this is a true story. isn't it, kel? '+gt; i feel a certain degree of shame and self-disgu
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
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 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.
`Okay, my shift ends at six tonight. I'll come right over.' she
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
`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
`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
* * * * *
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
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
`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
`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.
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
E-Mail Fredric L. Rice / The Skeptic Tank