Constitutions and Locomotion
The house had been boring for quite some time. Things were different, there was no escaping it. Ever since the night we fought off the Nazis, everything else had become a pale shade of itself. Where was the thrill in doing housework after striding through a battlefield rife with guns, explosions and walking suits of armour? The answer sadly was “nowhere” and there it stayed for a long time.
Our parents’ death hadn’t helped of course. It felt like some cruel irony that we survived a head on assault from the Germans with Miss Price but my parents’ home was struck by a bomb, dropped by a plane, flown by a man they had never even seen. We had all been thankful that Miss Price and Emelius offered to adopt us.
We were bored but at least we were alive and we had each other; a close family to get you through the tough times that came later. Britain had won the war but was almost completely crippled itself in the process. We ourselves would’ve starved if it wasn’t for Emelius’ connections in the criminal underworld. He, as always, was nothing more than a simple street hustler with a waxed moustache, but found himself wielding a certain level of influence. Miss Price’s home was large and out the way, so provided a prime location for an unofficial warehouse, storing a plethora of stolen goods for those willing to pay.
It was hard keeping quiet during that time, unsure who it was safe to confide in, so I subsumed myself in any crime literature I could lay my hands on. If I was going to be a criminal, why not surround myself with such things? I loved everything I cast my eyes over, finding myself drawn toward the danger of it all with growing enthusiasm. Soon I moved onto other fiction, then non-fiction, periodicals, autobiographies, journals. It was like my mind had finally realised I could do anything I wanted, be anyone I wanted, not just in word but in reality as well. I didn’t have to forever be the illiterate, wise-talking Cockney girl I had been raised to be; I was free.
The notion solidified, set and without anyone else knowing, I had started to become what I had always thought a woman should be.
One very-late night I was staying up again, finishing off another of the tome-like biographies that littered the library. No-one else was awake. I could hear the rafters of the house settling and the low groan of the wind blowing under one of the window-frames in the study.
I turned the page and something fell into my lap. It was a small, rectangular booklet, made out of old, cheap, yellowing paper. Years later I would find out that the booklet was called a Tijuana Bible but at the time I had no idea. The only thing I noticed (and kept my eyes locked on) was the cover. A beautiful, busty young girl with long black hair standing, embarrassed and totally naked, in front of three ogling men.
I felt the rush of excitement instantly. My heart began to race but I didn’t know why. I knew of course what sex was, having not only my old friends who told me of their exploits but also the wealth of diagrams, sketches and detailed articles in the library’s books. This feeling though, was something completely new. There was something dirty about the picture, which in turn made my heart flutter wildly.
I looked cautiously through the pages and the breathing started becoming heavier. I pored over the simple comic strip; reading and re-reading the story of the girl in the cold. The girl, having just bathed, steps out of the house for a moment when her towel blows off. She grabs for it, running after the thing down the street. She meets three young men who admire her, grope her and then have sexual intercourse with her in a variety of different positions; quite forcefully. I felt hot and flustered, so quickly returned the booklet to its hiding place and went to bed. It was difficult getting to sleep that night.
As time went on, I started sneaking looks at the booklet when I knew everybody else was asleep. Each and every time I had the same heated reaction. Soon my vagina began to tingle when I thought about the book; later it began to ache.
I started touching myself. It started with me tracing my fingers across the skin on the top of my arm, then my belly button and neck, then my breast and finally settling my hand gently on my pussy. The aching was instantly replaced with satisfaction; a kind of continuing intense relaxation. My hand was always on the top of my underwear; those days I thought it must be ‘wrong’ in some way, so reasoned it was okay as long as I never actually touched the bare skin surrounding my vagina. The sessions would go on for hours at a time; me slowly masturbating over the same erotica comic, night after night. Every time I came close to an orgasm I would stop, rest then restart after the sensation died down. The feeling was scary back then, I still felt uncomfortable letting myself go to that degree. Without a friend of my own age to talk to at the time, I had no-one to tell me that it was all perfectly natural. Miss Price wouldn’t have even known the meaning of the word ‘cum’.
And so I would’ve stayed if it hadn’t been for the smuggling.
There had been a few good years after the war, times were changing and I had just turned eighteen. Emelius had managed to amass a fortune in illicit trade but it wasn’t enough for him. He had found it impossible to change his ways, having relied on his conman persona so heavily for so many years. When the profit in hoarding dried up he tried to convince Miss Price to sell the estate. I never heard the full argument but caught certain words and intonations through the wall.
Even if I hadn’t, I would’ve noticed the tense atmosphere. Emelius and Miss Price didn’t speak to each other publicly anymore, which meant the house was silent the majority of the time. It all seemed a long way from the idyllic picture I had imagined when we first became a family. Life had become a slog and my little comic was the only thing that kept me going.
The arguments between Emelius and Miss Price became venomous after they stopped having sex; curses took the place of the barely audible moans from the master bedroom. They no longer had anything left in common and I saw the strain in Emelius’ appearance. He looked tired; drawn; irritated. Woe betide anyone who tried to spark up conversation with him.
One night the stress of money, sex and dissatisfaction caused Emelius to come looking for me. It was late, far later than my nocturnal reading sessions. While I slept, Emelius snuck quietly into my room, stared at me for a short while then finally slunk away. I’m not sure how long this had been going on for. It was only when, one night spent too long in the company of erotica, I barely had time to pull the covers over me before he appeared. I had thought Emelius had heard me amusing myself in the library. I opened my eyes as much as I dared and watched him as he stared at me. His hand was gripping the bulge in his pyjama bottoms and gently rubbing it up and down. After ten minutes he left but that wasn’t the last I saw of him.
For weeks it was the same routine. Emelius would appear in my room, touch himself then leave. After a while I cautiously started caressing my pussy. The feeling was exhilarating knowing Emelius would’ve been mortified if he knew I was awake when he visited me. I could only imagine the look on his face if he knew I was masturbating right alongside him.
I still hadn’t cum but now it had become something of a problem. I positively loved stroking my cunt through my underwear but before I could reach orgasm, the intense sensation would cause me to stop. I just couldn’t physically bring myself to any kind of climax and it was becoming tiresome.
I no longer rested when masturbating; I continued on for hours just trying to reach satisfaction. My hand slunk below my knickers but still, I didn’t cum. I started to bury my fingers as deep as I could in my tight hole but still, I just couldn’t cum. Some nights I would completely soak my bed-sheets and nightdress with my excretions but still went to sleep restless. The aching returned and I became irritable and short-tempered. I needed release. I desperately needed to orgasm! So I devised a plan.
I was going to seduce Emelius. I was going to be a honey trap.
It was a solid enough concept; make a good situation look even sweeter to entice him in, then ‘snap!’, you bolt the doors and trap the poor bastard. It worked in so many crime novels I’d read so I could only hope such an idea would work in real life. The night rolled around and I waited, idly thumbing my vulva, trying to keep myself calm and collected. I heard the unmistakable sound of someone creeping down the hallway outside my room. Quickly and before I could hesitate, I turned to face away from the door, hitched my night-dress up over my bum and tried to lay the quilt in such a way that made it look like I had simply rolled over in bed. My soaking labia felt cold and sticky, exposed to the open air like that. I could just about make out the intoxicating aroma amongst the mix of old linen, varnish and moth-balls.
Emelius entered. My exposed behind must’ve been quite a shock to the old man’s heart. I’m certain I heard him gasp slightly. It must’ve been quite a sight, my glistening pussy highlighted in the moonlight pouring through the window.
For a moment I thought I’d completely misread the situation. It sounded as if Emelius was trying to leave the room, his shaking hand grasping clumsily for the doorknob. I had no need to worry though, Emelius was locking the door. The honey trap had worked! Now all I had to do was lie there and wait.
Emeilius tip-toed over to my bed; I could hear his heavy breathing already. I had thought the first thing he would do was touch my labia but instead he lowered his head and just smelt my pussy. For a while I couldn’t figure out what he was doing and it was driving me wild. Soon though I heard the sniffing and felt the light brushes of the tip of his nose and the edges of a moustache on my naked flesh. Once or twice he brushed past my clitoris. I was so wet I felt a bead of juice start to gently roll out of my engorged cunt and trickle, slowly and stickily down the inside of my thigh and onto the bed underneath me.
Suddenly Emelius rammed his tongue into my vagina. The sensation was too sudden and intoxicating to stifle myself. Without thinking I pushed my pussy backwards onto Emelius’ face and let out a gasp. Instantly I prayed my sigh hadn’t been loud enough to hear. It apparently wasn’t as Emelius seemed to instantly regret his momentary lapse of control. He jerked his face away, stood up and sounded like he was trying to unlock the door. I was annoyed, infuriated that he refused to take advantage of something practically offered to him. I could feel my labia positively burning; my roasting, soaking loins, more wet than I had ever known before. There was only one more thing I could try.
I turned, freezing Emelius to the spot. I didn’t open my eyes but instead rolled over in the bed to face the doorway, flicking the covers away to make out that I had been too hot while sleeping. The top few buttons of my night dress were open (as I’d undone them slightly earlier while waiting for Emelius) causing one of my breasts to fall out. The slight cold breeze emanating from the window instantly caused my nipple to become erect; the light, tingling sensation sending cold shivers of excitement down my spine.
Emelius stared at me again for a long while; breast exposed, night dress around my waist, pussy revealed and aromatic; an increasingly damp patch spreading out from beneath my buttocks. It was all too much for the old man.
He moved over to me again but this time sounded far surer in his movements. Emelius placed one hand on my pussy and sat down slowly on the bed. He took three long strokes of my pussy, forcefully manipulating it. I wanted to cry, the feeling felt so good. All too quickly though Emelius stopped the massage and gently grabbed the inside of my leg and turned me on my side.
I screwed my eyes tightly together as he lay down behind me. I vividly remember how hot he felt, the heartbeat thumping in his chest. I could smell the sweat and feel his rigid penis poking into my lower back. It took him around half an hour of dry humping before he finally built up the nerve to unleash his cock and tease my pussy with it.
I was in pain. I wanted him inside of me so badly. Suddenly he sank his cock into my immature, waiting cunt. It was so pleasurable, the shattering of my hymen barely even registered in my mind. Even today (after a considerable number of experiences) I still look back on that night and positively ooze with lust. His penis felt massive, though in truth it was never a particularly good example of the species. The experience felt like it would never end. Without warning (and all too close to what felt like an orgasm) Emelius stopped. I feared that he may have ejaculated prematurely; unsure what such a thing felt like.
Emelius’ hand appeared on my vulva again as he withdrew his soaking member. The fingers caressed my pubic hair, curled down over my clitoris and through the crinkled lips of my cunt. He dipped his digits into me and far as he could; stretching all my already worn, but still wanting, hole.
I could still feel his wetted cock pressed up against my back as the skin around my genitalia stretched. If I had been more experienced and less keen, I may have wondered why Emelius was so thoughtfully soaking his hand in my beautiful juices. I was shocked then when he suddenly took his fingers from my pussy and then quickly reached round and started to part my buttocks. His index finger coated my anus in vaginal juices before plunging straight into my rectum.
Caught unawares, I opened my eyes and tried to cry out. Within an instant Emelius’ right hand passed under my neck and clamped tightly across my mouth.
“Shush girl!” he whispered hoarsely into my ear. The finger retracted, stopping short of my sphincter, where it tickled my entrance before ramming straight back in. Muscles clenched but this time, as it contracted, the sensation of his fingers slipping past the muscle was exquisite. For a while, uncomfortable pain mixed with an increasingly filthy enjoyment.
A second finger was inserted, tipping the balance back in the favour of pain. I winced and let out a momentary gasp.
“Touch yourself girl.” Emelius demanded.
Having left the charade of sleep behind, I complied willingly. My lips were still red hot, my clitoris rock-hard beneath puffed labia. I wanted to groan but I was terrified someone might hear and interrupt. Emelius must’ve noticed by the look on my face as he removed his fingers from my bum and rammed his cock back into my vagina. A shudder of delight passed through my body.
“You’re wet, girl. You filthy little bitch! You’re enjoying this.” I was. God, I was!
“Please,” I whispered, almost inaudibly, “fuck me, Emelius. Do whatever you want.” The old man didn’t reply, instead he moved his dick from my cunt and pressed it hard up against my anus. For a moment it resisted before sinking back into my bowel. I dug as many fingers as I could into my sopping pussy and bit hard down into the corner of the pillow.
For a time I mirrored the speed he fucked my arse, before increasing the rhythm. Emelius followed suit, finding it easier to slide into my behind as my body relaxed. I pulled my hand out and jammed my fingers into my mouth, sucking the delicious concoction from them.
Evidently Emelius found this engaging, switching holes again to pound my pussy savagely. I let out a muffled cry and his cock returned to my bum and carried on its frantic pace.
Neither my pussy nor my anus posed a match to his passion. While he fucked one recess, the other stayed pursed and ready, waiting another assault. Whenever I could I slipped my fingers back into my cunt. My pulse raced and I began to babble to myself. I could feel myself reaching climax but I had no time to linger on such thoughts.
Emelius grabbed my shoulder and started deep fucking me as long as he could. He stuck his fingers in my mouth then crumpled into a series of gasps and grunts. He erupted into the deepest recesses of my rectum. The spasms receded then for a few moments pumped more semen into me.
My vagina clenched hard, the tingling pulse of energy coursed through my cunt which itself clenched tight time and time again. I tried to express the sensation in sound but words wouldn’t come; just the rush and the aftershocks.
I lay there, trembling with delight, as Emelius slowly drained the last of his seed into my bum. All I heard from him was a single, protracted sigh as he pulled his member from my slightly stinging hole. He left without saying a word or even looking back, off back upstairs to lie back down next to Miss Price.
I wasn’t upset, he’d done what I wanted him to and I was sure he’d be back the next chance he got. I lay there in the moonlight, my night dress around my waist, running fingers through what little pubic hair I did have. No-one had told me what semen did after it had been ejaculated inside of you. It was a hidden delight to feel it slowly but surely trickle out of my arsehole, down my cheeks and down onto the bed.
My hand reached down and scraped some of the deposit up into my palm. I took my time licking every last remnant of it off. The pure filth of it sent the same familiar tingle of lust through me; within moments I found myself getting wet again. I lowered my now clean hand back down to caress myself. I still had energy to orgasm again and I had a long night ahead of me.
THE END OF PART #1