran holds the record here, with three, which is striking since she is neither the youngest nor the sexiest girl in my Stable. But she is possibly the most serious-minded, she is very pretty, and she has a wholesome girl-next-door charm about her. And of all my girls, she is probably the one that looks least like a high-class London whore and most like the girl you take home to meet mother. It is this, I feel, that probably accounts for her high proposal rate (and I have personal reasons for finding it interesting, as I shall relate farther on).

At any rate, when a client gets too much attached to a particular girl we try to deal with him tactfully. The best way is to offer him a two-girl on favourable terms, with the girl he likes plus another. Not only does he have a good time; he gets a sharp reminder of what his girl is and how she earns her living, and usually this does the trick. But sometimes it fails, or maybe the client refuses to see any girl but the one he has fixed upon. In that case there is nothing for it but for her to sever contact, if necessary changing her number, swapping her flat with another girl and avoiding her usual haunts for a while. Sometimes it must break the client's heart, I know, but it is for his own good; and it beats the alternative often preferred by girls outside my Stable of stringing a besotted client along and ruthlessly fleecing him.

As for the girls, their devotion to me leaves no room for romantic feelings for any other man. However, it is clear that they like some clients more than others. I have found this very interesting. Good looks, for instance, seem to count for very little; in fact, girls say that after a short while in the business they hardly notice whether clients are handsome. Proficiency between the sheets, on the other hand, is well appreciated; and of course generosity with tips and gifts is also most welcome to all girls, although unduly flagrant attempts to buy their esteem tend to be resented (but not to the extent of rejecting whatever inducement is being offered – business is business). 

Good personal hygiene is very important in a client, while politeness and a bit of old-fashioned courtesy play remarkably well with many girls. One girl told me how she was at a party and in mid-fuck with a guest when he realised they had not been introduced; hastily and rather breathlessly, they exchanged names and he politely took her right hand and kissed it. She thought this was the funniest and most touching gesture and called everyone's attention to his lips pressed to her hand and his cock already within her. Not every girl would have found this quite so charming, but all the girls like clients that treat them with a little respect and above all make them laugh. Time and again I hear girls telling each other that so-and-so client is so sharp and witty, he said or did such a funny thing. I thought it was a quirk of my slightly unusual Stable, but Gina assures me that most whores feel the same. All my girls' clients get outstanding service, but what earns some of them that little bit extra is nothing more mysterious than the simple human touch.

*

The clients themselves vary enormously. They come from Britain or abroad, they are tall, short, fat, thin, black, white, impressively skilled in bed or wretchedly inadequate (although my girls pride themselves on getting the best from any man). They tend to be thirty-five or over, and in fact girls do not especially welcome younger clients, finding that they tend to be rude, offhand, and not nearly such good lovers as they like to think (although as with all these generalisations there are the exceptions). There is no upper age limit and we have a number of more elderly clients, at least one of whom was over eighty; I understand he needed some encouragement, but his eventual performance was deemed adequate. And, of course, virtually all clients seem to be either married or in a committed relationship. Some come to us because they get little sex at home or things are unsatisfactory in some other way, but many, perhaps most, appear genuinely to value their relationships and love their wives or girlfriends. They come to us for variety, to recall the touch of a younger woman, to taste forbidden fruit, or most simply (do not underestimate this) just for fun.

To me, candidly, the clients are little more than a source of income for my girls. I feel no jealously about the sex, probably because my own needs are so well catered for, but if I am frank I have to admit to twinges of resentment, not strong enough to be called envy but nevertheless perceptible, when it becomes evident that a girl finds one of her regulars likable or interesting. I feel guilty about this and try to suppress it, because I know how valuable regulars are in this business and it would be unreasonable to expect the girls to form no sort of bond with men with whom they are in such intimate contact. They have their human feelings after all; the only girl that I can honestly say shows no interest in her clients at all except as a source of financial reward and sexual pleasure (in that order of priority) is Olga, and although there is something impressive about her cynical ruthlessness it goes with a callousness that is definitely not an attractive characteristic.

Laura put it very well when she was talking about her regulars. "It's so good," she said, "when I can just be myself when I'm with my one of my boys; it would be awful to have to act out my warmth or smile. I talk to them between appointments as well, it's nice when it's just a chat call, not a meet call. I like them for different aspects of personality; they're like one big collective lover, all the good things and none of the bad. We don't question each other, we accept each other: it's a strangely unconventional trust. We don't have to lie to each other. I know there's a wife or girlfriend, and he knows what I do. I know it's not perfect, but then again," she shrugged, "what is? Somehow it's more real than a lot of other lives."

I smiled at this little speech, and not only at the sentiment. I could not but reflect on the buttoned-up academic I met a year ago and marvel that it was the same person I was hearing speak of "warmth", "smiles", and "my boys". 

*

Next to me the girls love their families, and after that, and far ahead of even the best-liked client, they love the money. Although I like women (as I hope this memoir has made clear), I have always found that in general they are, if I may be forgiven for saying so, a mercenary bunch; and in this as in so many other respects my girls seem to outdo the rest of their sex. I was entertaining about a dozen girls one day and, during a lull as I was getting my breath back, they were chatting about life in general and work in particular and one of them got several nods of assent when she remarked that the sight or even the mere thought of the redness of fifty-pound notes would have her insides tensing with arousal and her juices starting to flow. 

This striking example of the conditioned reflex would surely have been of interest to the late Dr Pavlov.

*

Occasionally a well-moneyed client will invite a girl to accompany him on a trip and provided the absence is not for too long (for the girls love their London lifestyle) and the money is right (always a paramount consideration), the opportunity to travel and be wined and dined in some exotic location more than makes up for having to give undivided attention to one client for so long. But when an American businessman offered Olga a very acceptable four thousand pounds to spend a few days in an exclusive resort near Cancun, she devised a characteristically resourceful and sexy way of overcoming even this drawback. When, on the second day, after lunch at a very good restaurant, the client started making noises about getting back to the hotel for the usual reason, Olga, who had been much struck by the number of unaccompanied wealthy-looking men around, asked him to go on ahead: he had, she said, been such good and generous company that she wanted to buy him a present. As soon as he left she did a rapid trawl of the local girls hanging around the area hoping for business, selected one she was sure would find favour, and engaged her to go to the hotel and introduce herself to the client as the promised present and keep him busy for the afternoon. Paying the girl and impressing on her that she must take no money from the client even if he offered it, Olga promised her a substantial bonus later if he turned in a satisfactory report. Having thus gained her temporary freedom, she cruised around sending out availability signals. Naturally, as a stunning fair-complexioned blonde in a sea of pretty but rather samey latina girls, she soon attracted the attention she was after and was able to turn two rapid tricks at premium rates – she earned more from each of them, in fact, than she had paid the local girl – before she thought she had better get back to her principal client, who pronounced himself so delighted with his "present" that they repeated the arrangement with a different local girl the next day. So the client got two very nice Mexican girls at no cost to himself while Olga got some variety and, best of all, turned a very tidy profit. There are no flies on our Olga. 

*

I have not yet mentioned the most fundamental change in my life over the last year. The seeds of this were sown one Saturday morning a month or two after my birthday party. I was still living at the old house. Fran was visiting, as she often did at weekends in view of her new status, and she and Wendy were downstairs while I showered with Alicia after a nice fuck. Alicia's overnight bag was already packed as she was going to see her parents in Worcester and the plan had been for me to walk her to the station and see her off. But she could see I was tired; it had been a warm humid night and, unusually, I had had trouble sleeping between fucks. So she insisted that I should try to get some more rest; she could, she assured me, easily manage the bag by herself. I yielded, and went back to bed. Before I dozed off I heard her calling "'Bye!" followed by the slamming of the front door.

I woke to the sound of women's voices. There was nothing unusual about that, but these voices were raised in argument. As I pulled myself together I realised it was Wendy and Fran. Obviously they thought I had left with Alicia, as intended, and supposing themselves to be alone in the house they were taking the opportunity for what diplomatic communiqués call "a candid exchange of views".

I could not make out what they were saying, so I got quickly but quietly out of bed and crept down the stairs.

"Fran," said Wendy crossly, "you can be maddeningly obstinate. Just stop arguing and do what I say. It's all for the best."

"It isn't for the best," insisted Fran, "and James would never agree to it, so please just drop it. I'm fed up hearing about it."

Wendy pulled rank. "I'm James's wife," she asserted. "Suppose you let me be the judge of what he will and won't agree to. And this is what he wants, I'm telling you."

"Has he told you so?" demanded Fran.

"Well, no," conceded Wendy. "It's not the sort of thing he'd say. You know how he hates to hurt anyone. In fact, I'm not sure he's even thought about it in his own head. But it's what he wants. Trust me, and stop being so stubborn."

"Stubbornness is my birthright," retorted a suddenly very Scottish Fran. "And I'm not taking this from you, Wendy. I won't do it, not unless James came in here and asked me himself."

This was a cue if ever I heard one. Without warning I threw the door open and found myself looking at two angry faces, shocked at my sudden appearance. I spoke to Wendy first. I was aiming for "kind, but firm".

"Wendy, darling, I know this is hard for you but if you have a problem you must talk to me. Don't have a go at poor Fran. And I'm sorry, darling, but you're completely wrong about what I want."

"You see?" said Fran, and stuck out her tongue at Wendy like a schoolgirl.

Wendy did not reply so I persisted. "You know what Fran means to me. How could you think I'd want to send her away?"

The two women exchanged a peculiar look. "But –" began Fran, and Wendy laughed.

"James, darling," she smiled, "I think you'd better tell us exactly how much you heard and what on earth you think we're talking about."

"I heard enough to know you're trying to tell poor Fran I secretly want her to go away."

"What I am trying to tell her," said Wendy slowly, as if explaining something to a child or a halfwit, "is that whether you realise it or not you want her as your wife."

For a moment all I could do was look mutely from Wendy to Fran and back to Wendy again. "You mean, instead of you?" I gasped eventually.

"Of course instead of me, unless they've legalised bigamy and forgotten to announce it," snapped Wendy.

Fran broke the ensuing silence. "James, darling, she's been harping on about this for weeks. I keep telling her I can't hurt her like that and she's wrong about what you want, but she won't listen."

"It's all right," I said. "I'll sort it out." I turned to Wendy. "So, Wendy, you want out? I suppose I can't blame you. All this –" I made a vague sweeping gesture that took in Fran but was intended also to encompass the dozens of besotted girls scattered across London and the south east. "It's not what you had in mind when you first took me on all those years ago. All right. I understand. I won't force you to stay. But I'll always love you, no matter what."

I was expecting tears but what I got was the sardonic look. "Very pretty speech, darling, but you're being ridiculous. Of course I don't 'want out'. I'll still be here, for as long as you want me. But I'm not the right wife for you any more. Fran is. Take her, darling. I'll throw rice at the wedding."

The whole idea was so totally unexpected that I refused to discuss it any further until I had a chance to think. But as I mulled it over, slowly it grew on me. I still loved Wendy and enjoyed her company (in bed and out) but I had to acknowledge that my feelings for Fran were growing stronger all the time. Over the next few days little more was said about the subject but all of us knew how my thoughts were tending.

Then, one day, I was visiting Fran's flat for the usual reason. After I had seen to all the girls, Connie and Gabby had gone to the kitchen to rustle up some food, leaving Fran and me to lie back and enjoy that lovely, dozy, post-coital feeling. Suddenly an awful realisation struck me.