Sophie stared at Luke. Her gaze went to his lips. She wanted to feel them on hers but was afraid to make a move. Luke made it instead.
“I’ve wanted to taste you ever since I first saw you in the rain,” he said softly.
His lips captured hers in a sweet, soft kiss that seemed to never end. Sophie felt his tongue run over her lips and gasped. Luke slid his tongue into her mouth and deepened the kiss. Sophie groaned as she felt his arms wrap around her. The feel of his body next to hers was enough to drive Sophie wild. Her tongue danced with his as she laid her hands on his shoulders.
Luke felt himself swelling. Her nipples pressed into his chest. He knew it was too soon to do more even though his body screamed at him. His hands roamed over her back as he slowed the kiss. It was tough, but he stepped away, putting space between them. Sophie still had her eyes shut when he looked down at her.
“You have to know I want you,” Luke spoke first.
Sophie took several deep breaths and opened her eyes. “Yes.”
“I don’t want just a few nights, Sophie,” he told her.
“Me either,” she agreed.
“Will you go to dinner with me Saturday night?” Luke asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up at six,” he stated.
“Alright, Luke,” Sophie answered.
He leaned in and dropped a kiss on her forehead before he headed out the door. Sophie didn’t move until long after the sound of his truck was gone. She finally got ready for bed and turned the lights off. Her mind was still on those few minutes with Luke as she closed her eyes.
In the morning, she checked her e-mail before work, as she always did. There was one from Toni so she opened it first. It was short and to the point.
“I want details!” Toni had written in huge letters.
Sophie laughed at the message as she sent off a reply. As she hit send, she grinned, knowing it would bug Toni all day. Even at work, she smiled whenever she remembered what she wrote. As expected, when she got home, the answering machine light blinked. Hitting the button, she leaned against the counter, waiting for the messages.
“Sophie Michaels, you better call me back as soon as you get this,” she heard.
The way Toni spoke made her laugh as she waited for the next message.
“Don’t make me tell mom,” Toni’s voice said from the machine.
Sophie had tears running from her eyes as she thought of all the times Toni used that line on her.
“I’m on my way over and you will talk to me,” was the last message.
She was still standing there laughing when Toni walked in.
“You can’t send me an e-mail like that and expect me to accept it,” Toni stated.
“Like what?” Sophie asked when she could speak.
“I told you I wanted details,” Toni repeated.
“I gave you my answer, Toni,” Sophie chuckled. “Are you saying you didn’t like it?”
“Let me think, Sophie,” Toni said as she glared at Sophie. “Your exact words were ‘Short version. Yes, we did it. He’s hot. No further details necessary’ I believe.”
Sophie burst out laughing all over again at the indignant look on her sister’s face. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she saw Toni put her hands on her hips.
“You look just like mom, Toni,” Sophie got out.
“Don’t you change the topic on me, young lady,” Toni said with a stern voice.
“You are her,” Sophie roared.
The irony of it hit Toni right then and she began to chuckle. Soon both girls were giggling so much they couldn’t talk.
“You still owe me details,” Toni reminded Sophie when she could speak again.
“The sky is blue,” Sophie began. “So are eyes and water and—”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Toni cut in. “Wait. You said eyes are blue. I bet he has blue eyes!”
“He was here. You met him,” Sophie reminded her.
“You’re a devil, Sophie Michaels,” Toni said.
The telephone rang just as Sophie started to reply and she grabbed it on the second ring. Within a few seconds, she turned her back on Toni, lowered her voice, and smiled. Toni noted the behavior and pictured herself much the same way when her husband called while they dated. All Toni wanted was her sister to find a good man to make her happy. Without a word, she picked up her purse, slowly opened the door, and left. Sophie never even heard her go.
Sophie hung up the telephone many minutes later. She was surprised not to find Toni anywhere in the house. A quick peek outside showed her car was gone. Sophie said a silent thank you to her sister for giving her privacy. It had been Luke on the phone and Sophie forgot all about her sister. The rest of the evening was quiet for Sophie. She fell asleep thinking of what might be in her future.
The next two days dragged for Sophie. She wanted it to be Friday night so she could see Luke again. Thursday night she went through her closet to find something to wear. Nothing looked right to her, and in a panic, she called Toni. They wore the same size, Sophie knew, and Toni had great taste. Her sister promised to be right over with several outfits for Sophie to check out. Sophie ran out to greet her sister as soon as she heard her arrive. They each grabbed some clothes and went inside.
An hour later Sophie stood in front of her mirror in awe of the sleek black dress she wore. Sleeveless, with an empire waist, it was in the style that Jackie Kennedy made famous. The back zipper and front darts completed the look. Sophie dug around in her closet and came out with a pair of stilettos. She stared at herself in the mirror and wondered what Luke would think.
“That’s the dress, Sophie. If you want to make a killer impression, that’s the one,” Toni stated.
Sophie carefully hung the dress back up and set the heels next to her dresser. Her eyes shimmered with excitement.
“I like him, Toni. I really like him a lot,” Sophie admitted.
Toni watched her little sister and hoped it would go well for her. The few minutes she talked with Luke made her think he was decent. She planned to keep an eye on things so he didn’t hurt Sophie.
“You deserve good things in your life. Maybe he’s the one for you,” Toni said.
Toni left with the remainder of the clothes safely back in her car. Sophie wandered through her house until bedtime. Last thing she thought of was being able to see Luke the next day. In the morning, she raced through getting ready, grabbed a muffin, and made it to work with a minute to spare. The boss was out for the day so she was able to catch up and actually leave a little early. She wanted all the time she could to get ready for her date.
Sophie felt her hands shake as she attempted to apply her make-up. A long shower had been refreshing until she realized what time it was. Now she struggled with the simplest tasks in her preparation. A desperate call to Toni ended with a promise that she would be over in a few minutes to help. Sophie sat on the edge of her bed and cried.
“Sophie?” Toni called.
Toni walked into the bedroom and knelt in front of her sister. It was obvious she had been crying and her hands were ice cold.
“Hey, it’s alright. I’m here to help now,” Toni said. “It’s big sister to the rescue!”
Sophie gave a small smile and hugged Toni.
“I’m just so nervous. Luke is a great guy, Toni,” Sophie told her.
“Let’s make you even more beautiful than you are right now, then,” Toni chuckled.
For the next hour, Toni fussed over Sophie’s hair and make-up, fixed her manicure, and finally zipped up her dress. The two giggled like they had years before when Toni practiced on Sophie. Slipping into the stilettos, a big smile on her face, Sophie heard the doorbell ring right on time. Thumbs up from Toni encouraged her as she opened the door to see Luke standing there.
“My god, you’re gorgeous!” Luke said and whistled.
Sophie blushed softly. “Thank you, Luke.”
“Every guy that sees you will be jealous of me,” he remarked.
“I’m glad you approve,” she grinned. “Toni helped me.”
“You don’t need help. Someone as beautiful as you already stands out,” Luke stated.
“Hello, Luke. Good to see you again,” Toni said as she joined them at the door.
“Toni, hello,” Luke replied.
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“Be good to my sister, Luke.”
Toni whispered the words to Luke as she squeezed through the doorway on her way out. Sophie couldn’t hear what Toni said, but knowing her sister, had a general idea.
“Thank you, Toni,” Sophie added.
Luke helped Sophie into his car and made sure she had her seatbelt on before he closed the door. He settled himself behind the wheel and started the car. The conversation was light and comfortable considering Sophie’s nerves earlier. Luke told her about the phone call from his mother the night before. She reminded him that at his age he should be married and giving her more grandchildren.
“Maybe our moms should get together. I hear the same thing all the time,” Sophie chuckled.
“I remind her that when the right woman comes along I’ll do just that,” Luke remarked.
The restaurant was trendy with several people waiting for tables. Luke gave his name to the host with confidence. He confirmed his reservations that morning and a table awaited them. Sophie felt glamorous and smiled the entire evening. Luke’s eyes smoldered each time he looked at her.
“Have you written any new stories?” Luke asked.
“I have one close to finished,” Sophie replied with a blush.
“Do I get to read it?” he wondered.
Sophie thought about some of the words that she had written that week. The story was her fantasy of what might happen between her and Luke.
“I don’t think so, Luke,” she said.
Luke tipped his head and watched Sophie for a few minutes. He appeared to be thinking and she worried he might guess what the piece was about. Instead, he talked about the new house he was having built, and some of the decisions he needed to make.
“So the contractor wants me to pick out floor coverings this week,” Luke began. “How am I supposed to know what will match?”
Sophie laughed at the face he made. “It’s easy, Luke.”
“Then you try it once,” he said. “Carpet, hardwood, vinyl, neutrals, warms…”
“Think about how you’ll be using each room. Close your eyes and imagine yourself in the house. Now what do you see?” Sophie asked.
Luke did as she said and saw the house of his dreams. “I see kids playing in the den, with toys all over the carpet, and my wife nursing the baby.”
Sophie envied the woman in his image. She didn’t want to admit it was almost identical to what she yearned for.
“Now you know how easy it is to choose things for your new home,” Sophie remarked.
They talked a bit more of his house as they finished dinner. Luke took care of the bill and pulled Sophie’s chair out for her. His hand rested on her back as they weaved through the other tables to the exit. He helped her into the car as he had done when he picked her up. They were both silent on the drive back to her house. Once in her driveway, Luke shut off the car, took a breath, and turned to Sophie.
“I won’t ask if I can come inside, Sophie, even though it’s what I want to do. Sex isn’t what I want from you,” Luke started. “When I saw you standing in the rain, concerned about your neighbors, something twisted deep inside me. I’m thirty-four years old, Sophie.”
He spoke quietly as they sat in the near darkness of his car. Sophie held her breath as she tried to follow his words.
“I’ve dated many women over the years. All the years I went for hot bodies were a waste. What I should have been looking for was someone that made me smile, with a sense of family, and with intelligence. I guess as I got older I realized the important things a mate should have,” Luke explained.
“When we’re young we don’t always have the experience to make the right decision. Having fun is as far as we can see at times,” Sophie added.
“The day I signed the contract for my house I sat in the middle of the land and wondered what I had done. It was as if from that moment on I was a responsible adult. I was committing myself to staying here,” he went on.
“Owning a home isn’t for everyone,” Sophie said.
Sitting so close to Luke, the stars twinkling above, Sophie was confused where Luke was taking the conversation. They hadn’t known each other long enough for her to sense his moods. She waited for him to continue.
“Sophie, I really like you. You’re beautiful, sexy, smart and sensitive,” Luke expounded. “I don’t want to screw things up with sex right now.”
“What are you saying, Luke?” Sophie asked.
“I’d like to get to know you better and see where it leads us,” he answered.
“I’m sure you know I’d say yes if you wanted to come inside tonight,” Sophie stated.
“I know that, Sophie,” Luke sighed.
“You’re right about not knowing each other very well and I’m not looking for a few nights of sex either. Getting to know each other sounds perfect to me,” she ended.
“Then I’d better let you get inside before I change my mind,” Luke chuckled.
Luke held her hand as they walked to her door. Sophie thought how right it felt to be with Luke. The future looked very good indeed.
The End
Forever Mine
The scent of cinnamon hung in the air like an exotic perfume and small particles of flour danced in the rays of sun shining through the slats of the venetian blind. Mary stood over the bowl, stooping slightly, her brown hair clasped neatly in a black butterfly clip. She smiled dreamily as she stirred the thick, lumpy cake batter, slowly adding air into the gunky mixture.
Round and round the large wooden spoon stirred. Patiently she sifted the ingredients together, ensuring each precious morsel was incorporated into the mixture. It was stiflingly hot in the kitchen and her face was pink with exertion, dark stains spreading slowly under the arms of her worn, blue housecoat.
Her hands were red and calloused from years of scalding water and bleach. She was fanatical about her housekeeping, almost obsessive about cleanliness. The kitchen would be sterilised after she had finished baking her cake with every surface shining and spotless.
“It’s gonna be a beauty!” she muttered to herself. Her eyes danced in anticipation of the perfect sponge cake she would take from the oven soon. It would be so light…it would melt in the mouth. Her cakes always did.
Her Father had loved her cakes…
That sudden thought made her frown and she pushed it firmly from her head. He was not here to eat her cakes anymore. No more cakes for him…oh no. She smiled again and beat the mixture more vigorously.
These days she baked less frequently - and only for ‘special’ people. This cake was being baked for a special person. Mary smiled softly, her firm stirring of the mixture slowing slightly as she thought about him.
He was special. Only he deserved her special cake. No one else was worthy enough. She stood still, her hand suspended in the mixing bowl, the spoon settling into the glutinous mass.
He liked cinnamon.
“Cinnamon bun, please,” he smiled at the girl behind the counter. The girl smiled back and passed him the last cinnamon bun from the glass display case. Mary frowned darkly as she stood in the queue behind him. She saw she was going to have to choose another cake as he had taken her bun.
For a moment she was cross; but he turned to glance across the room and she saw his handsome features. Instantly she realised he looked exactly like the hero on the cover of her latest book and she was captivated. Mary quickly decided she did not mind him taking the last cinnamon bun.
Brenda smiled at the handsome man and Mary pursed her lips in irritation. Normally the serving girl was rude and disrespectful and Mary did not like her one bit. Mary had seen her type before – all short skirts and tight blouses - the kind of girl who gave away her favours in dark alleys.
The girl was common as muck and she always tried to short change Mary whenever she went in for a bun and a cup of tea. Mary had her number though; she was no fool. She made sure she checked her change every time - right there at the counter - even when the queue was trailing out the door behind her. She wasn’t bothered; people could mutter under their breath and grumble all they liked.
He had taken his bun and his coffee and walked over to a table near the window, still looking cheerful. Mary watched him with a strange butterfly sensation fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She forgot where she was and it was only when she heard Brenda’s loud, crass voice that Mary remembered that she hadn’t paid for her own bun and tea.
Scowling again at the girl, she pulled the correct change from her old purse, counted the coins out slowly and walked away, oblivious to Brenda’s look of disdain. She chose to sit at the table next to the man, taking her gloves off one at a time and placing them precisely on the chair next to her.
Her tea was too hot to drink, so she diverted her attention back to the man. His greying hair was long and touched the back of his collar in wavy strands. Smooth hands lifted his mug to his lips, his fingers long and delicate with the nails trimmed and neat. He looked like an artist, thought Mary dreamily. As she watched, he began to read a book taken from his bag and was soon engrossed in the pages. Judging by the cover pictures, it was a travel guide of the local area.
Her heart sank. This meant that she wouldn’t see him again. Gloomily she dropped her gaze. Her tea gradually cooled as she stared unseeing out of the grimy window and she sipped at it carefully, not wishing to burn her lip. The bun she had purchased sat on its plate, tempting her, but she ignored it.
When she had drunk half of her tea, she placed the cup back on the table and picked up the fat bun. Easing it from the delicate paper case, she took a dainty bite. It was delicious. Not as good as her own buns of course, but delicious nonetheless. The ginger flavour burst on to her tongue and she savoured the sweetness slowly. When she had eaten exactly half of the bun, she took a sip of tea. Then she ate the rest of the bun, a dreamy smile on her rosy pink face.
Mary followed an unwavering routine, every week had a schedule and schedules must be kept. Thursday was library and bun day and every Thursday, without fail, she arrived at the library at ten o’clock sharp to return her five books, (always five), and choose five more.
Mary always borrowed old-fashioned Romances. She loved to read about demure heroines, swept off their feet by dashing heroes, their love sealed with a chaste kiss in the final sentence. Mary firmly believed that was how true love should be. She could not imagine any other kind of love.
Every night she sat in her bed, the small lamp illuminating the pages as she read her stories. Once thirty minutes had ticked by on her old clock, she turned and carefully inserted her bookmark between the pages and placed it on her bedside table. Switching off the lamp, she would settle beneath the covers, ready to fall asleep and dream about the story.
Virginia watched as Count Von Trapp swept Lady Christina round the ballroom. The orchestra played on, the sweet notes rising above the tinkling of feminine laughter and men’s voices. Virginia was surprised to find herself feeling a little jealous of her childhood friend; she suddenly wished it was she, not Christina, dancing with the handsome Count…
Once Mary had inadvertently picked a ‘modern romance’ and she had been shocked with the things described within it. The things that were written were, well…disgusting! Mary shuddered to think about it. It made her feel hot and…not quite right.
She had complained to the librarian. The woman had looked at her kindly and explained that some people enjoyed that kind of book. She had smiled and taken the book from Mary’s trembling hand. “Don’t worry dear,” she said. “I will make sure it is put back on the right shelf this time.”
Mary had walked away feeling better. At least no one else would make the same mistake. The book obviously should have been in a different section. She would stick to her Barbara Cartland novels and the classics. She could enjoy those without worrying about coming across filth amongst the passages.
By eleven o’clock, she finished in the library and she would take her books across the square to the small café on the corner by the cathedral. Some days it was busy, others it was quiet. Mary didn’t care either way. As long as she had a seat, other people around her, chattering away, did not bother her. She usually ignored them and they ignored her.
She would buy her cup of tea and her bun from Brenda and then sit for a while; just watching the tourists pass by. It made her feel less alone for a time and she enjoyed the company, even if it was distant. Most days she was usually on her own, unless she happened to have her guests staying.
She prized that. Guests were always polite and they complimented her cooking. Mary liked to be appreciated. It had been a rare commodity in her life – being appreciated. Her parents had not appreciated her at all. They had treated her like a slave most of the time.
Day in, day out, she had washed, cooked, cleaned and tried her best to keep the house tidy. It was difficult with her father drunk most of the time. Her mother stayed out of the way as much as possible; she certainly gave Mary no attention unless it involved a beating for some perceived misdemeanour.
The only pleasure Mary had was her books. A kindly neighbour had given her a carrier bag full of paperback novels one day. Mary had eagerly taken the prize and hidden them away in her room, carefully pushed behind the box of junk at the bottom of her cupboard. Not that anyone came in her room anyway.
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But she was not about to have her father take these books away from her. Once a teacher had given her a book of poetry. She had made the mistake of bringing it home and reading it in front of her father. He had snatched it from her hands and thrown it on the fire. Mary had endured a week of detention for the crime of losing a school library book. The teacher had not believed her when she tried to tell her what had happened.
Mary never made that mistake again. She soon learned that people only saw what they wanted to see. Girls like her were always invisible to the world. This was why nobody ever came to help her, even when her father beat her black and blue. Eventually she learned that it was no use crying – it made no difference – he just beat her harder.
Punishments were dealt out all too frequently. Father had punished her severely the day she lost his money on the way to the butcher and they couldn’t have a Sunday joint. She had been beaten unconscious on that occasion. Her arm had taken ages to heal properly and even now, it was still slightly crooked and it ached terribly on cold damp days
Do this, do that…that was all they ever said to her. She worked hard and did as she was told. It was never enough though; they always wanted more from her. When her Mum died Mary had even more work to do around the house. She had never been encouraged to go to school and by the time she turned eighteen, her Father expected Mary to take up all her Mother’s duties as well as her own. ALL of them.
Mary was shocked when he staggered home drunk one night, slurring his words and lurching into the kitchen. “You, bitch, upstairs now! Your whore of a mother has gone and you can look after me now…” He smiled malevolently at her, his eyes red and rheumy from the whiskey and Mary was confused. She didn’t understand what he meant.
Before her mother became ill, Mary had heard her moaning and crying out sometimes, usually at night. Mary had buried her head under the pillow and blocked out the noise. She did not want to know what they were doing. It sounded horrible.
Her father lurched towards her. Mary shrank against the side of the refrigerator, her eyes wide with fear. Whatever her father wanted from her, Mary had a sudden inkling that it was not anything a father should be asking his daughter.
When he groped clumsily at her breasts, she screamed loudly. Quick as a flash, her father slammed his hand across her mouth. “Shut up you stupid bitch! I don’t want the neighbours to come a running!” His breath stank of tobacco and booze. Mary thought she might vomit and she struggled to control her stomach. Father would be even angrier if she did that. He would beat her for sure.
The hand slid lower, towards her private places and Mary tried desperately to stifle a moan of horror. Mary knew nothing about what men and women did when they were alone. No one had ever told her. All she knew was what she had read in her novels. The handsome hero kissed his bride gently on the lips and there the story ended. This was more than enough for Mary; true love should be pure and untainted.
Her mother had not even told her about women’s things. The day she had her first bleeding, she had been so frightened she had sat outside in the filthy outbuilding shaking like a leaf. She had mistakenly believed she was going to die of a horrible cancerous disease, just like her mother.
Fortunately Mrs Kennedy from next door had heard her sobbing wretchedly and took pity on her. Once Mary had overcome her considerable embarrassment and admitted what was wrong, the kind woman explained what was happening to her.
She had been a lovely lady and Mary missed her when she moved away. The next neighbours to move into number 1207, kept themselves to themselves. They seemed rather frightened of Mary’s father, probably because of the shotgun he waved around the yard when he was drunk - it frightened Mary too.
He was paranoid about burglars. They had been broken into twice the previous year and after that he brought the shotgun. He claimed it would be a deterrent and if anyone tried it again, he would shoot the buggers. Nobody did of course. Mary was surprised they had bothered coming back a second time; there had been nothing left after the first burglary.
Once he had a gun to amuse himself with, he found great enjoyment in hunting small creatures in the nearby woods. He spent hours killing for fun. It made Mary feel sick when he came home bragging about all the animals he had slaughtered.
She often fantasised that he would accidentally shoot himself. It would be a fluke of course. He would be out hunting and something would go awry…the gun would go off and he would just crumple to the ground like a rag doll. Mary thought about this a lot.
She imagined him lying there, amongst the leaves and dirt, bleeding dark, sticky blood as his life drained away inexorably. Nobody would find him for days. He would just lie there amongst the forest creatures, cold and stiff. The rain would fall and the wind would blow – but he wouldn’t care. He was dead.
This made Mary smile as she lay in her hard, narrow bed. Sometimes she embellished the fantasy and introduced wild animals into the scene…hungry animals, looking for food; hungry, starving and voracious animals, tearing the body apart, teeth ripping at flesh and bone. It was surprising how satisfying this particular fantasy was.
When Mary’s father pushed his hand roughly between Mary’s legs, she felt a nameless horror rise deep within her. She knew this was wrong; she knew her father should not be touching her like that. Her revulsion was acute, but she was still too afraid of what he might do if she tried to stop him. He slurred something unintelligibly, his foul breath making her choke and then he collapsed in a heap on the hard floor, unconscious.
Mary was frozen in shock for several minutes. Gingerly she nudged her father’s prone body with her toe. He snored and mumbled, but he did not wake up. With a sigh of heartfelt relief, Mary ran from the kitchen and out into the yard. She sat on the cold step shaking and wondering what to do next. When he awoke he would be madder than a skunk; he always was when he had been on a drinking binge. Her mother had usually sported black eyes and purple bruises the day after his bad sessions.
But her mother was gone - the cancer had eaten her away and left a dry husk of bones behind. The shrivelled creature that remained lasted several months before the doctors moved her to a hospital. Mary never saw her again. Her father refused to take her to visit as he said it was a waste of bus fare and she needed to stay behind to look after the house.
Mary sat on the step, thinking about how best to deal with her father. She had a couple of hours at most before he began to come round again. A slow smile lit up her face as a plan formed in her mind.
The man sitting at the next table glanced up from his book and smiled at Mary. For a moment Mary wondered if had been smiling at someone behind her and she looked at him puzzled.
Then he spoke, “Excuse me, I don’t suppose you could recommend somewhere I could stay for a couple of nights? I’m just passing through and I need a Bed &Breakfast.”
Mary felt flustered. She wasn’t used to strange men talking to her. It was rare that anybody talked to her these days, apart from the guests, of course. But they were always polite so she didn’t mind having conversations with them.
Her face lit up like a warm fire as she suddenly realised she could help this man. It seemed that God was smiling down on her today and her prayers were being answered.
“I have a Bed & Breakfast,” Mary said shyly, her cheeks growing warm and pink. She lowered her eyes, unsure of what else to say. Suddenly the table was fascinating and she studied the scratches and lines gouged out of the scarred formica surface.
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“Really?” the man seemed very pleased and he stood up quickly, his guidebook shoved into the pocket of his long wool coat. It was cold outside and his coat looked nice and warm. “It would be very helpful if you happen to have a vacancy for me. A couple of nights should give me enough time.”
His voice was low and melodic, a faint southern accent barely discernable in the cultured tones. Mary found her mind wandering again, hypnotised by the sound of his voice.
Count Von Trapp gazed into Virginia’s violet eyes and waited patiently for her to respond to his question. She felt her cheeks blushing pink under his interested scrutiny and she almost stumbled over her words,
“Yes Sir, I do believe that I would like to accompany you for a short stroll around the park tomorrow…”
“Excellent, my dear. I look forward to your exquisite company!” he responded with a bow.
Mary struggled to bring herself back to the here and now of the busy café.
“Yes, I have a spare room if you would like to stay,” she offered, hoping he would take the room. She wanted him to come to her home; she felt instinctively he would like her house and her cooking.
“Wonderful! Then we are agreed. Can you give me directions so I can find my way there later on this afternoon?” He continued to smile warmly at her and Mary basked in the glow of his charismatic aura.
Her hand shaking slightly, she carefully wrote down her address on the piece of paper he gave her. He had lent her his beautiful fountain pen. The nib looked like it was gold-plated. Mary knew it must have cost a lot of money and she reluctantly handed it back to him, wishing she could keep it a little longer.
“Thank you,” he said politely. “I will be there about six o’clock. My name is John Fisher, - and you are?”
“Mary,” she replied shyly.
“That’s a pretty name for a very pretty lady!” John commented, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He gave her another dazzling smile before grabbing his bag and striding out of the café purposefully. Mary was left standing dazed and unsure of what to do next. Her routine had been upset and she hated that.
She sat back down at her small table, thinking about her unexpected guest. There was suddenly a purpose to her day and she felt a buzz of adrenaline surge through her veins as she contemplated all that she would need to do before he arrived at six o’clock.
Shopping for food, that was the most important thing. She chewed her lip thoughtfully as she considered what he would like to eat for his evening meal. He seemed like the sort of man who would appreciate a good, home cooked meal. None of that faddy vegetarian stuff for him. Oh no… He looked like a man who would really enjoy a traditional roast dinner with all the trimmings.
She would go to the butcher’s now and buy a joint of beef. Standing up again, Mary pulled her gloves back on, tucked her scarf inside her coat and stared briefly outside. It looked like it might snow by this evening. They had forecasted snow by the end of the week for sure. Mary did not mind; she would light the fires and the house would be warm and cosy. Her guest would enjoy that.
The first flakes of snow were beginning to fall when the taxi dropped her guest off at Mary’s front gate. Her heart missed a beat when the doorbell rang, and she rushed to answer it. The house was spotlessly tidy and the smell of roast beef drifted through from the kitchen.
Her guest looked tired as Mary opened the door with a shy smile. He stood on the threshold of her home, a large holdall in one hand and a black bulky bag in the other.
“Something smells good!” he commented appreciatively as Mary stepped aside to let him pass. Outside the snow swirled like silvery confetti in the light from the street lamp. It was almost magical and Mary felt like fate had finally conspired to send something wonderful her way.
She shut the door and locked it securely. She knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere again tonight, so she hung the key up on the hook beside the hat stand. Her guest removed his black coat speckled with snowflakes and hung it up carefully. Mary cleared her throat nervously; she was horribly unsure of herself in the company of this man.
He turned to look at her expectantly and she realised he would probably want to see his room and maybe have a bath.
“The room,” she said hesitantly; “It’s upstairs. Follow me, please.”
“Thanks!” the man smiled. “I could do with a shower or something, if that’s okay. I’ve had a long day.” He didn’t elaborate as he followed her up the worn stairs covered with patterned carpet. Mary would have asked what he had been doing all day, but she was too nervous to, so she showed him to the guest bedroom with its large double bed and small sink.
It was clean and pleasant; the walls decorated with a small rose print paper and the furniture shiny and dust free. Mary watched anxiously as he glanced around the room, taking in the vase of snowdrops on the dressing table and the small selection of books next to the bed. He seemed happy with it.
“The bathroom is next door,” she told him, her eyes cast downwards demurely.
“Thanks,” he replied, walking past her and into the room, placing his bags by the window.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” Mary said. Then she left him to do whatever he needed to do.
From down in the kitchen, she heard the pipes rattling as he ran his bath and she busied herself with stirring the gravy. The meat was roasting slowly in the large oven, parsnips and potatoes in another tin above the meat.
Mary had prepared carrots and sweet peas to accompany the meat and she knew that her guest would have no cause to complain about her food. She was a good cook and she was justifiably proud of her skills. There were also Yorkshire puddings, but they needed to be done last.
A small drop of gravy splashed out from the pan and on to the tiled wall. Immediately Mary dropped the wooden spoon and grabbed her cloth. She wiped the droplet away and inspected the tile to make sure she had missed nothing. No, it was all clean again. She smiled happily and placed her cloth back in the sink. A clean kitchen was very important to her.
Cleanliness was next to Godliness, her mother used to say. Then she made her daughter sit in a scalding bath and scrub her skin with a coarse bristle brush – just to make sure all the sin was washed away.
Her guest appeared and Mary showed him the dining room where a place was laid for him at the mahogany table. She had lit candles as well as a fire in the grate. The room was bathed in a soft yellow glow and it looked almost romantic. Mary wondered for a panic stricken moment if maybe she had made a mistake with the candles. She hoped he would not draw any inferences from them; she only wanted to make the room as nice as possible for him. He seemed appreciative however. He told her it looked lovely and gave her that smile again.
The smile that made her knees wobble and her tummy flip.
Blushing hotly, she hurried back into the kitchen and dished up his meal. When the warmed plate was piled high with food, she proudly carried it back through to the dining room and placed it in front of her guest.
He looked surprised at the amount of food she had given him.
“Wow!” he said, “I wasn’t expecting such a veritable feast! Thank you very much - you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble…”
Mary said nothing. She merely smiled and backed away, intending to leave him to eat in peace.
“Aren’t you going to sit with me? I’d rather not eat alone.” He stared at her hopefully and she wavered. Although she preferred to eat her meal in the kitchen, she didn’t want to offend him, so she nodded and went reluctantly to fetch her own smaller plate of food.
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Mary sat at the other end of the table and picked at her plate while her guest tucked in with gusto. She couldn’t help but stare at him as he ate. He had such lovely manners. Her father had had the manners of a pig. He rarely used cutlery, preferring to shovel the food in with a hunk of bread. It was like watching an animal eat – only animals had more finesse.
“You are a wonderful cook, Mary,” John said after a while. “I’m amazed you haven’t been snapped up by some lucky guy!”
Mary felt a warm glow steal through her body. He thought her she was worth having. Nobody had ever said that before.
“Thank you,” she said shyly before lowering her gaze demurely towards her food.
They ate some more, or rather John ate while Mary chased the food around the plate. She was much too nervous to continue eating.
“What are you doing here…I mean in town?” Mary said eventually. She was curious despite her crippling shyness. He seemed different to the normal type of person who stayed as a guest. Mostly they were workmen - rough and ready, and non-communicative. That suited her perfectly as she was not much of a conversationalist either. They ate her food and thanked her politely, which was fine by her.
This man was different. He had an air of other-worldliness about him. She sensed he was from a different life to her and a part of her hungered to know what this life was. She found herself reaching out to him, wanting…needing… to know more about him. He aroused something unexpected in her and she revelled in the strange feelings he invoked.
“I’m a photographer,” he replied. “I work for a travel magazine and I’m doing some shots of the local area for an article we are producing. It’s very pretty round here!”
“Yes it is. There are some beautiful places nearby. The woods are lovely…” Mary’s voice trailed off and she suddenly remembered her father again. He had liked the woods too. He spent a lot of time hunting and killing in those woods. When he wasn’t drinking.
“Perhaps you could show me the best spots? That is if you aren’t busy tomorrow.”
Mary was jerked back to the present and she suddenly beamed with pleasure.
“If you want me to, I could.” The thought of spending some time with John made her soul sing with joy. It was a sign! God had finally seen fit to send her someone to love. She had waited a long time for the right man to come along. Just like the novels she read, the right man always came along in the end.
Virginia sat in the window and read the letter written on heavy parchment paper, her heart thudding hard within her chest. Count Von Trapp had invited her to his chateau… Her blood quickened in her veins and she clutched the precious note to her heaving bosom. She could hardly wait for the journey to begin.
John finished his meal and yawned heavily.
“That was wonderful!” he told her. “You are an amazing woman!” He held her gaze before glancing at his watch.
Mary was left speechless. No man had ever been so nice to her before. She blushed deeply and jumped up to clear the plates.
“No, let me,” John insisted, his hand covering hers momentarily.
Mary felt a tingle of electricity jump up her arm and she stared at John, suddenly frightened of something she didn’t understand. She pulled her hand away abruptly, afraid of what might happen. She was not used to men paying her attention and there was something about this man that caused her nerves to dance with anticipation.
John stood and helped her to collect the plates. He followed her into the kitchen and placed them next to the sink.
“Shall I wash?” he asked cheerfully.
“No, no – you don’t need to do that!”
Mary shook her head, suddenly feeling claustrophobic with him stood so close her. She sensed that he was interested in her, despite a natural reserve and her perceived lack of appeal to most men. It frightened her and she needed time to think about things.
“Are you sure?” John asked again. “I really don’t mind you know…”
He dropped his gaze down her body for a heated moment and Mary felt a cold shiver run through her. A small malevolent shadow flitted across her mind, but she shoved it back into the dark recess and abruptly turned away towards the sink, turning the taps on and watching the hot water spew into the bowl.
“Well I’ll leave you to it Mary,” John said finally, when she didn’t answer. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Mary replied faintly, not really listening any more. She was too busy thinking about tomorrow. She was really looking forward to showing him her favourite places. It would be a perfect day. She just knew it.
Virginia walked beside the Count, listening to his deep voice telling her the names of the flowers blooming in the meadow. She could feel her heart thudding loudly in her chest and wondered for a fleeting moment if he could hear it too. He was so handsome…his black hair curled beguilingly over the collar of his white shirt. She felt her skin warming, and not only from the gentle spring sunshine…
Mary was dreaming. She was back in her kitchen - or rather her kitchen as it used to be. The walls were yellow and stained with thick grease from the chip pan. The window looked out onto the yard, a broad concrete expanse of nothing, pitted with occasional weeds. The brick outbuilding lurked out at the far end, the peeling wooden door hanging off its hinges and swinging slightly in the breeze.
The sky outside was black, although the kitchen was brightly lit. Mary was confused. How could it be so light in here when the bulb was broken, broken glass littering the grubby floor? Suddenly the back door swung open and her father lurched in, his face red and sweating with exertion.
Mary froze and shrank back against the refrigerator, hoping he had not seen her. Father belched loudly, rancid whiskey fumes erupting from his stomach. Mary watched in disgust as he scratched absently at his crotch, his eyes unfocussed and glassy, and his huge body leaning momentarily against the table.
Abruptly he turned and saw her, a slow smile spreading across his face. Mary wanted to run and hide, to do anything other than stay here like a bug under a magnifying glass about to be fried in the sun.
Her feet were welded to the linoleum. She tried to move but found she could not. Something was stopping her.
“Mary, Mary…” her father giggled, spittle dribbling down his whiskered chin. “Come to Daddy, Mary,” he grinned.
Mary tried to say no, but the words refused to form in her mouth. They stayed trapped in her mind, screaming loudly, echoing round her head while the silence in the kitchen was deafening.
Her skin crawled in horror when her father touched her face. His fingers felt rough and harsh on her soft skin. She could smell the tobacco on them; see the yellow, nicotine stained nails, long and jagged.
“So pretty…” he mumbled incoherently. “Just like your Mother…”
Mary tried to shrink back, but she had nowhere to go. The chrome handle of the door pressed painfully into her back and when she attempted to shift sideways, her father blocked her passage with his bulk and she was trapped.
Strangely she could smell roast beef. Her dream self sniffed the air and wondered where the delicious smell was coming from. It made her tummy growl and her mouth water. Father stared past her and continued to mutter about her mother.
He reached and touched her breast through the thin cotton slip she was wearing. Mary looked down in horror when she realised she was still wearing her thin flannelette nightdress. Why was she wearing her nightdress in the kitchen? She should be dressed. Mother never allowed her to roam the house in her nightclothes; she said it was tempting fate.
Her body shook with fear as her Father stroked his meaty hand over her nipple before moving lower. When he pushed his hand roughly between her thighs, she finally managed to scream.
“NO!”
But he didn’t listen. He just carried on mauling her flesh like he was gutting one of his kills.
Mary awoke drowning in sweat, a muffled scream trapped in her lungs. She could feel the tears running hotly down her face, soaking the pillow beneath her head. Her eyes were tightly closed, but when she felt a hand caressing her breast, she opened them with a start, adrenaline pumping wildly through her veins.
“You’re so pretty, Mary…” John said, lying next to her in the dark. “Such pretty brown eyes,” he crooned softly. “I love women with brown eyes.”
Mary tried to scream again, but she couldn’t. Surely this was still a dream? John was a nice man - he liked her. She knew he liked her – he had told her. They were going to spend the day together tomorrow…she had been looking forward to it. She had fallen asleep thinking about him; imagining walking with him in the woods, him picking a wild flower for her.
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She even had a picnic planned. They would eat some of the cold beef in sandwiches. She had some cake left and she would take some of the cheese he had told her he liked after dinner. It would have been perfect; just like a novel.
Virginia sat down beneath the shade of the massive oak tree, the blanket laid out on the grass before her. Count Von Trapp sprawled across from her, eating a cooked chicken leg with enormous gusto. She watched, fascinated as his teeth ripped the flesh from the bone. Suddenly he caught her staring and he smiled; a slow smile full of promise. Her eyes dropped to the grass and she felt her cheeks growing pink once more…
So why was he here, in her bed, his hand touching her body? Part of her knew it was wrong, but the rest of her just closed down. It was the only way she knew to protect herself from the pain.
And so Mary lay still. The tears ran freely down her cheeks as John lifted her nightdress up and touched her intimately. She felt his fingers probing between her legs and she moaned slightly, revulsion battling with unknown sensations.
“Mary, Mary,” a voice whispered in her ear. The voice told her how pretty and sweet she was.
Her mind kept flitting between images of her Father and John. Reality merged with memory and when John climbed on top of her, his hands mauling her breasts and his hard body thrusting into her dry virginal flesh, she felt nothing any more.
The man grunting harshly and tearing at her painfully with his hard body did not exist any more.
Mary took herself to her dream garden, where the flowers always bloomed and the birds sang sweetly. She sat beside the stone fountain and watched the water sparkle in the sunlight, tiny rainbows shimmering in the air.
There was no pain or wickedness here, only peace and tranquillity. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. The regimented flowerbeds thrived in the warm sun. Each and every bloom was perfect, the shape of the petals perfectly symmetrical. Not one solitary thing was nasty in this garden. It was how her life was meant to be - perfect.
The sweet smell of cinnamon came from somewhere, but she didn’t know where. It did not really matter. She was happy just sitting here, feeling the sun warm her skin. A part of her recognised that this was not real, but the door was firmly locked on reality for now.
When John rolled off her body leaving his sticky residue behind, Mary was scarcely aware. She lay supine on the bed, her nightdress torn and rucked up round her waist. John stood and pulled his trousers up before leaning over her,
“Thank you Mary…” he smiled gently in the half light. “You are a perfect woman!”
Mary did not reply, although she was vaguely aware of him shutting her bedroom door as he left.
The cake was almost ready. Mary peeked through the oven door and smiled brightly as she saw how golden it was. She could see it only needed another few minutes.
As she waited, she finished washing the pots and pans she had used. Soon they were all tidied away, stacked carefully in the cupboards. She stooped to open the heavy oven door. Using thick gloves to protect her hands from the heat, she carefully lifted the cake out and placed it on the side.
It was a beautiful cake – perfect in every way. Mary looked at it proudly and considered how best to decorate it. It needed something special to mark the occasion. After all, this was the first time she had had a special person to share it with.
When the cake had cooled slightly, Mary eased it carefully from the tin and placed it on a wire rack to allow it to cool completely. It needed to be cold before she could ice it without risking the icing melting down the sides. That would not do at all. It would look sloppy and he would be disappointed.
She frowned as she imagined his face if her cake was less than perfect. No, that would not do at all. A perfect man deserved a perfect cake.
The afternoon darkened as she waited for the cake to cool sufficiently to ice. By teatime she touched it and judged it ready. Mary measured out some icing sugar and added a drop of red colouring. She mixed the white powder with water and stirred it into a paste suitable for spreading on the cake. When it was smooth, she slowly poured the confection onto the sponge and watched delightedly as it spread outwards in a pink circle. It reached the edge of the cake and slowly stopped. She rubbed her hands together with glee – it was perfect.
All the remained was the extra decoration she had decided to place on the cake. She had wandered down to the shop that morning, looking for something to make the cake just that little bit extra-special.
Two small children had given her the idea. They had bought a packet of candy hearts – the ones that had cryptic messages on them. Mary had thought that was a wonderful idea. She could pick the best ones out and place them on the cake. He would then realise her true feelings for him. It was easier that way; she was much too shy to actually say the words out loud.
She took the packet of sweets from the table and opened the wrapper. The small candy hearts tumbled out in a pile of pastel colours. The messages written on them seemed rather arbitrary, but Mary sifted through and found some that were suitable.
She lined them up and smiled.
Love You…Love Me…Always…True Love…Kiss Me…Forever Mine.
He would read the words on the cake and know how special he was to her. Carefully, Mary placed the candy hearts on the icing, arranging them in a rough heart shape. She then took a red ribbon from a drawer and wrapped it round the side of the cake. The cinnamon scent from the sponge was delicious; her mouth was watering in anticipation of tasting the cake she had laboured over all afternoon.
But no, she would have to wait. HE would have the first taste. It was in his honour after all. Mary washed her hands and placed the cake on a tray with a knife and two china plates.
Slowly she walked upstairs to where he was waiting for her. The bedroom was gloomy with the curtains tightly shut, but Mary was familiar enough with the layout of the room to avoid stumbling over anything.
He lay on the bed silently and Mary put the tray down on the table by the window.
“I’ve made you a cake,” she said softly. “Do you want a slice?”
There was no reply so she turned back to the tray and proceeded to cut him a large slice. Taking the plate, she walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. She broke a piece of cake off and smiled at him gently.
“It’s delicious! See the hearts on it?” she said, a faint blush infusing her cheeks with a pink glow. Still he did not respond, so with a sigh, Mary pushed some of the cake into his mouth, pressing with her fingers when it threatened to crumble down his chin and onto the bedspread.
“Now isn’t that just the nicest cake you have ever eaten?” she chortled happily.
John could not have replied even if he he’d wanted to. Half his head was missing and where the back of his skull should have been there was a congealed bloody mess of bone fragments and brain tissue. His eyes stared glassily into the darkness of the bedroom and his flesh was cold and tinged blue-grey.
Mary did not care that he was silent. He had thought she was a special woman and now he was going to stay with her forever. He was her hero and she knew that he loved her in a special way.
Mary had followed John after the rape. In her tortured mind it was her father. She had dealt with her father once before and he had gone away. Now it seemed father had returned. So she did what she had done the first time. She picked up the fireside poker and when she reached the man who had hurt her, she swung it down hard on his head.
Her father had been unconscious when it happened. John was not quite so lucky. He turned just as the heavy iron poker descended on its deadly downward arc. The first blow sent him reeling to the floor, thick black blood pouring from the indentation in his fractured skull.
Mary hit him again, ignoring the unspoken plea for mercy in his eyes. He did not deserve any mercy. In her confused state her father was an animal and he only deserved to die.
When she was sure her attacker was dead, she went and cleaned herself up. She was covered in blood and mess and she felt dirty. The sane part of her mind realised that something terrible had occurred, but mostly she blocked out the disturbing images.
For ages she stood under the hot shower, washing away the blood and all the traces of what HE had done to her. When the hot water ran out, she dried herself and went back to bed. Sleep came immediately. She had no need to be scared anymore – he was vanquished. She felt certain he would not be back to haunt her now. She dreamt of her dream garden with its fountain and flowers. She was at peace again.
Mary finished her own portion of cake and went to fetch the book she had been reading to John. They were currently on chapter ten and the heroine had arrived at the home of Count Von Trapp, the handsome hero. Mary settled down comfortably in the chair next to the bed and opened the paperback novel. She knew how much John enjoyed these stories; he had listened quietly to each and every chapter so far. She removed the bookmark and began to read…
Virginia stepped hesitantly from the carriage, her dark hair struggling to escape the tight chignon. She saw Count Von Trapp striding towards her manfully and her heart fluttered within her breast. How handsome he was!
“Virginia, my love!” he said softly. “Finally you have arrived…”
How perfect this was, thought Mary dreamily. Spending the day with the man she loved, reading her stories. Her life was complete.
The End
Discovering Glory
After a thorough introduction to the intense pleasure of glory hole orgasms, a comfortable rhythm has established itself. After a deeply satisfying experience with another unknown man, weeks or even months can pass before thoughts begin to rise to the surface, to slowly become experiences as opportunity arises. The longer the time between successful visits, the more opportunity is likely to arise - or be created.
This time, it was a return visit to a bookstore/video booth complex downtown. Over the last few years, glancing over its stock had been worth a few minutes of time, though only once, years ago, did I pay to go into the video area.
19 booths for one price seemed reasonable then, even taking into account that price is not always the best measure of pleasure. Each booth had one screen playing one film, without any ability to switch or change the volume, which seemed old fashioned even then. Being open later than most bookstores, the number of men there at 10pm or so meant very few of the booths were free during my first visit.
Not all men know about how good it is to get off at a glory hole, something certainly true in the earlier decades of my life, including the time of that first visit to the booth area. Combined with the fact that much of the porn playing wasn’t especially interesting, my memory had been of a somewhat disappointing trip.
Particularly since gay porn only rarely interested me at that time, though when it did, cumming to it was incredible. Bisexual porn has always been a turn on, but it tends, even now, to be a somewhat rare genre. Considering the lack of general overlap between gay and straight tastes, not really surprising.
The gay booths were at the end of the longish hallway, and during my first visit, I doubt more than a few seconds were spent glancing at the screens through the opened booth doors. Being at the end of the dim passage, without any interest admitted to in public, my short glances didn’t reveal anything beyond the scenes of men having sex with each other.
Returning this time, nearing the entrance, a certain awareness sharpened my attention and anticipation, a now familiar and entrancing stirring between my thighs taking hold, spurred by knowing what could happen, building somewhere below my stomach, heavy and deep, almost frightening in its power. Its power adds to the sensation, a bottomless thrill that starts long before paying admittance and entering the dimness.
Walking more purposely this time towards the gay section, each side had its own glory hole style. On the left, two oversize booths were connected through a trefoil pattern, easily more than 2 feet across. Enough openness to allow all sorts of games, but still be a glory hole. Remaining unknown if careful, but fully open for all types of man to man activities. In both of these booths, the porn playing was at least interesting.
By now, any scenes of men having hot sex together attracts the interest of my cock, especially when it is more than just two men getting off. Group sex, especially such obviously enjoyed sex as three or more men can have, remains one of my fantasies, and any variation on the idea makes me hot. Especially considering that the first gay sex I saw in public was three men jacking each other off at the entrance area of a gay movie theater.
After entering and sitting on a light but sturdy, somewhat smallish, chair, the openness of the large glory hole was something new - all sorts of games could be played, with each booth easily fitting more than one person. A space where multiple people could play, in a number of variations. After a couple of minutes alone, the possibilities seemed pretty interesting, but would require more than just myself.
Admittedly, it wasn’t that much of a space for discretion, and underlined the fact that I had forgotten to bring a condom. Something only rarely forgotten since a lost chance to actually fuck a man, who pressed his ass against the glory hole in clear invitation, a man whose hard cock had been rubbing against mine. And before that whose cock had been pumped by my closed fist. And before that, his playing with my cock, which followed his pulling me by the thigh into the hole, as his other hand played with my erect length. I was barely able to restrain my desires after all we had done, even if he so obviously couldn’t. Following that occasion, I have tried to plan ahead better.
Nonetheless, the attractions offered by the space remained more abstract than concrete - the unyielding wall and narrowed focus are part of a certain glory hole intensity, even a larger sized one. The feeling of being flat against the unyielding surface of a wall, the sexual tension ending in a glorious release of hot cum, helpless against the talents of an unknown person.
Moving to the other side of the passage, there were three booths, each connected by a much smaller glory hole, rimmed with wood. Wood well worn and smooth when touched, warm, much more enticing than the cold metal of sliding panels. The booth in the middle of the three allowed the person in it to play with someone on one or both sides, while someone sitting in an outer booth could watch the glory hole action of the other two. Either position led to enjoyable possibilities never really considered before.
Two of these booths were playing gay porn, while the third played straight porn. The middle booth was perfect from my perspective, as it offered the widest range of possibilities, especially the idea of having two cocks to touch at the same time. Though the thought of being in a booth watching what was happening between two strangers had its own kinky flair - except that no one entered either side. Whenever I think that nothing much new can be discovered, something turns up again proving that sex between strangers is full of intriguing nuances, covering a wide range of tastes.
As I sat stroking myself, watching five naked men play hot games together at a backyard pool, the door to the booth to the right closed. Waiting a bit, stroking myself harder thinking of what could happen, I looked through, seeing an older man stroking himself. He was clearly hard, but no movement resulted from my beckoning fingers, except a faster rhythm of his hand on his shaft. Though the porn playing on his side was straight, he had clearly gotten aroused by watching my hand slide along my shaft, my legs spread to let my balls hang free, shirt open at the bottom to display my curled pubic hair. A fact which only made me harder, of course.
He seemed content to stay completely on his side, leaving after a couple of minutes, possibly cumming, without me getting any lasting satisfaction, taking my horniness to a more urgent level. Lacking a slider, the results of someone leaving the booth are not as abrupt as a panel closing. I left the middle booth after a short while, returning to the other side, sitting and stroking to the porn, without anyone entering. After a couple of years of glory hole visits, disappointment too has a familiar feeling - after a string of incredible experiences, most recent visits have come up empty in terms of sharing sex with someone wanting to play the same games.
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Hope and horniness continued to drive me, so I went back to the middle booth, having noticed someone in the passage both times when switching previously. Probably in his 30s, wearing simple dark sweat pants, a cap, and a dark coat, glancing around with more than a hint of furtive interest. Which seemed promising - anyone who has gotten off at a glory hole will always take the chance to do it again. The cumming is just too good - once you have you have experienced the secret handshake, so to speak, it is essentially impossible to not want to feel it again and again. A feeling fully shared by the other members of the club.
Going in, I took off my coat and hung it on the folding chair, as no hook was available My zipper had been open for a while, a fact noted with mild surprise. My mind was already missing details as my cock led me forwards. Closing the door, unbuttoning my jeans, then sitting, legs spread, stroking mainly around the fairly flaccid head, my interest greater than its physical signs. Having gotten hard several times already, with the current porn not particularly interesting, it did feel good in my hand, but mainly from a sense of potential.
And that potential jumped when I heard the door of the other booth close, followed by the sounds of a jacket being hung up, Now was the point of letting myself truly wonder what would happen with another man’s cock, beyond mere fantasy. Yet each glance through the low light of the opening just showed the blue darkness of his pants, without any indication of his desires.
Pants that gave no external indication of what he state he was in, as true now as when glancing at his crotch each time when crossing the hallway. The pants simply provided no way to see what he was doing, especially as the glory hole had a small field of vision, though perfectly positioned to see another man’s mid-section. At least if you tried. I’m certain he noticed my body shift repeatedly while attempting to see what was happening on his side, my cock now starting to grow in length and thickness. The straight porn playing in his booth was more an excuse, really, than a major interest for anyone who entered the glory hole knowing what it was.
In another moment or two, I heard his pants go down, and began to contently pump myself into the proper mood to take a good look at him. Looking at a man’s cock when I’m hard is impossible for me to resist. Bending towards the glory hole, it was delightfully plain that he had freed himself, already half-erect, our cocks similar in size. His dark bush nicely set off the shape of his growing dick, and snugged in balls, both easily seen and framed by his opened and unzippered pants.
Leaning back, sliding my jeans down more, my cock stiffening most enjoyably, the sounds of clothing being shifted was obvious. Bending to look again, his pants were finally around his knees, his cock swelling gorgeously in his hand, its rising length dominating both of us. He had a sexy cock, one that we both knew would grow sexier.
No doubt remained of what games we wanted to share, a truth making my own cock feel so good in my pumping hand, watching him stroke himself with increasing lust. His hand’s rhythm was slow but firm, different than my own, centered around the flared ridge at the end of its straight length. My breathing grew faster and more obvious, desire filling my mind, replacing thought with animal directness.
After a moment of watching his cock rise, two of my fingers went through the glory hole, an obvious invitation, one I am increasingly unable to contain. One which continues to make me burn with excitement, the final step into experiencing deliciously forbidden thrills when accepted, as is almost always true. I could see his now extended cock, its head clearly defined outside of the foreskin, standing at an angle which showed how tempting my offer must have been at that point. An offer certainly as tempting to imagine being accepted, as both our cocks kept focusing our attention to what they desired.
Yet, a certain hesitation was noticeable on his part, dwindling though it may have been. The fact that the booth he was in played straight porn was no longer sufficient cover for someone who still cares about whether they are getting off with a man or a woman. My fingers went back through the opening, signaling their desire to play with his clearly needy cock. As they moved back following their beckoning, my jacking clearly showed how turned on I was. He then turned, and his cock came through the hole.
At first, only the head appeared, gloriously glistening, close and wonderfully tempting. I blew gently against the skin, the foreskin still clinging to the last of the ridge marking the end of his lovely cockhead, my cock swelling to a captivating stiffness. Seeing a man’s cock reach fullness just added to the attraction, causing plans and possibilities to swirl.
Touching underneath his cock with my flat hand, he shuddered, and began to move his cock deeper through the glory hole, any hesitation melting as my palm and fingers continued to explore him, sliding down to lightly stroke the hair surrounding his tight ball sack. I rubbed his balls, occasionally straying along his slightly less hairy thighs, my wrist and arm along his cock, wanting to completely master him. My own stroking was starting to make me pant and moan, a habit seemingly impossible to stop, an integral part of the entwined pleasures which touching a new cock provides. The connection from one held cock to the other is pure male sex, something unimagined before experiencing it. Something I truly love, like a number of other men.
After riding that first luscious wave of lust, concentrating on his balls let me at least regain enough control to think of what would happen next. Letting a bit of saliva fall into my now withdrawn hand, it returned to smoothly glide over the full length of his shaft, noticeably heavier than when it first came through the wall. Standing up, my pants falling, it was almost impossible to restrain myself from orgasming as my cock touched his. Cock to cock rubbing is something I really enjoy, especially when pre-cum is involved. A man’s pre-cum is different from a woman’s wetness, or that of a warm mouth, a unique delight discovered first at a glory hole. At the hands of a man who got me off as good as anyone in my life, our cum mixing in glorious liquid orgasm.
By now, the natural sexiness of a man’s cock is not surprising, distinct as each man’s cock may be. But the perfect lubrication of pre-cum is overwhelming ecstasy, always beyond description. Holding both cocks in my grasp, I swirled my cockhead against his swelled reddened one, my eyes starting to close and open as the intensity crashed over me. Seeing myself like that with a man equally hard and turned on, sharing the same excitement, is pure bliss. Only possible when my cock has enveloped my will, while rewarding it. After all, this is what I had wanted.
As we kept touching, the change in friction was unstoppable, as I began to move my cock along his, moaning in a low tone. He was somewhat thicker, making the circling of his shaft delightful. The moaning had to be obvious, but I was definitely beyond caring, now moving along his shaft, slowly increasing the length and speed of my rubbing, beyond any concern or worry about what was happening with another man’s naked cock, except to keep experiencing it.
I let more saliva fall into my right hand, then placed it underneath his cock. With my left hand pushing my cock down against his, my wettened right hand started pressing him against my cock, sliding along his silky stiffness. Time began to slow in a familiar orgasmic rush, and I felt myself slumping against the wall, knees weak, my cock in paradise.
And returning from paradise as I slowed, then almost stopped moving entirely, not wanting to cum so quickly. Riding on top of the wave, not letting it break, is a skill that prolongs the game, but also has its own cycle. After some timeless interval, his cock began to move back through the opening. In my current state, I wanted nothing more than to keep him in my hold, to keep his cock from merely remembering how good it was to get off with a stranger, one who had just been cock to cock with him.
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As he pulled back, my left hand followed, determined to retain his interest by indulging mine. The hole, which had at first seemed small, easily allowed my hand to go through, then my arm, rubbing his still hard and lubricated cock as he took a slow, somewhat unsteady step back. I kept a firm sliding hold on to his now 3/4 hard shaft, my hand gaining the advantage as he just stood still, unable to withstand the pleasure provided by an unknown man worshipping his hot cock. Doing nothing to stop such pleasure continuing is a weakness shared by all cocks, and I knew that he could not resist it either.
A faith which was rewarded as we found a perfect rhythm and tension, his skin still well lubricated from our pre-cum and my spit. His cock remained the center of several minutes of beautifully mutual mindless attention. My hand went to his balls and the base of his cock, and felt his frozen hand in his bush. Pubic hair under my fingers is another attraction which has nothing to do with male or female, a kinky thrill indulged by running my fingers through its curliness, feeling springy resistance when pressed against my flat palm, or at the transition between hair and skin.
My motions started to convey a more demanding suggestion that he re-enter glory. An idea that gathered speed after his first slow, even now vaguely hesitant, movement, as the last remnants of his will were dissolved in mine. I wanted him in my complete control, owning his lust, and he seemed to understand how weak he was, his sexy cock in complete mastery of his mind and body. He finally accepted the ecstasy of giving in, a giving in that always happens for both sides in a glory hole. My own cock was again hard, my own jacking motion irresistible, knowing that more cock to cock joy was so close and so easy to enjoy.
For the third time, saliva fell into my open hand, and I reached down to spread it over our both cocks, his still with a slippery mixture which was slowly growing thinner. This time, the quickening of his breathing at my touch was obvious, and when my cock moved, the head sliding until the lower part of its flared ridge was just touching the underside of his, I heard a low moan, an almost grunting sound of surrender to what I was doing, his cock against mine. He began to slump slightly, helpless as my cock began to move. Which only made my pleasure in my handiwork grow, again fucking cock to cock with a man.
The slippery wetness between us expanded its spell, and as he slowly started to pump the base of his cock, my right hand on our shafts, my left feeling his now even tighter balls. His magnificent cock was the center of our attention, my desire to make him cum overwhelming.
My own cock was becoming a distraction, so I moved my left hand, the palm now cupping the rounded front of his erection, my right fingers and thumb responding to his own arousal, making him press his body against the divider, thrusting his cock as far into my grasp as possible, stopped only by the unyielding wall. My right hand was again moving along his shaft in much the same state of mindless perfection as before, the now familiar rhythm which had brought him back increasing in speed, wetness from the tip of his cock again making friction disappear under my hand.
I heard a gasp, and felt his cock unstoppably swell in my tight grip, something never before experienced. I actually felt the first surge of cum, watching his beautiful cock in my hand. This first jet of his hot cum surprised us both, so much so that it hit my jeans. This disrupted my concentration a bit, as I quickly moved my left hand in front of his cock, thinking that this was the first time such had ever happened. Sometimes, it is easy to not pay attention to little details, including noticing how one had been standing.
My left hand was being filled by repeated spurts of hot cum while my right hand kept jerking him off. As his orgasm dwindled, a new technical challenge started to make thinking necessary. Apart from the small amount of semen that had landed on my pants leg, my left hand was now filled with all of his hot cum. A large amount, almost overflowing.
Being differently arranged, cleaning was a surprising hurdle, requiring my attention. He left while I was still cleaning, but considering how well the inevitable mess had been handled, the lack of getting off was a minor point, especially compared to how good his cock had felt against mine.
Still horny, but exhausted, with no one else there, I spent a few minutes simply looking at the booths, starting from the back. And met my last surprise of the day, an open space essentially at the entrance. When I went into it, it turned out to be a 5th gay booth, lacking a door, the screen mounted high in the corner. But it did have a chair and a stool, plus enough space for a number of people to be comfortable in. As I walked out of the space, the idea of such an obviously public space began to tempt my imagination.
The End