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Noises Off
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.
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NOISES OFF
by Alex Cameron
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I would rather have spent those summer evenings playing football in the
park, which I didn't do very often anyway because I was shy and had few
friends, or riding out alone on my bike. Come to think of it, I would
sooner have had two hours extra homework every evening.
My father was on my side. "He's a growing lad", he would growl,
lowering his newspaper for a moment. "You don't want him turning into a
fairy, do you? He wants to learn to be a man". And then he would
return to his paper. But my mother was vehement. Being in the play,
she insisted, would be good for my education, it would take me out of
myself, it would help me to make friends.
So every Monday and every Thursday my mother drove me down to the church
hall for rehearsals. I needed some education, I found out. At least I
had heard of George Bernard Shaw, but I associated him with worthy
classroom texts. I was given a book which briefly lifted my spirits, it
was called "Plays Unpleasant" and contained several which looked as if
they might be quite exciting. "Captain Brassbound's Conversion" caught
my eye; it was probably an adventure about pirates. But we were not to
do that, we were to perform "The Philanderer".
I guessed it was about some kind of plant. My father took great pride
in his garden, and I was sure I'd heard him talk of plants with names
like Philandera. It wasn't in my school dictionary, so I asked my
mother. She said a philanderer was a man who liked women, and wouldn't
tell me any more.
My mother was to play Grace, and had a lot of words to say. There were
two others I knew as friends of my parents, Jim and Sylvia Meadows,
playing Leonard and Julia. The three of them argued a lot, it was
difficult to tell which was the script and which not. Mine was a small
part, as a page, and I had little to do most of the time, some nights I
wasn't needed at all. I took an electronic pocket game with me for a
while, until Jim Meadows complained that the continual bleeping was
ruining his concentration. After that I wandered round the vestry, or
outside amongst the gravestones, until I was needed or until my mother
called me to go home.
Sometimes she drove me home, more usually she would give me money to buy
fish and chips, or ask Sylvia to run me home. If my father asked, as
invariably he did, "Where's your Mum?", I could only tell him that she
had stayed behind to sort out some point of production. I sometimes
heard her come in, long after I'd gone to bed. Once or twice I heard
raised voices but couldn't make out the words.
September came, and with it at last the week of the production. The
arguments were over, the evening sessions by now were flowing through
smoothly and we were ready for the first public performance. Sylvia
Meadows took it upon herself to make a big fuss of me, I think she had
been feeling sorry for me all those weeks and felt I was being left out.
She had me try on my tunic for size, tugging it here, turning up the
cuffs of the jacket, pinning up the trouser legs. The way she touched me
was businesslike, but I didn't feel comfortable, I wasn't used to being
touched by a woman and something made me feel strange. "Stop shaking!"
she said, as she looked up at me, a broad smile on her slightly plump,
pretty face, and I noticed her clear, blue eyes which seemed to be
looking right inside me. I mumbled something, I felt my face burning,
and I wanted to run from the room. Her eyes seemed to hold me where I
was. She laughed, kindly.
"You're a fine lad!" she said. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen" I replied
"Aren't the girls coming running for you then?"
"I don't like girls", I mumbled.
She laughed again, but said no more.
On Wednesday, the first night, Sylvia Meadows insisted on doing my
makeup for me. I was left until last, she came to attend to me fully
dressed in a long, high-necked Victorian dress in powder-blue, which
emphasised her already prominent bosom. Her fingers worked deftly,
applying the greasepaint with firm but gentle stokes of her fingers, and
all the time her face was close to mine, those eyes concentrating
intently, and all the time there was her perfume. My face was burning
again and I wanted to run, and I felt I desperately needed to go for a
pee, but I couldn't move, nor could I speak. She was finished and stood
back, admiring her handiwork. And then she laughed.
"You can't possibly go out there like that!" she said. I followed her
gaze down to my tunic pants . They bulged upwards like a bell tent. "I
thought you said you didn't like girls!"
I blushed even deeper and averted my eyes.
"Let me help you with that" she said. Her cheek brushed against mine as
she squatted down beside my chair, and her perfume was overpowering.
"Don't tell your Mum!" she whispered, as she unbuttoned my tunic to
release the tentpole, which sprang upright. "My word, you're a big
boy!", she murmured, as her long slender fingers grasped the pole and
stroked its length, up and down, up and down. I was paralysed and
speechless. And then I gasped out loud. I felt as if I had burst. A
jet of semen fountained high into the air with the first spasm that ran
right through my body, and landed on the floor several feet away. A
second jet came, and splashed onto Sylvia's dress, though she tried to
move out of the way. The third spasm brought an ooze of thick white
stuff that seeped over Sylvia's fingers. Twice and three times more the
spasms came before they subsided. Sylvia planted a kiss on my cheek
before mopping up with a Kleenex, and sponging down her dress.
When I walked onto the stage I completely forgot that I was nervous.
* * * * *
Saturday came, the last performance of "The Philanderer". My father had
never come to see us, to my disappointment. The review had appeared in
the local paper, with no mention for me, to my even greater
disappointment, but there were special mentions for my mother and for
Jim and Sylvia; how well they had expressed the tensions between their
characters. The director, in her speech after the show, made a point of
singling me out though, and I shuffled and looked at my feet as the
assembled eyes turned towards me.
There was to be a Last Night party at the Meadows's. My mother had
forbidden me to go, not that I had wanted to, but somebody had insisted
that as part of the cast I must. It was a grown-up party and most of
the guests ignored me, and worst of all I could see nobody I really knew
for a while, my mother had vanished somewhere. I stood miserably alone
with the glass of Coke somebody had given me.
And then the familiar perfume hit me. Sylvia Meadows appeared beside
me, changed now into a long white dress which exposed her tanned
shoulders and plenty of her ample cleavage. She whispered urgently
"Come with me", as she took my arm and drew me out of the room. "I want
to show you something". She led me upstairs to her bedroom, checked that
nobody was about, and locked the door.
"Shhhh!" she whispered.
She drew me close to her. Standing up, my head was level with her
bosom, and my cheek was pressed against the soft skin. Inside my
trousers my penis was becoming hard and erect again, but I was no longer
afraid of these new feelings. Sylvia kissed the top of my head gently,
and ran her fingers through my hair.
She took my hand and placed it on her breast, encouraging me to knead it
and roll her nipple between my fingers, through the silk of her dress.
She stroked the front of my trousers, with the tell-tale bulge. I
barely noticed as she unfastenend my trousers and started to ease them
down.
Somehow we fell together on the bed. Her lips sought mine. I wasn't
sure what to do, but she pushed her tongue between my lips. With
growing confidence, my hands started to explore he body. I eased one of
the straps of her dress over her shoulders to expose her white lacy bra,
but had trouble getting further. She broke off the kiss to pull down
her dress all the way to her waist, and unclipped her bra, allowing her
full, heavy breasts to come tumbling out. Each was capped with huge
brown areolae, a good two inches across, and her nipples stood pert and
erect in the centre. I cupped them in my hands and kneaded them once
more.
She unbuttoned my shirt from the top, planting kisses on my chest as she
worked her way down. Each of my nipples she licked and sucked gently as
she reached them, then lower and lower until she reached the tip of my
throbbing cock. She allowed her tongue to play over the head for a few
moments, then parted her lips and slowly absorbed my length until it
touched the back of her throat. Up and down my shaft she moved, faster
and faster and sucking hungrily, until I felt the tension rise till I
could bear no more. I tried to pull out of her mouth, but she sucked
ever more eagerly, until the hot fluid surged up and into her mouth.
She pulled away now, but I wasn't finished. A rope of semen and saliva
hung between her lips and the tip of my cock, and then a final burst
sent a fresh jet over her face.
She licked my cock clean. It remained stubbornly erect as she drew it
once more into her mouth, then broke away again. She hitched up her
dress until it was bunched around her waist, and eased her panties down.
She lay back, and guided my cock into her pussy. I squeezed her breasts
and sucked on her nipples as she moaned and gasped.
Somebody was rattling on the doorknob. I froze. "Shhh!" whispered
Sylvia, as she placed a finger on my lips. "It's all right!" Whoever
it was went away, I heard another door on the landing open and close.
There were muffled voices through the wall. Somebody, a woman, giggled.
Then I forgot about them again as I shafted Sylvia more and more
eagerly. It wasn't long before the spasms came again.
My cock began to go soft again. Sylvia and I lay together in a tight
embrace, neither of us feeling a need to speak. An age passed.
And then everything seemed to happen at once. There were footsteps
rushing up the stairs, and voices raised in agitation. The doorknob
rattled again, and then stopped. Another door was flung open violently,
there was a woman's shriek and a jumble of angry voices, until one voice
shouted above the others.
"No, George, No!"
The voice was unmistakably that of my mother.
There was a crash of something heavy falling in the next room. And
another familiar voice, my father's, called out
"Don't interfere with other men's wives, you bastard!"
"Shit!" I hissed under my breath.
"Hush darling" whispered Sylvia, putting her finger to my lips once
more. "We're going to be fine. And it's time the old philanderer was
taught a lesson"
She kissed me deeply once more, as her fingers caressed my once-more
stiffening cock.
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