|
QuikStory #10
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.
QUIKstory #10 -- A Kinder, Gentler Story -- by Footman -- Part I
Now if it was me, she said.
Yes.
If it was me, I'd be naughty. She put her elbows on the table and
leaned in toward me. Her perfume smelled sweet -- it was a scent I
recognized and liked.
How naughty? How naughty would you be?
Listen, I'd write something raunchy. And do you know why?
No.
Because you write something raunchy and people will get angry. Her
hand touched mine. Long fingers, long red fingernails.
Then that's what I should do.
People will read that, they will say: I hate this, I hate that,
but so what? They will hate it because it is good and real.
Yes.
And why?
Why will they say that?
Because, she said. Because it's naughty. Some will call it racist.
They will say it is inappropraite. They will be bothered by it, she said.
She sipped her martini. She said, Is that what you do? You write dirty
stories?
Yes. I spend eight hours a day doing that.
And there's good money in that?
I explained that there was good money if they were sent to
Penthouse or Oui or Hustler or Screw. But some I do for fun, I told her.
Freebies, she said.
And then I explained the Internet. The newsgroups on the Internet.
I explained about the group "alt.pantyhose."
And what is that about? she asked. Is that something you like? She
lowered her voice.
Yes.
You're a man who likes pantyhose?
Yes.
She looked at me. She had blue eyes. Her hair was blonde, done-up
carefully, in a severe style. She was an older woman -- in her late
fifties, maybe. Sexy, so sexy. Her hand tightned on mine. And what
happened, she asked. What happened with the story and the group you
posted it to? Was it a naughty story?
Yes it was, I said. It was a very naughty story.
Was it explicit?
Yes, I said.
And what was it about?
And then I told her. I told her about the asian woman in it, the
names the narrator called the asian woman, names like "slut" and "bitch"
and the way that the narrator treated the asian woman. I told her that it
contained things that were naughty and difficult to write. I explained
that it was interesting to write those difficult things because it meant
I could write anything. I was a writer who could make up anything and
write it. I told her about the bondage in it, the way the narrator
treated the woman in the story. Some men and women find a story like that
very exciting, I said. I know that because they wrote me nice letters and
said so. They said that they read it with their girlfriend and boyfrind
and then had the most wonderful sex they'd had in a while. Others wanted
more of my QUIKstories. One man even offered to post it to THROBnet for
me. Another said he appreciated the reality in the story, the fact that
it was written well and was real and read smoothly. Others said it was
too real and racist and some of worst crap they'd read in a long, long
time and that it belonged on some obscure "alt.sex." group.
She said: My oh my. I wouldn't expect that from someone like you.
Are those things that people like to read?
Some, I said. One man e-mailed me and said the writing style was
garbage.
I doubt that, she said.
Another said I was a sick fuck. He threatened to turn me over to
the FBI for writing pornography. He said I was one sick fuck who should
be behind bars for writing a story like that. He said he'd already called
the FBI and contacted the anonymous sever which I used and the FBI had my
name and would soon be contacting me. I grinned. I said: But I've been
sitting right here writing and the FBI has not yet come. I will be
waiting for them, though. Do you know why?
No, she said. She was looking at me. Tell me.
Because. I sipped my drink. Because I'm a sick fuck.
She liked that. She smiled. She said it again: Is that what you
are?
Maybe.
You're just naughty, she said.
I'm a writer.
A naughty writer.
Yes.
How naughty are you? She lowered her voice. Would you tell me? She
squeezed my hand.
---
She lived on the edge of town in a big house with three garages
and a pool out back. I followed her inside and into the living room and
then she set her purse down on the couch and slipped off her fur. She
apologized for the mess.
It's no mess, I told her.
But it is. Can't you see? I'll have to clean this. She took my
coat and her fur and went into the closet along the far wall. I watched
her walk. She wore a white silk blouse and dark slacks and black nylons
and high black heels. The heels swooped to a point. She looked
comfortable in those heels, as if she'd walked in them often and owned
quite a few.
She told me to sit and I did and she went into the kitchen. I
paged through a House Beautiful and then an Architectural Digest and when
she returned she was carrying two martinis. She sat down beside me and
offered me and then sat back and let out a sigh.
What a day, she said. Has it been a day for you too?
Yes, I said. A long day.
It's so nice to come home and to be with someone and relax. I
relax so seldom. She slipped off her shoes and I could see that her toes
were painted red and her feet looked lovely with high arches. Her black
nylons were sheer and across the top of her foot I could see the faint
glimmer of the light above.
She reached for her drink and said: Do you like it? Do you like
your drink?
Yes.
And then she stuck her finger in my glass and stirred. Here, she
said. Is that good? She held her finger out and I took it my mouth and
tasted the drink. Taste it.
She moved her finger in my mouth slowly and then pulled it out.
You like that?
What a good drink, I said. I like that.
It tastes good?
Yes, I told her. Yes. And then I did the same with my finger and
she took it and held it and I felt her tongue press against my fingertip.
She held my hand gently and slowly pulled my finger from her mouth.
I make a good martini don't I? she said.
The best.
We were close now, our lips not quite touching.
I feel drunk, she said.
That's not good.
No, it's not. But I have my facilities. She kissed my nose. Do you
have your facilities?
I think so. I think I do.
We'd be naughty if we did anything without our facilities.
That would be politically incorrect, I said.
Oh my yes, she said. Yes. That would be just the sort of thing
your friends on "alt.pantyhose" might object to. You might write a
QUIKstory in which the narrator takes advantage of a woman who is bereft
of her facilities.
That's a no-no, I said. I tried that with QUIKstory #9 but many
found that offensive and politically incorrect. They assumed that I, the
writer, possessed the same qualities as the narrator of the story, and
therefore drew the erroneous conclusion that like the narrator, I, the
writer, would do something as terrible as taking advantage of someone who
had too much to drink. These critics are not very savvy when it comes to
making the distinction between fact and fiction. It's as if they've never
heard that the narrator of the story is not the same person as the writer
of the story. Maybe they should go back to LitCrit 101 and rethink their
hasty conclusions. Literature is a complex thing and for some of my
"alt.pantyhose" detractors it is perhaps too complex. Their idea of a
good book is Robert Waller's "Bridges of Madison County" or Stephen
King's "Nightmares and Dreamscapes." I feel sorry for them. They must
have such boring, unimaginative lives.
Oh my, she said. There are even rules to erotica now. It's so
unfair. She took another sip and swallowed. Your friends on alt.pantyhose
sound like snobs.
No, I said. I wouldn't say that. They're just uptight, some of
them. They feel as though they must police their little corner of the
internet and censor everything they don't like.
She leaned close and whispered: But you *do* feel a little giddy,
too, don't you?
Yes, I said. Yes. And then I kissed her nose. I felt giddy but
about me had my facilities.
And then I felt her hand slide around my neck and slowly pull me
close and we kissed and for a long time our tongues touched. I moved my
hand around her smooth blouse to her back and pulled her close. And when
I pulled, she pulled me even closer. She broke away and said: My oh my.
Are we naughty? Is this something you'd put in a story?
She slid her hand to my crotch where my rock hard cock pressed
against my bluejeans. My, she said. That feels giddy, too. You are giddy.
I feel naughty.
Oh baby, she whispered. She kissed my cheek. Not too naughty.
No, I said. I feel very naughty.
She closed her eyes and rubbed my crotch and said: That feels so
big. That feels so big. Is it too big for me?
I undid my snap and then she looked down and pulled down my fly.
She smiled softly and I could feel her fingers gently pulling me and
tugging and working my gently until it sprang forth. Oh my, she said. She
wrapped her soft fingers around my cock. That ius quite naughty.
She knelt down on the floor and positioned herself between my legs
and then took my cock and with her thin lips kissed the tip and then slid
out her tongue and worked up and down the side slowly. Her fingers were
low on the shaft near my balls and her palm pressed into my balls. I
watched her face. She'd closed her eyes and licked it slowly, each time
pausing to run her tongue around her lips and take another deep breath.
Is this something, she said and then took the cock in her mouth
and then slowly let it out. Is this something that might be in one of
your stories, baby?
It could be, I said.
Is this naughty enough? Was this in that story about the asian
woman?
Yes, I said. Yes but. And then I stopped because she was holding
my cock in her mouth. She had taken the hole thing and when I opened my
eyes and looked down I saw her cheeks bulging and both her hands on my
thighs and could hear her breathing slowly. I took hold of her head with
both my hands and gently pulled her deeper. She grunted and I took that
grunt to be one of satisfaction because she slowly lifted her mouth from
my cock and when it was free she said: That's sweet. That's so sweet,
baby.
And then she stood up in front of me and slowly took off her
blouse. She watched me with slow, carefree eyes and I sat with my rock
hard cock before me and watched as her long fingers undid the blouse one
button after the other and then watched as slid the blouse from her
shoulders and let it fall to the floor atop her high black heels.
Now she stood in only a black lace bra and her black slacks. The
bra was thin and I could see through the lace to her red nipples. They
were hard and stood as hard as my cock and she slowly brought her fingers
to those nipples and her titties and touched the nipples first and then
when I grunted held her titties and said: Let's be naughty tonight. Let's
be naughty and wet.
And then she turned so that her ass faced me and undid the snap to
her slacks and said: I've got a little surpirse for you. She pulled down
her slacks and I saw that she was wearing french-cut lace-pantyhose, the
sort advertised in Victoria's Secret. Her ass was small and tight and
looked delicious in the dim light. I watched as she let her slacks fall
to her feet. She said: Do you like my pantyhose?
Yes.
She leaned forward and put her hands on her knees so that her ass
was not far from my face. I put my hands on her hips and kissed one
cheek and then the other and then ran my tongue and up down the seam
which ran down her dark crack. It smelled sweet and felt smooth on my
tongue and I liked that.
That's naughty, she said. I turned her round so that she faced me
and her pussy faced me and I saw that the hair of her pussy was trimmed
in a straight line so that she could wear tight bikinis and I liked that
and told her so.
It's nice, isn't it. Tell me it's nice.
I told her.
I moved her close and kissed her and the hair of pussy bristled
through the nylon weave of the pantyhose and rubbed against my cheek. She
took hold of my head and pulled me close. I looked down her dark legs to
her feet and saw her toes poking out from the pile of her slacks still
arounnd her ankles. I ran my fingers down her legs and kissed the inside
of her calves and then touched her feet.
You're a footman, too. You like my feet?
She slid her feet out of her slacks and then kicked the slacks
atop her blouse and high heels and then lifted her foot so that it was in
my lap. She touched my cock with her toe and touched it again. I watched
it and watched her pantyhose. She sat down on the edge of the sofa and
the swiveled herself so that she was lying down and brought her toe to my
lips and nose and said: Lick my toe. Do it right now.
I took her foot gently and pressed it against my lips. I licked
her big toe and kissed it.
Stick it in your mouth.
I did and held it and against my tongue and lips felt the weave of
her nylons.
Then she took it out and said: Rub it. Give me a massage.
Yes, I said. I will do that.
And in my hands I rubbed her toes and her soles and her heels and her
ankles. She had smooth heels and I lifted one and kissed it and then bit it in
a playful way. I did the same with the other. She moved her toes gently as I
massaged and she occasionally pressed them against my cock which was
still rock hard and on it I could see the veins up and down the shaft. I took
her feet and pressed them against the cock. She watched me. You like that?
Yes.
You have a big cock. She squeezed her feet togther and I closed my
eyes because it felt good. I leaned my head back and let her feet for a
while work my cock.
Then knelt on the sofa and took my cock again in her mouth and
said: It's so big. I lay back and watched her work. I felt her slide her
lips over my cock and hold it in her warm mouth.
She looked up at me. Now tell me about that story. She held the
cock with both her hands. Tell me what was so naughty about it.
The narrator in the story raped someone.
My, she said. That's not nice.
But it's just a story.
And while he raped her, he called her names, I said.
What names?
Bitch, I said. He called her a bitch.
She watched me and then reached down and touched herself. Would
you like to call me that? Can I be a bitch?
I don't know.
I took my cock again and slid her lips down and held it and said:
I'll be your bitch. Will you let me do that?
Only if you want to.
Say it, she said. Say I'm your bitch.
I said it.
She took my cock again. Yes, she said. I watched the cock slide in
and then looked up and saw her feet dangling off the edge of the sofa and
thought of those feet in my mouth. I thought of my holding those feet
gently and licking her toes and the stockings and then taking the
stockings off. I thought of myself licking her warm soles and then backs
of her toes.
Say it, baby. Tell me what I am. What did the narrator of that
story do to his ... she hesitated and then looked at me and smiled ... to his
bitch?
He tied her up.
That's not very nice. And then she began to take
my cock harder and licked it and then took it in her mouth and worked
quickly and moved up and down and up and down and began moaning. I
watched her back move and her cheeks bulge and her pantyhose covered feet
dangling off the edge of the sofa. I felt my toes arch and then I came. I
came hard and into her mouth. She held on and I heard her swallow and
then swallow again and then she moved away and looked up at me. Cum
dripped from her lips and she closed her eyes and swallowed a third time
and then with the back of her hand wiped her mouth and opened her eyes.
She climbed next to me and kissed me and whispered in my ear that she
wanted to be my bitch and slave. But just for the night, she said. We will
trade off, would you like that?
Yes.
And then you can be my slave and take care of my feet and lick my
pussy and dress me in the clothes that make me a good girl.
Yes, I said. Yes I would like that.
But tonight, she said. She stood up and took my hand. Tonight, she
said. You can fuck me and call me what you want and tie me up. She took my
finger in her mouth and held it. I'm all yours, she said. I'll wear pantyhose
if you like.
And then she led me into the bedroom.
end part I.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
