this is a true story. isn't it, kel? '+gt; i feel a certain degree of shame and self-disgu

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this is a true story. isn't it, kel? ;'> i feel a certain degree of shame and self-disgust when i consider the fun i had recalling the occasion and writing it down. this is my imitation of her imitation of my style. vengeance. nikolai alekseivitch #include The phone rang. He was crouched under the desk, phone held between his ear and his shoulder while his fingers were occupied with the keyboard; he waited for an answer which, after the ninth ring, came. `Accounts, 9071 - can I help you?' `Could i speak to the Whore of Babylon, please?' she giggled. `Hi, scumbag! snoo you?' `It's about this story you wrote - ' `- which one? the one about that evening on the beach, where you -' `- no, it's that revolting piece about the girl who gets raped by a telephone. i'd be grateful if you would stop telling people that _i_ wrote it.' she made a deprecatory `ahhhh' sound. `It's a lovely bit of text. I can't imagine why anyone wouldn't want to be associated with its creation.' He snorted cynically. `Its single redeeming feature is that it's very visual. Nicely described. It would make an excellent Robert Palmer Music Video, but-' `...but it's sexist, fascist, and indicates an attitude with an unhealthy degree of objectification towards females?' `- and it's not physically possible.' There was a pause. `Wanna bet?' another pause. `Yeah.' `Okay, my shift ends at six tonight. I'll come right over.' she hung up. Knowing that her usual way of entering a room was to kick the door open, he left the door slightly ajar and kept working with his PC. At about quarter past seven, he heard the sound of tyres screeching to a stop in the street outside (`Company car.' he said to himself), followed by footsteps crunching up the loose stones of the driveway. Shortly, the door flew open and she strode in, throwing her bag across the room to land in the corner. He peered out from under the desk. She was wearing tattered jeans with slashed knees, a pair of his reeboks and a Dead Kennedy's `Too Drunk To Fuck' t-shirt. He said, `You didn't wear that to work, did you? i thought the Department of Defense had a dress code.' She grabbed his foot and dragged him out from under the desk. `No, I didn't, and yes, they do. So, been keeping busy?' `Oh yeah, definitely... i must have played at least a hundred games of "Rogue" today. She smiled and said, sarcastically, `That's nice, dear. Oh yeah - 'got somethin' for ya.' She picked up her bag, rummaged around in it and produced a shiny black telephone receiver, with about a foot of coiled flex trailing from one end. `...got it from the service elevator. it didn't work, anyway, so hopefully this will prompt them to get it fixed.' she stroked the end, buffed it against her t-shirt (making her breasts jiggle) and held it out for his inspection. The rounded end was almost as large as a baseball, narrowing rapidly to about two centimetres' thickness at the hand-piece, which was curved like a banana. He tapped it; it was hollow. `I took the insides out... so, where is everyone?' `Sister is at work, parent is carousing with various rellies at the beach-house. `Robert Smith' is asleep on the soft-top of my car. i'm afraid i don't know where `Vyvyan' is.' She stripped the t-shirt off and tossed it to him. `May I use your shower?' He matched her grin, replying, `If you are going to do what i think you are going to do, i'd almost insist on it. Can i, uh, watch?' `What, me in the shower? You can join me if you'd like.' As she made her way to the bathroom, she left a trail of clothing, which he gathered into a bundle. He buried his face in her t-shirt, relishing the traces of warmth left by her body, the subtle blend of her body odour and deodorant. While she turned on the shower-taps, he reclined in the bath-tub, watching her through the pane of unfrosted glass which faced the tub. When the stream of water had reached a comfortable temperature, she stepped underneath it, rubbing her hands through her short blonde hair, down her face and neck, over her breasts and down her waist. There, they divided, one hand slipping between her thighs, the other tracing the curve of her behind. He watched, unmoving, as if in a trance. Not expecting to be disturbed, he had left the bathroom door open to dissipate the steam; otherwise, his view would have been obscured within minutes; his foresight ensured that he had an uninterrupted show. She slowly soaped herself, moving the detachable shower-head over her body, rubbing it over her breasts, tweaking the nipples until they stood to attention. She then lathered her hand with soap and slipped three fingers between her buttocks, running her fingers over the bud of her asshole, washing the soap away with the shower- head. She turned around, pressing against the glass, her breasts flattening out and squeaking on the wet surface as she raised herself up on her toes, one hand gripping the shower-head, the other moving slowly behind her. She smiled to herself when she saw that this had motivated him to get up to join her in the shower. `You might be more comfortable if you took some of your clothes off.' she pointed out. He obliged, and knelt before her, pressing his face against her hip, one hand resting on her belly, the other flat against the back of her hand, slowly working her middle finger in and out of her anus. Still pressed against the glass, she replaced the shower-head and fumbled along the ledge until her questing fingers encountered a squeeze-tube. Pausing to ensure that it was savlon and not toothpaste (which, she had discovered, when applied to the rear, burns like a *bastard*), she worked the top off and smeared some on her fingers, which she then brought down to join her other hand. He grasped her fingers, bunching them together and pressing them between her buttocks. He then tapped her hip four times in a certain pattern, and she passed the tube of savlon down to him. He withdrew her hand, pushed the end of the tube against her ass, and squeezed a minute quantity into her, pushing it in with his index finger. She gasped and was obliged to hang on to the soap-rack as he carefully probed her behind with two fingers, then three, and then four. Applying more lubricant, he pressed his fingers together and insistently worked his hand in up to the knuckles, spreading his fingers slightly within her. He kept this up for a few minutes, pushing her up onto her toes with each exquisitely slow motion. She squeezed her ass around his hand, slowly relaxing the muscles after each contraction, until he felt that she was ready; pressing his thumb hard against his other fingers, he worked his hand completely into her. He clenched his fist and was rewarded by her gasp of surprise; he extracted a feverish moan by working his hand from side to side. `I hope... you trimmed... your finger-nails... recently.' she managed. He smiled and spread his hand out further, tickling her inside, tugging his hand back, dragging her away from the glass so that he could slip his other hand between her legs to stroke her cunt-lips. She grabbed his hand, bunching his fingers and inserting them, matching the thrusts that he applied to her rear until he felt that his finger-tips would meet somewhere inside her. Eventually, she was lifted up on to her toes with each thrust; she hung onto the soap-rack with one hand, the other resting on his shoulder. When he had reached the point where he could slide his hand in and out easily, he angled his fingers as far apart as possible and with one arm wrapped around her waist, slowly, painfully pulled his fist out with a wet sound. She gasped and sagged into his embrace. kissing him, she reached between his legs and asked, `Have you been drinking excessive amounts of cough syrup again? or have you given up erections for lent?' `... or is it possible that i don't get off on having my arm shoved into your ass up to the elbow? Or maybe i - hey, don't do that - please, it - mmmmph -' `I *know* it does, that's why I do it - OW! There's no need to bite!' * * * * * He dried her off with a towel fresh from the drier, working his way up from her trim ankles to the mop of hair that hung in wet strings over her eyes. He vigorously towelled the silken strands until they stood up in all directions, and then smoothed them down. Loosely draped in towels, they proceeded to the bedroom. `Now, what would be the best position for this?' she mused, half to herself. After a moment's thought, she heaped the pillows, blankets and sheets at one end of the bed, and lay over them, her legs pointing straight back, spread slightly. He knelt on the floor next to her, placing the telephone receiver on a towel along with a jar of vaseline and the tube of savlon. She took his left hand in both of hers, resting her cheek on his forearm, smiling up at him, and the few reservations that he had felt about this dubious performance vanished. He handed her the receiver, and she tucked it between her breasts to warm it up. He coated his index finger in vaseline and lay it lengthwise along the divide of her behind, rotating his hand and carefully curving the tip of his finger against her asshole. It dilated easily and he slid his finger into her, his thumb pressing her buttocks apart, his middle finger stroking the lips of her sex. Within thirty seconds, he was able to squeeze his whole hand into her again, noting the fetching way she flinched each time he squeezed his fist. `If only Michette hadn't borrowed my video-camera!' he reflected sadly. He slowly pushed his fist in up to the middle of his forearm; she squeezed his other hand to indicate that he shouldn't go any further. He carefully withdrew until the ridge at the base of his thumb stretched her anus; he rotated his hand, clenching his fist, in order to promote as much dilation as possible. He worked the widest part of his hand in and out until he felt that she was as relaxed as possible; he took the receiver from between her breasts and slid his hand out of her ass, wiping it on the towel. Fascinated, he watched her anus close slowly, like a flower. He smeared savlon over the end of the telephone receiver and pressed it against her behind. She took a deep breath as it parted her buttocks; her hands gripped his as he rotated the receiver, looking for the best angle for entry. `Ah- ' He glanced down at her. `Not that way?' `No - down a bit - yeah - there - okay, push!' She arched her back, spread her legs further apart and inhaled sharply through clenched teeth as he forced the head of the phone in. She squeezed back, pushing the head out slightly, relaxing and allowing it in about another two centimetres. Her eyes widened as the widest part of the receiver entered; just as she felt that she had to cry out, he stopped pushing, leaving the head of the receiver wedged in, painfully impaling her. She looked up imploringly. `Don't stop!' she whispered. He idly stroked a savlon-coated finger over the ring of muscle stretched around the receiver, and then pressed it home. It slid in with a rush, her abused hole closing over the head, settling around the relatively narrow handle. `Oh!' she sighed in heartfelt relief. She breathed deeply, and only then became aware of how aroused she felt. He bent down, pushed her hair out of her eyes and kissed her. `Okay, you were right... it *is* physically possible.' Smiling, he added, `Do you want to emulate the rest of the story? Shove it in and out a few times -' `No.' she replied quickly. He grinned, and after a moment's hesitation (during which she could plainly read his desire to do exactly what he had suggested), she smiled back, kissing him again. Their lips parted, and his attention returned to her behind, half of the telephone receiver poking out from between her buttocks, curving upward. He gently grasped the end, pushed it down, shifting the head of the receiver within her; released it, watching it spring back up. She bit her lip as he repeated the action. `Okay, I think the point has been proven... if you would be so kind as to...' He smiled slowly, regarding the receiver with his head to one side. `Oh, i don't know... it seems a shame, after all the effort we went to get it in there...' He tugged on the trailing flex, twirling the end of the receiver around, causing her shoulders to tense, her behind smoothly flexing around the handle of the receiver. She pressed her mouth against her forearm, teeth clenched. `Ah. That's, that's simply beautiful...' He took the end of the receiver and slowly rotated it to the accompaniment of her muffled squeaks of protest, until the protruding half curved downwards, the ear-piece within her pressing into the floor of her rectum; and then, with no warning, sharply lifted the end, pushing it further into her. `Oh!' He repeated the action, and she drew her legs up onto the bed, kneeling over the pillows, arching her back and poking her behind into the air as he lifted the receiver again, levering her upwards until she was almost standing. He tentatively pushed the handle in, pressing her down again; then he sensed the aroma of her arousal, and he coaxed a shudder from her by rubbing the knuckle of his hand against her swollen lips. She shifted slightly, reaching down with one hand to meet his and press it into her, while she gnawed the knuckles of her other hand in fevered lust. Together, they recalled the rhythmic motions she had experienced in the shower, he gently pushing and pulling on the receiver from behind, while she pressed his fingers into her from the front, while her free hand clenched and unclenched spasmodically... ...and then, to their mutual surprise, she mounted and surpassed the peak of erotic sensation, her orgasm shaking the bed and almost snatching the receiver out of his hand. Not ordinarily given to operatic recitals in these situations, she surprised him by giving voice to a shrill scream (which he sincerely hoped that the next door neighbors, a mere three metres away from his bedroom window, would ignore). The scream degenerated into a semi-hysterical giggle as she collapsed limply over the pillows. He pushed her legs apart, fingers tracing the slick wetness, and carefully angled the receiver downwards between her thighs, with a view to removing it. Reflexively, her buttocks clenched. `Come on,' he coaxed, `let go... you can't wear those adorably tight denim jeans with this thing poking out of your bum, can you? That's right... come on...' She sighed, and reluctantly relinquished her hold. He tugged, wiggling the receiver from side to side; she moaned and spread her legs as wide as possible. He observed the hole stretching painfully around the obscenely broad ear-piece; the slightly hook-like shape of the end made it even more difficult to get out than it had been to get it in, and she whimpered as he tugged again. He almost considered stopping; she grabbed his free hand, squeezing it, and he was reminded of the traditional film scene of childbirth. He tactfully resisted the impulse to say `push, honey!' in an American accent, and instead, carefully licked the area, his tongue caressing the straining ring of muscle; underscored by her heart-rending whimpers, the object finally slid free. She exhaled explosively, and he gently wiped away excess vaseline with the towel, planting a soft kiss on her ass-cheek, then moving up to hug her and wipe her tears away with the corner of a bed-sheet. He subdued her shaking sobs as best as he could, kissing her eyes and stroking her neck. `It's okay, there's no bleeding... calm down, dearest...' she sniffed and looked up at him with such an expression of faithful trust that his heart almost melted within him. `Do you... could I have some Perrier water please?' she whispered. Making gestures of reassurance, he untangled himself from her arms, rushed out to the kitchen and brought back a 330-ml bottle. She gratefully accepted it, hesitantly turning over onto her back, biting her lip as her behind settled onto the mattress. She removed the bottle-top and drank, swallowing convulsively. They shared the drink, occasionally pausing for slow, sensual kisses. When it was empty, she regarded the smooth green glass, tracing the inviting `O' of the bottle's mouth and then, grinning impishly, pushed the bottle down between her legs and underneath her, wriggling her hips in the air. `Kelanie!' -------------------------------------------------------------------- This file is Copyright (c) Nikolai Kingsley, 1995. Unlimited electronic reproduction and one hard-copy per user is permitted, for non-profit use, providing that this notice is left intact. hail eris - Fnord - all hail discordia - 93 - oops, that's my banana --------------------------------------------------------------------

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