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Helen by Averti
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Subject: Story, averti, new, ``Helen''
Once again, though it may not matter, every single word is true.
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Helen is probably tired of people telling her how good-looking she is. She may
even be tired of MY compliments. However, the other night, she looked
especially lovely. Chained hand and foot in her little bed with my
knife marks all over her front surfaces. I couldn't resist one more
murmur of praise.
***
We had been casual friends for over a year. I first spotted her at a party--
through a dozen other familiar faces and bodies.
I saw her THROUGH the crowd. I can see somebody with
whom I want to have sex through a steel bank vault door, if necessary. The
casual, shlumpy clothes failed to hide her quick, athletic body. The sad
face, framed by a mane of long blonde hair, shone in the darkness, sadness
and all.
Then she smiled. Hearing something she liked from the person she
was talking to. I haven't seen very many smiles of that caliber.
There was a child in the woman. It seemed that the child had been hurt,
all over, over and over. Yet the child never gave up.
The child peeped out in that wonderful, momentary smile.
***
I saw Helen again and again, at parties. Touched gazes with her at her first
scene flogging. Traded hugs upon meeting in kitchens. Clasped hands for
a moment on downlit front porches.
She had been a member of two, then was once again one alone. It was
remarked that alternative sex tendencies and preferences split them up. I
supposed it could be so. Though a closer look than I was entitled to often
showed lots of little cracks in a broken relationship. There is seldom
``one thing.''
But that was her business. I had hopes of some intersecting new business.
***
In an incredible irony, Helen lived six blocks from my house. For a year.
I only found this out when she was preparing to move (!).
She threw a house-leaving party. I was stone sick with the flu. I lay in
bed with my germs, imagining (quite accurately, since I knew most of the
people involved) outlandish sexual excesses taking place within bowshot.
I swore from then on always to eat a balanced diet. I lied to me.
***
And then the months rolled, and Helen was in love again. Her natural state,
I thought. The glowing smile had less and less pain behind it. At times,
none.
***
And then four of us got together to play. Me, Helen, my beloved strong
vital lover, and Helen's partner.
I don't bother to make a pretext of not looking anymore. Everybody who knows
me well enough to get naked and roll around with me (and others), knows
about my retractable eye stalks and my burning, if short-sighted, gaze.
Helen without her clothes was--is--magnificent. It wasn't just the blondeness
or the flawless skin or the balance of soft and hard. It wasn't even the
gold rings through nipples, navel, and a lower intimacy. She walked, stood
(when she was standing) with grace and assurance.
We played, two men and two women. It was good, and it was not so good. There
was a great deal of stuff behind each one of us. Emotion stuff, memory stuff,
nervous stuff. The dynamic shifted, as it will. Three turned on one, and turned
one on. There was tentative flogging and sweet release. But it had not found
its place.
***
And then they Broke Helen Again. Maybe she wanted too much. I don't know; I don't
even have half of one side of this particular story. I don't think I am
supposed to. Her lover slipped slowly out of her hands--slow and
damaging, like an anchor rope through raw palms. There were deals gone back
on, and lies told, and muttering and yelling and tears and regret.
And she went quite close to the bottom.
And she pulled herSELF back up.
And just as Helen was beginning to look beyond the edges of all this fresh
new anguish...who should come skipping down de road with his hat on backwards
and a bag full of friendly torture devices? Why, it was Br'er averti, none
other, hisself! Whistling a merry tune and leering in her direction with all
the sensitivity of acrylic paint...
Actually, what I did was be a friend. At an appropriate time and in what I
hoped were appropriate ways. Of course, what I do with my friends...
***
And now we found ourselves all alone in a warm, nestlike room. Dinner eaten,
drinks consumed. She was wearing a filmy, frilly white nightgown that would
have looked quite funny on most people. On her, it looked...good-natured.
The gown had given good service by allowing me looks and hints of looks at
the body beneath. Except for brief light-lavender panties, it was all body.
***
Sometimes--not often, I begin touching somebody and right away both of us
feel the power begin to hum. The power in my hands meets the power in the
other's body. Sometimes there are actual sparks, of a psychic sort. More
often, we begin to interpenetrate. Two bodies, one agenda. The hands and
the skin are equally shared.
I was thrilled to notice this happening with Helen. Terrible disrespective
person that I am, I tried a few simple experiments, drawing the energy focus
up and down the front of her golden body. I could feel the glow gather
and move. This made me very happy, and I said so.
***
Handcuffs. Ankle cuffs, quite charming. Just enough chain to hobble to the
bathroom and back. The gown went away. The skimpy panties were innocent
and cheerful in the midst of a length of smooth, muscular woman. The pastel
eyes and the nipple rings both caught the dim light, and the soft smiling
mouth seemed to say a great deal without forming any real words.
***
A pretty, smooth brown nipple. With its ring removed, now rising into a
firm, dark-pink crest under my busy tongue. Satisfying little moans and
whispered syllables as I sucked roughly and then began to use my teeth.
My left hand roamed down the flat of her belly, across a small patch of
recently-regrown pubic hair, and into the intersection of smooth thighs. I
squeezed and probed and tickled and spread, my deft fingers working largely
independent, while I nipped and gnawed on the captive nipple.
Now and then I grabbed a handful of warm, moist flesh and squeezed rather
sharply. When you squeeze and pull at the same time, the owner of a pussy
likely reacts first with outrage, then with enjoyment. I doubt if it is
possible outside of a high-budget slasher flick actually to lift somebody
by the pubis, but it sure is fun to try.
A lot of BDSM people never really get into the primaries. I zero right
in. A vulva is not there just for decoration and ultimate climax.
I figure a pussy, being darn near indestructible, deserves lashing, clipping,
smacking, and biting, just as much as any other parts of the body.
I didn't get around to much of this with Helen, but I did haul her around
the bed as if I thought she was a suitcase and her pussy was the handle.
***
Silly little knife. Broad, short, two-edged blade, with serrations near
the guard. Sharp but not too sharp. Handle shaped like a skull and crossed
bones. I kid you not. Very stagey, very heavy.
I serrated the inside of one smooth thigh. Didn't like the effect. The blade
was too short to get the proper angle. I had other knives with me--of course--
but I decided to go to the point of this one and see what we could develop.
Erotic torture has often seemed to me to be the near relative of medicine.
You use instruments as precisely as you can. You inflict pain. All in the
service of some higher purpose, some exalted outcome. Like many a physician,
we treat the body in order to enhance the spirit.
All of which is a fancy-ass way of saying that, with the tightest of smiles
and the loosest of grips, I took the little knife and carved dozens of
scratches and welts into Helen's beautiful hide.
***
You think a smooth, flat feminine belly is an attractive surface? Enjoy
running your hand over the skin, feeling the muscle beneath? Well, what
it is REALLY good for is to incise lines into. Criss-crossing, intersecting,
neat gridwork. Each line yields its precious sigh or moan or muffled cry.
And breasts!! Worth a bible in their own right. The softest skin imaginable,
it seems to alternately crawl from under the blade and hang on to the tip.
Once can follow the natural contours of the breast and upper chest, like
an evil farmer plowing precious hillside soil.
And the nipples...behind me, temptation. To hold a sharp knife into a warm,
distended nipple, to apply the veriest gnats-breath of pressure and watch
the flesh indent, try to get away...most of all, to KNOW that she trusts me
with this nipple and all else, that I COULD shove the knife IN and THROUGH...
and to know that I never will. But I could.
***
And then, at the apex of the evening, with knife lines all over her front and
cane bruises coming up nicely on her rear, we again fell to discussing what
could be especially for me. We started discussing this, in short
phrases, as I was working two fingers up inside her warm, pink pussy.
``I can't come from fingers'' she gasped informatively.
Not until tonight, I felt like saying. But this was not American Sexual
Gladiators. I was not enough of a fathead to egotistically try to top
her into working out a fingered orgasm. I was still plenty thrilled with the
basic sparks from the fingers.
We sat halfway up and talked about vanilla fucking and ways to come, you know,
the normal things you discuss when you are negotiation freaks. Then she blew
me away with a single phrase. She asked if I would like for her to masturbate
for me.
Um, well, yes, now that you mention it (!).
Richh joked in this forum once upon a time that the reason why he writes
erotica is ``to get laid.'' Well, for me, a lot of this shameless exposure
has served to put me in many reader's minds as The Guy Who Loves Jilloffs.
It's immaterial whether reading my stories or reading my mind brought Helen
to that suggestion. It happened, and I'm glad.
Two large pillows (so I could get a Good Look); a fair-sized crystal clear
dildo squatted upon; fresh nipple clips from a handy bedside stash; a Hitachi
wand with a towel to buffer between vibe and clit; and a full head of
enthusiasm. We were ready.
I lay close to her, tweaking the nipple clips and stroking her skin as she
rode the buzzer, sighing and groaning. Flashes and sheets of blonde hair
whipped around us as she tossed her head. Now her eyes closed tight, now
wide open and smiling at me, now wider still but not seeing anything. I
felt myself getting closer and closer, to her, to what she was feeling,
to where she was...
With a few muted sounds and then that special laugh, Helen came. I felt as if
I could, with only a little further effort, melt her into my flesh and bones.
We hugged happily for some moments.
Then Helen said, in essence, again.
I moved VERY close to her this time. Same arrangement, same powerful muscles
squeezing on Mr inside while Mr Outside hummed and gnawed the towel over her
steamy center...
But she was getting farther into it, this time. And I felt me getting farther
into HER. It was the eyes, I think. And the face. The more I locked eyes with
her shining blue eyes, the less body and the more spirit I felt. I began to
feel the vibrator working MY clit. I began to feel what it is to squeeze
MY pussy down and in on a large dildo.
My breathing started to match with Helen's. My body started to move in the
same slow swaying waves as hers. She tossed her head and then when we were
once again joined at the gaze, she had her come face on. That serious, profound,
transfigured face, all soul, no artifice. At that expression, I fell into her
eyes. And we had her orgasm together, riding it out as if we were body-
surfing hand in hand.
***
She removed the transparent dildo from inside her, tilted back her head, and
gave a graceful, playful lick to the artificial cockhead. Charming.
***
So much beauty. So much trust. I often feel transfigured after playing sex,
painful or polite. Just then I felt as if I had paused on a long, cold
journey, expecting only simple rest, and had instead been shifted to some
warm, golden magic place for a time, and then gently brought back to the
so-called real world.
One last kiss, the kiss of friends, lovers, conspirators. The hug of comrades
who have built something fine, achieved something noble. One last vain peek
at my knife-work, now fully welted into a really impressive lattice.
One last negotiation, to do it again, righteously soon...
***
And so I took that last kiss and surround of warmth with me, out into the
frosty night. There seemed to be a thousand extra stars smiling on me, and
I smiled back as I flung the toybag into the back of my car and drove away.
*****
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