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/elit/ - Erotic Literature
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Darkness at the End of the Tunnel (slash, loli & we'll see where Random Evername 13/12/01(Sun)19:37 No. 20360 ID: 0beccd

This is my first attempt at starting a story on here. I've tried a few things on Fiction Press, but not quite this depraved. I'm inspired by some of the examples here (especially Roommates), so I thought I would give it a try. I don't pretend this is that good. I'm not even sure that I'm posting this right.

Chapter 1

I turn to move past Hayley McSween in the hallway connecting the kitchen to the dishwasher in the restaurant serving St. Edmund’s Country Club. With a hand on my chest, she lightly pushes me into the door for the stockroom. “Can you close for me tonight? I want to go to the mall with from friends.” Her fingers trace from my chest to my belt buckle suggesting a possible compensation for my sacrifice.

I am Kyler … Kyler Jakubowski. At nineteen years old, I scrape, borrow, and force my way through my sophomore year in bio-premed at Stony Brook University on Long Island. Straight A’s so far – lookin’ good. It may be mercenary, but I will do just about anything to endure this crucible for that glimpse of wealth I see at the other end.

I live in a cramped, non-air-conditioned attic apartment of an ancient home that I rent from some old couple – Mr. and Mrs. Watson. With its back staircase access, I never have to see them, if I don’t want to. They’re okay, though – always waving to me and baking me stuff. Back in the day, the house was an old whaling captain’s home, so I have access to a little glass room above the attic. His wife could watch for his ship to return. No lie – it’s called a belvedere.

My college is on Long Island, but my savings account is strictly Schenectady. It was a lot easier to afford the $300 monthly rent before my roommate, Freddie Steffanaur, was expelled for copying an entire term paper, verbatim, from an internet site – for the third time. What a fuckin’ jackass.

Which is why, when Hailey McSween asks me to close for her at work -- I’m tempted to say, “Yes” without delay. I can use the extra hours, even though I have a shitload of homework – I can fake it through Statistics, but Orgo is getting pretty tough. I’m lying -- even though Hailey’s only sixteen, she is smoking hot with reputation to spare. I’m always happy to do her a favor … just in case it could lead to something.

Ah shit, who am I kidding? That’s just living out one of my masturbation fantasies. With a healthy allowance, she doesn’t need the job, but her parents think it builds character. I’m glad I enjoyed a few seconds of that delirium before answering because she reaches down and traces my stiffness from the outside with just one finger, and it drives me senseless, “I can make it worth your while.”

“Hell, yeah, I can do that for you.”

I grew up in a Polish working-class section of Schenectady where over half the neighborhood is somehow related to me. A lot of inbreeding going on up there. My great grandparents barely know English, and I barely know Polish. They like to say things like, “Cat petting leads to hump raising.” I don’t even understand what that means, but it sounds vaguely sexual. At least they taught me the value of a hard work. “The only free cheese is in the mouse trap.” What?

My family struggled through the economic ups and downs of Schenectady -- three generations at the fringe of high society looking in. My father, like his father before him, worked at the decaying, brick GE light bulb factory downtown. Years of union benefits and dues helped maintain the illusion that we had achieved the American Dream. At least until the factory shut down with all of the labor jobs shipped overseas.

After that, my father found a job at the Corning glassware. It was a good job. Rather than uproot our family, he endured the three hour commute each and every day for nearly five years. Until, at thirty-eight years-old, he had his first heart attack -- the drive home during a blizzard. He made it, but it was crazy scary for a couple of weeks. At the time, I was only twelve and my sister, Ashley, was only nine.

Now, he works as an elementary school janitor whenever his health holds out. Other than, he performs odd jobs around the city for under the table payments to avoid taxes. My mother stayed home with her children until his heart attack. As a minimum wage teller at the bank, she discovered exactly how much her high school diploma was worth after twenty years. That was a mistake I wasn’t going to repeat.

Every s often, we get to see visit the Stegmen side of the family -- my mother’s big sister, her husband, and daughter. It’s hard to believe they even grew up in the same house. My aunt and uncle live not thirty minutes from Stony Brook -- a fuckin’ mansion in the Hamptons! My aunt, Mary Elizabeth (Liz) has her own nephrology practice with visiting privileges at Stony Brook Hospital. My uncle Shimon Stegman has moved on as founder and CEO of Stegman Holdings Corp – yes he’s that Shimon Stegman – co-inventor of an ultrasonic device to speed up the disintegration and removal of kidney stones. The ticker symbol is STHC on NASDAQ.

Their only daughter, Vienna Sophia Lynnea enjoys all of the advantages of this upbringing. Private school, gymnastics, dance, piano, art classes, singing lessons, more piano, swimming and all of the attitude that comes from competing against other girls in those classes. She’s makes cute look like obnoxious, and, at twelve, she’s far stronger than I am.

Ashley and I have a running bet when Vienna’s first substance abuse rehabilitation will begin. I have three years and five more months with double or nothing on “cocaine”. Ashley’s chose oxycodone (good choice) but not until she’s seventeen.

I love my parents. I understand how hard they work to keep that drafty old home in Schenectady. But I think I’ll try Aunt Liz’s path to success -- no matter how many blow jobs it takes in the St. Edmund’s kitchen.

Within minutes, Hayley McSween pushes us both into the stock room (she must be in a hurry to get to the mall.) She unzips my pants, yanks them down to my ankles and enjoys hors d’oeuvres d’testicles. Sixteen years old and already so talented. Her braces don’t even scratch – not that I notice, anyway. I wonder if they’ll get all gooey.

I try to rub her body in kind. I can’t even reach her shoulders. Instead, I twist my fingers in her hair, but she shakes them away – doesn’t want it messed up. Leaning against a shelf which holds dozens of large cans of tomato paste, I vaguely consider the idea of suggesting she slow down. But I can’t seem to form the words.

Between my classes and work, I never seem to have the time to put into a relationship. I always thought it would be great if I could find one of those friends with benefits things, if only I could find a Natalie Portman or Mila Kunis lookalike. Maybe Hailey would be up for that.

When the door opens, I want to say something about how ignorant can you get, but my lust is reaching a crescendo and I am completely inebriated by the mindless stupor. That’s when the restaurant’s manager says something like, “What the fuck is going on in here?”

I guess I should have clocked out for break.

Hayley pulls away which leaves me intensely frustrated. “No,” I say pulling her head back in place. I’m trying to ignore the intrusion, but she no longer seems to share my enthusiasm.

“Hayley,” the manager says, “I’m disappointed in you. Your grandparents are charter members of this country club. I can’t believe I have to explain this to them.”

Hayley looks abashed trying to restore my boxers. “You don’t have to,” she says sweetly.

The manager continues as if she didn’t speak, “Jakobowski, you have no such good fortune.”

With that one comment, I find myself unemployed. I blame the manager and Hayley, but that’s defensive childishness. It doesn’t make rent money magically appear. I haven’t even scraped together enough. Two and a half weeks until Thanksgiving – I should have plenty of time.


50 posts omitted. Last 50 shown.
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Shattered End Random+Evername 14/05/25(Sun)04:02 No. 21823 ID: 0beccd

Sorry about that. Thanks for the note, it's been fixed.


>>
Anonymous 14/05/26(Mon)15:44 No. 21832 ID: 3a9d42

>>21823

Jesus Christ. My dick is diamonds. I can't handle this.


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Anonymous 14/05/30(Fri)12:12 No. 21850 ID: 0493ff

yeah that shattered end story is really good, started reading it the other day. Definitely worth it.


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Anonymous 14/06/05(Thu)10:51 No. 21901 ID: 8825f7

I am Pleased, Continue.


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Shadow 14/06/07(Sat)06:40 No. 21911 ID: 3756c5

I don't have a FictionPress account, so I'm letting you know about my thoughts on SEoHC and this story here. Guy needs to die in a fire, and if Cody fails in protecting Ceila, I'm going to pull a Liam Neeson on you. Bravo for making compelling and deep characters, but I just can't take any more bad things happening to our heroes.

I'm seeing a bit of that story creep into this one: wanting to free a young girl from someplace abusive. I have a bad feeling about what is going to happen next. Though I have been enjoying the developing relationship between the mc and Vienna.

I look forward to both projects moving forward. Thank you for sharing them.


>>
shadow Random+Evername 14/06/08(Sun)22:57 No. 21916 ID: 0beccd

Thanks a lot for the feedback. I appreciate it. One of the reason that I developed this story was to explore some ideas that I couldn't find the space to explore in the other one. So, there are definitely some similarities.

Every protagonist needs to have a goal of some sort (which makes sense in the context of the story.) In my Fiction press story, the goal is defined as something which is impossible to achieve. The protagonist will need to understand that before the end. That's the main difference between this story (that, and I wanted to play around with a first person present POV.)

I'm trying to keep this story from being as dark as that one. I have to admit, something in my sensibility tends toward darkness


>>
Chapter 18 Random+Evername 14/06/16(Mon)05:48 No. 21954 ID: 0beccd

Finally, this was tougher than I expected. Believe it or not, I cut it down from my first draft.

Chapter 18

The thought of trying to find Khandaya fills me with nauseating dread. Up until now, my life has pretty much happened according to a plan that I could sleepwalk through. Good grades in high school and good SAT scores lead to college, ultimately leading to financial security. Now that I’ve decided that I want to help, I have no idea how. My mind races with all sorts of solutions and the subsequent catastrophes.

Even if I can find her, how do I get her away from Victor? He’s not going to just let me walk out the door. I may have to go all Phineas and Ferb on him. I can’t even try until Tuesday. I have three days for this doubt to percolate.

At least I have a term paper to distract me, and Vienna, of course.

When I pick her up on Saturday, she is adorable in her plain gray, form-contouring, sweats that are probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. I’m quiet the entire drive from the Stegman’s to the natatorium. She too, is silent in a meditative trance. I figure that is her uber-game face for her swim meet. We probably don’t say more than three words to each other the entire drive. I drop her off at the natatorium. “Good luck,” I say and head to the library for research on my term paper.

At the end of the day, Vienna has completed her swim meet, music lessons, and gymnastics. She won the Springboard dive. Even though she was happy with her time, she came in last the Breast Stroke.

All the while, I researched a ton about Pope Joan. There wasn’t really a Pope Joan, but most people refer to Marozia, the matriarch of the medieval Roman pornocracy and the lover of two popes. Six more popes descended from her, most of whom died young and violently, including the despicable Benedict IX. How did HBO miss this story?

I drop her off at dance for a bus to take them to the performance. Most of the moms ride with them. I suspect Vienna wants me to go too. Instead, I leave her at the studio and head back to the library. Even before I arrive, I’m regretting it. I only have one or two more references to check. Then, all I have left is proof read my write up. It’s all on my laptop, so I can finish the report anywhere.

Thirty minutes into the research, and I’m wasted with bloodshot, bleary eyes. I can’t do any more besides find more documentation for the same things I’ve already research, but it’s only a five thousand word essay. I pack away my stuff and decide to drive to the auditorium in West Islip. I wish I had Vienna’s GPS.

No problem. I find the auditorium only after a few wrong turns and a stop at a gas station.

Two tiny bunheads in matching black leotards hand out programs at the door. Inside, the auditorium is dark with tinny, orchestral music playing over the loudspeaker. Five young girls twirl on the stage with ribbons flowing behind them. I’m no jaded dance mom, but I can tell that they are out of Vienna’s league.

After they finished, the audience claps politely and the lights turn on for a brief intermission. I locate the Kitty club among the patrons in the third row in the front. When I get there, Kitty glows with an enormous smile and says, “Kyler, I’m so glad you made it.” She moves over one seat, to give me some room between her and Abuso.

“I didn’t want Vienna to know I’m here,” I whisper. “She gets nervous if she thinks I’m watching.”

The lights darken again followed by another group dance. The Mirlitons of Melville. Kitty gives me a running play by play until Abuso gives her the evil stare down. They know these girls, but they only practice a couple of days a week. That’s like amateur stuff.

Abuso’s glare doesn’t slow Kitty down. She leans closer to me and whispers, “We have a sleepover after every Saturday after the competitions. You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

“A sleepover?” I say. “Vienna hasn’t said anything about that.”

“She’s always invited,” Kitty says. “I guess none of her other drivers would pick her up in the morning.”

I’m considering it. I think it would be wonderful for Vienna to have some bonding time with her dance peers. And Kitty Hinshaw isn’t really so tough. “Why would you invite me?”

“Oh, well … you know,” Kitty says. “My next door neighbor is a nice young man who seems a little,” she twirls her hand in the air, “… you know.”

Sigh. The gay thing. “No thanks. I don’t do well with matchmakers. Vienna is welcome to come, if she wants. Her mother may prefer to see her.”

“I was a year ahead of your aunt at Stony Brook. I can call her.”

The dance group is finished with a polite audience response and the final group begins. “Prepare to be amazed,” Kitty whispers.

The girls march out in a desert military formation with Vienna at the front. Vienna wears her sheer skirt and short jacket while the other girls wear a camouflage crop top, parachute pants, and matching squared-off caps. They’re all adorable in their desert camo’s cut to enhance whatever womanly figure they lack. Vienna calls out a military cadence in a musical tone followed by a one-word command, “Scatter.”

As soon as the music starts, they flip and twirl as they dive for cover like they are under attack. It’s not so much dance as performance art. Lights flash on and off as thought it’s a battlefield with explosions.

My heart is beating as though I’m watching the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. It’s that intense.

Kesia, wearing Bedouin white, crawls in from the opposite side with a mock-grenade launcher as a helicopter rises up on the stage. There’s not really a helicopter. It’s just light and a thwapping sound, but it feels like an actual fuckin’ helicopter in the auditorium. Struck by shrapnel, first little red-headed Tiffany falls, then Caroline Hinshaw. Finally, Kesia is taken out by a machine gun burst from the helicopter.

Vienna is the last one standing. She dances around the stage, checking corpses and searching for survivors. Shadows of a crowd of people rise behind her. The transition is so abrupt, it’s jarring. She marches in a parade with her rifle at her shoulder and Tiffany in a wheelchair next to her.

Caroline stands in front, holding out a rose, and Kesia carries a protest sign with the words, “Who’s the victim?”

Vienna looks confused. She dives, Rambo style, like she’s at the war one more time. In a prone, sniper position, she takes her rifle and points it at Caroline.

Music, that I didn’t even notice playing, ceases. In the quiet, Caroline falls to the ground. Pieces of the rose flutter in the air before they, too, fall to ground.

When it’s over, I rise to my feet along with audience. “You were right,” I say to Kitty. “I am amazed.” They weren’t just better dancers than the other groups. They were athletic and much more artistic. The dance was a thoughtful, disturbing, reflection on PTSD.

All of the moms carry bouquets of flowers for their daughters. I wish I had one for Vienna. She looks forlorn as the one dancer without recognition.

The dancing is followed by awards, which seem to go on forever. First, they have to thank Mrs. Gotschalk for the cupcakes and Mrs. Smith who arranged the auditorium. Then there’s the entire town council. I’m about to tear my eyes out when they recognize the magnificent contributions of the cleaning crew. They all act so surprised, as thought they don’t do this every year. I clap, but really I just want to escape this hot and crowded theater.

Finally, there’s actual dance awards. Abuso wins first place for the team. Vienna walks up and collects the trophy for the team. Finally, she sees me trying to weave my way through the crowd. He face glows when she sees me. She brightens when she sees me, runs to the end of the stage, and then leaps in my direction. “You made it,” she says. “What did you think?”

“It was phenomenal,” I say. “I still can’t believe I’m related to you.” Now, I have to ferry her back home.

She emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later. “If you want, Kitty Hinshaw invited you for a sleepover,” I tell her.

Vienna rolls her eyes in disgust. “She does that every week,” she says. “My mom doesn’t like Kitty Hinshaw. I think she made a pass at my dad or something in college.” Vienna guffaws like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Can you imagine? Shimon is such a dweeb. Who would make a pass at him?”

“Your mother saw something to love.”

She’s still laughing when we get in the car and pull out for the drive home. It’s farther than Stony Brook, but it’s more of a straight shot down Sunrise.

She undid her belt. This time she laid her head on my lap and rested her feet on the passenger window. I had to reach over her chest for access to the stick, but she didn’t seem to mind. After we reach the Sunrise Expressway, I placed my hand around her chest and caress her lat muscles. It’s a preventive maneuver on my part, but her muscles are incredible.

The first few minutes she spoke about the dance – how much fun it was to choreograph; how great it was to see it all work together. “It looked fantastic,” I say. Then she grew quiet again. The hypnotic rhythm of my tires running over the street joints was making me sleepy. I’ll bet she’s more tired than I am.

“We’re you angry?” she asks.

I glanced down at her deep, russet brown eyes in my lap staring back up at me. “Angry? No,” I say. “What would have made me angry?”

“You were so quiet in the car this morning.”

“You were quiet, too. I had something on my mind. I thought you were preparing for your meet. Why’d you think I’d be angry?”

“I thought maybe … you know … when I reached into your lap in front of my mom.”

“That was a shock,” I laugh. “Just be careful. If someone sees you, you could get in a little trouble, but I’d be in major trouble.”

She nodded as though she understood. She twisted her head around, reached up, and tweaked my cock with a giggle. “That was fun,” she said with a snarky grin. “Does it feel good?”

As always seems to be the case, the sudden swelling was awkward inside my jeans. I needed to work it around straight as the blood tried to rush past the kink in the hose. “Okay, try it now.” I probably shouldn’t have encouraged that.

My car windows, veiled in black, seemed to hold back the outside world. With very little traffic around, my car had become some sort of oasis for Vienna and I alone. Their rules did not seem to apply in our little kingdom.

She reached around and grabbed it again. “Celestina always says it’s supposed to feel good.”

“Yeah,” I gasp. It feels much better than it should from a twelve year old girl, but I’m starting to warm to the idea. “I can’t really put up with too much of this while I’m driving. It’s more distracting than a cell phone.”

By this time, my arm is resting on her rib-cage. She doesn’t seem to be wearing a bra, so I drag my thumb over the far nipple to see if I get a reaction. Even though their small, they feel nice. The little bit of flesh on her breast, pools up with each stroke like a rolling ocean wave.

“Whew,” she giggles, “that tickles.”

“Does it feel good?”

“Yeah … I think,” she says. “It’s hurt’s a little, too. We’ll experiment more with that one.” I rub my thumb across it a few more times. “You are a pretty good breast stroker.”

That’s what it is … harmless experimentation. Right.

xXx

By Tuesday, my imagination works overtime with worry about Khandaya. I was able to get through my paper, although it took much longer than it should have. Then carting Vienna back and forth without letting her know what I’m planning. (Which feels important since I don’t know what I’m planning.)

I’m so distracted in my Tuesday morning lab that I’m not even sure if it’s Bio or Orgo. I somehow get through it by rote following the directions and letting my partner take the lead. Afterwards, I grab a lunch at the SBU, carry it to a wall outside the art building, and wait.

And wait, and wait.

I recognize some of the models (Zulima, intimidating as always) and the first students. There’s my tall, gangly blonde, whose name I never got. Victor is in the second class of the afternoon. So, I have to wait. I try to read a textbook, but I can’t concentrate. Instead, I get up and pace around outside the art building.

Students from the second class begin to arrive. I notice Billie Wong and Delana Rodriguez, both final year art undergraduates. Then an adult education student whose name I can’t remember. Students from the first class stream out of the building. They all disperse to their cars or their next class. About five minutes later, I notice Ivelisse Chabert’s dark curls bouncing behind her as she races to class. She’s always late, and always the last one there.

Dammit. Where’s Victor?

Maybe there’s a back entrance to the building. I decide to enter the building and casually walk past the classroom.

Paper covers the door window to maintain an illusion of privacy. Fortunately, I can see through a sliver into the room. I catch a glimpse of Zulima, nude (of course). She is impressive. I lean in close, to catch a better view of the entire room.

“What are you doing there?”

Shit. It’s Shoki Dinkins, the Assistant Director of the Arts School. “I needed to speak with Dr. Hebetyria about my project,” I say without a better answer.

“She has posted office hours,” Dinkins says.

“I know,” I sigh like a frustrated, disorganized student. “I missed them. I was going to try to make an appointment for another time.”

“Why don’t you leave a note in her office?” Dinkins suggests. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, of course,” I say. I head down the hall as though I’m going to her office. After I notice that Dinkins isn’t following, I keep walking out the back door. Then back around front.

I have no idea what to do. Maybe I should have just walked in and undressed for posing. It’s not as though anyone would be surprised. But then I would have to stay for Vienna’s class, and I think that would be worse now that I’ve spent a week with her. I have no idea what to try next. This was my one great plan to confront Victor at the one place I knew he would be.

I’m pacing around out front when I hear, “Hey Kyler,” and I think I may have discovered a new avenue. “Are you posing, today?” Celestina asks.

I wave her over with my finger and she picks up the pace. “Can you do something for me?” I whisper hoping Vienna doesn’t over hear.

“Sure.”

“Can you get information on the Tuesday night party for me?” I ask. Victor had invited us all to their party that first class. For some reason, I’m thinking this one will be the Stony Brook sado-masapalooza. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but I don’t have another idea. “E-mail it to me, as soon as you get it.” I glance up and see Vienna heading over. “Do not tell Vienna.”

“That sounds awesome,” she says. “Our secret.”

“What were you guys talking about?” Vienna asks.

“Our lips are sealed,” Celestina says. She grabs Vienna’s arm and maneuvers her into the art building.

xXx

The rest of the evening, I keep checking my e-mail whenever I get a decent Wi-Fi signal. At dance and gymnastics … nothing. I drop Vienna off at the school disappointed with my progress so far. Nothing. I’m going to have to develop a third plan. I wish Celestina would have given me something.

When I stop back at my apartment, Mrs. Watson runs up to me with a little stutter step that makes her look sort of like a guinea pig. “Kyler,” she says, “I hope it’s okay.” She’s holding a plate with a couple of pieces of warm apple pie that she gives me.

“What?” I ask thinking nothing could startle me.

“Your cousin stopped by.” Having nothing to hold, Mrs. Watsons fingers nervously play with each other. “She wanted to wait in your apartment until you return. She seemed like such a nice girl. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind,” I answer glancing over at the steps up to my apartment. It can’t be Vienna. I just dropped her off.

She seems to catch my uncertainty. “You do have a cousin, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The truth is that I have lots of cousins. Vienna is the only one on my mother’s side, but I have sixteen on my father’s side. That’s only first cousins. I can’t imagine why any of them would be here. “It’s okay,” I say.

I head up the stairs and poke my head in my own door. “Is anybody here?” I ask.

A mass of dyed-blonde hair pokes through the hatch to the upstairs belvedere. “I’m up here,” Celestina says. “This room is so incredibly awesome.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We’re going to Hebetyria’s party, right?” she says.

Shit, that wasn’t part of the plan. “No, we’re not going. I’m going.”

She laughs like she knows she has power of knowledge over me, and I have no say in the matter.


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Shadow 14/06/17(Tue)08:59 No. 21959 ID: 3756c5

Oooooh crap. This is going to go so wrong.

And I forgot to mention this in my review, but I commend you for sticking with your stories for so darn long. As a fellow writer, I know it isn't easy.


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Anonymous 14/06/19(Thu)18:10 No. 21966 ID: f5b1c2

I'm not really into this whole Victor plot thing. Hoping you don't make a massive deal out of it.


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Victor Plot Thing Random+Evername 14/06/21(Sat)01:56 No. 21972 ID: 17ab4b

I think I get you. It's definitely one of the problems that I have (over-plotting). Victor is the thread that will weave all of these diverse characters together. I will strive not to get bogged down with him.

The story is mostly about the relationship between Kyler and Vienna.


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Anonymous 14/07/18(Fri)12:44 No. 22090 ID: b2cb96

>>21954
A really good story OP; I've a feeling it's on the verge of become great. Keep it up and thanks


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Anonymous 14/08/01(Fri)15:07 No. 22160 ID: 991624

Just want to say, I don't like victor but... no such thing as overplotting


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Chapter 19 Random+Evername 14/08/02(Sat)10:28 No. 22165 ID: 0beccd

Finally, here it is. I took two weeks off at the beginning of the summer. Since then, I'm having a little trouble finding my groove.

Chapter 19

“How did you find my apartment?” I ask.

From her perch in the belvedere, Celestina gives it a dismissive wave as though it were not worth comment. She bobs her head toward my beat up guitar case and says, “Is that your guitar?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome sauce,” she says. “Can you play it for me?”

“A little.” I’m still surprised by the presence of a future super-model/diva in my apartment to refuse such a basic request that tears at the heart of my insecurities. “Mrs. Watson made you some apple pie,” I say holding up the sample. “I guess she likes you.” Now that the odor is filling up the small space, my stomach is looking forward to it.

“I have that affect on people,” she says. She places the back of her wrist against her forehead in mock melodrama, “Alas, I’m famished.”

I am, too. I grab two forks and stash them in my shirt pocket. With my guitar case in the other hand, I head up the narrow spiral staircase to the belvedere. Fresh apple pie smell arrives before me, chased the chimney effect from my overworked baseboard heat.

I set the pie plates and guitar case on the ledge. As soon as I exit the stairway, the mix between the hot air and the cold gives me shivers.

Or maybe that was Celestina’s long, pencil thin legs. Not nearly as muscular as Vienna’s, yet still enticing. She sits exotically against one wall, wearing only her white, button down shirt (mostly unbuttoned) and panties. She has much more developed breasts than Vienna, and I can almost sight a nipple.

As I try to figure out if this is remarkable good fortune or a curse, I try to act cool. “Don’t you have a nine pm curfew?”

“Such rules are for middle schoolers,” she says pinching off a piece of cinnamon crumble topping and placing it on her tongue. She licks powder from her lips, which has the effect of making me forget about such childish rules. “This is probably my last year at that school. My future is too maestoso to be restrained by artificial restrictions in the educational arena.”

Her acting and perfume careers must be taking off. I make my way up to the landing and hand her a fork. I take a moment to glance outside toward the Long Island Sound. A lighted barge is moving slowly along the dark waterfront.

Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I notice that she has had her hair brightened with blonde highlights. It’s a slow steady progression to the pinnacle of beauty – the California blonde. ”I saw your Law & Order episode,” I say when I sit down. “You were pretty hot.” She was a volunteer helping the homeless who became a suspect in a tire-iron beating of a vagrant who she was scuffling with on a security video. The perp turned out to be another homeless man who was protecting her.

“Gratitudinous max,” she says. “Not really hot, it was a little juvenile, I think. You know what was hot?” I shake my head. “Posing nude for you cousin in art. Holy fuck, I was dripping. If my classmates weren’t around, I think I would have fondled myself.”

“We would have flown from art class to orgy in 3.6 seconds,” I say thinking about that first class when she was flashing me.

“Aw man, that would’ve been sick.”

Sick is about right. “It’s probably just as well. It’s not supposed to be performance art.”

“Still it was fuckin’ awesome. I knew you were someone I needed to hang with. My agent’s been bugging me to develop an edgier, sexier side. He thinks I will have more appeal.”

“That’s hard to imagine.” I don’t know what to make of that. “You made up for that with your perfume advertisements.”

“No, no,” Celestina says laughing, taking another tiny nibble from her piece. “I’m only just beginning. Next year, we’re planning on a scent called ‘Awakening’. Then ‘Innocence Lost’ in the third year. That’s going to be amazing. My image will be shadowed, but clearly nude.”

My last piece of pie disappears, and a chasm of uncomfortable silence fills the belvedere. I know she wants me to play the guitar. I’m dying to know how I sound to others. Yet, I don’t think I would have chosen Celestina to be my first public performance. I lift the guitar from its case and strum a few chords to check the sound. I tune a couple knobs to tighten the strings.

“Okay, here it goes,” I say taking a deep breath. “This is a song I wrote called Broken Compass.”

My hand hangs above the guitar ready to strike, but my heart is beating so loud that I can barely hear. The reason I learned the guitar was for the possibility of attracting girls, of … you know … the opposite sex. And here waiting for me to start playing is one who I could not possibly attract in my dreams. What am I waiting for?

I strum a few chords, then quickly break into the song. It’s a ballad decrying the deaths of our heroes. Instead of the founding fathers, we have Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber. Instead of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. we have Lady Gaga. It’s really a pretty depressing song all around.

About thirty seconds into the song, Celestina places both hands across her mouth and just starts laughing. I play for a few seconds before I stop.

“I’m sorry,” she says insincerely. “I think I’ve heard this song before.” I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve never heard it before. “A few alley cats were singing it on my way here.”

“Ha, ha. Funny.” Fuck you. I wanted an opinion as to my ability. I guess I found it. I start to return the guitar to its case.

“Don’t sweat it,” she says. “I’m spoiled by great music all of the time. There are lots of talented guys at school. Not so much as Vienna, but they play all of the time.”

I flick the case shut and consider buying some super glue to prevent me from the temptation of playing for anyone else. “You should try not to rag on Vienna. She has a hard enough time fitting in.”

“She’s gotta lighten up,” Celestina says. “I’m just having a little fun. That’s what friends do.”

Oh, so that’s what friends do.

She sets down her half finished pie and wipes her hands off. “We can leave for the party as soon as you’re ready.”

“As soon as I’m ready?” I protest. “How about now?”

Celestina shakes her head and laughs even louder. “Please tell me you have something nicer to wear,” she says. “I brought you appropriate under-attire. I figured you had the proper outer-attire. I can’t show up with someone wearing the latest in hipster-vagrant chic.”

“As far as that is concerned,” I say cautiously, “do you mind sitting this one out?”

“Preposterous,” Celestina says. “I’m so ready for this. My agent agrees.”

“Ummm …,” I’m not really sure how to address that. “I think he just wants you to give him a blow job or something.”

“Been there, done that,” Celestina says with a shrug. “I don’t get the big deal. All the upper classmen seem to like it.” She stands up and brushes dirt off her ass. I realize that she’s not really wearing panties. She’s wearing a thong. Fourteen years old – that is so wrong, yet so right at the same time. I bet she gets away with a lot of stuff I couldn’t dream of.

But my biggest worry is that Celestina may not be taking the risks seriously. I’m attending this party for a mission – searching for Khandaya and the guy who raped and pillaged my ass. “I think they’re may be some really disgusting creeps at this party.”

“You think so?” Her eyes twinkle and she brightens into a huge grin. “That would be excellent.”

She reaches her hand over to help me up. “Have you been taking care to trim back your weeds?”

“My what?”

She reaches down and fondles my crotch. “You know … .”

“I’ll take care of that,” I say. “But I still don’t think you understand. I don’t want you to come along. It’s dangerous.”

“If you’re trying to irritate me, it’s working. I have to come along.”

“I think it’s better if you don’t.”

“You got no choice,” Celestina says. “Hebetyria gave me a stamp to wear.” She holds out her wrist. I don’t see anything. “It only shows up under a certain light. If you don’t have it, you can’t get in the party.” She starts heading down and I watch he marvelous assets disappear. “You’re lucky though. She said I can bring a date. The only reason I invited you is that it’s pretty far away. I need a car.”

“All right, you can come,” I say following her. I’m going to get it so much trouble here. “We’re only going for a short time -- to reconnoiter. But no illegal activity. That means no drinking, no drugs and no sex.”

“Ohmigod, you are a fuckin’ riot,” she says with a laugh that I know will haunt me at my Stony Brook student misconduct expulsion hearing.

xXx


I’m following the directions Celestina is giving me, “Left here. Right. Oops, make a U-turn.” She has the address typed into her GPS. I’m in agony the entire ride. My balls are chafing and my bare ass is rubbing against my pants. How is this possibly fun?

When we finally arrive at the destination -- a commuter parking lot. “Are you sure this is right? I think Hebetyria is playing with you.” In a way, I’m relieved. There are few clear rules in the world anymore, among them is that I shouldn’t be taking a fourteen year old to a sex party.

“No, this is it.” She points to the far end of the lot. “Over there. Park next to that limo. That’s our ride”

I park a few spots away and the driver gets out. He’s dressed professionally. He doffs his hat for us. “I’m Parker,” he says with a high-pitched, nasally voice. May I take your hand?”

Celestina holds out her arm. He flashes some battery operated gizmo at it and a picture of a skull with intertwined roses beneath it lights up.

“Very good,” he says. He opens the door to let us in. “Make yourself comfortable. We’ll be leaving momentarily.”

Whoa. Immaculate interior leather seats stretch out into a curved bench where there are two other couples dressed much more provocatively than we are. One couple is painted like a few Jellicle Cats. “Meow,” she says. The other couple, of indeterminate gender, are dressed like rejects from a rejected Dr. Seuss manuscript. One of them (female or a guy with very large manboobs) pulls Celestina into his lap, kisses her, and cops a quick feel of her breast.

Celestina squeals and bites his nipple in return. “This is going to be so much fun,” she says. She jumps up and sits next to me as the limo pulls out. “This is our first time here,” she says to nobody in particular.

First step of my reconnaissance plan has failed. I don’t have any idea where we’re going.
The windows of the limo are dark. We’ve turned and maneuvered enough that I can’t make out which directions we have turned. “You should get ready,” one of the cats says with a purr.

“Do you hear that, Sweetie?” Celestina says. “We should get ready.”

She reaches into my lap and starts to undo my belt buckle. It feels pretty good. I approach that numb, happy place where I figure I might as well enjoy the moment. While she pulls my shirt out of my waistband, I unbutton her blouse gaining a perfect close up view of her fourteen year old breasts. Damn, she’s going to be a star. I stroke them and pinch a nipple. She gasps.

Before long, I’m removing her shoes then her slacks (which are not regulation school attire.) By the time we’re both half naked, I have long forgotten about our limo-mates. One of the cats say, “She bears the mark.”

“She does,” the other cat says. “On her hip.” The Who’s gasp.

“What this?” Celestina points to a mark on her left hip. “It’s a birthmark.”

The Who’s get down on the limo floor on their knees. One says, “Forgive my presumption, mistress. I did not know.”

The cats kneel on the floor behind them without saying a word. Celestina looks bemused. She considers herself royalty, and they’ve confirmed it.

She crosses her legs and says, “Kiss my foot.” I can tell she’s doing it just for fun and is not certain they won’t get angry.

“Of course, mistress.” The Who leans forward and kisses the top of her bare midfoot.

Celestina chuckles loudly, but nobody else is acting like it’s at all humorous. Their eyes are shifting back and forth between Celestina and each other. The limo swings around a tight curve, and they have to steady themselves.

“If only I had a riding crop,” Celestina says wistfully.

“I have one, Mistress,” the Who says. He reaches over to his seat, finds the riding crop, and hands it to her with his head down.

Celestina takes it and runs her fingers along it. She looks at me and grins. I’m feeling a little bead of sweat pool on my forehead. She turns to the Who and prepares to swat him. Instead, she taps him gently on his shoulder. “You may rise.”

“Mistress is merciful and generous,” the Who says.

Celestina turns to me, “Now, Kyler, your turn. You may kiss my feet.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t think I will.”

“Aw, come on,” she says, whacking me with the riding crop. It stings like hell. The Who’s and the Jellicles tense like they’re going to force me into the position. The Celestina chuckles like were playing a clever game. She tells them to relax and enjoy the merriment. They all laugh on cue.

The limo finally stops, and the passenger side door opens. Celestina exits first followed by me, then the costumed critters. We’re inside a closed, rough stoneworks that is colder than my belvedere. We could be underground for all I know. We stash our clothes in lockers against one wall and enter through the door held open by the driver. “Good day,” he says.

Inside is a pair of desk clerks wearing little more than a bow tie and manning an electronic security post. They check Celestina’s wrist once again and notice the birthmark which is creating quite a stir. “Would you like any tokens?” They ask.

“What are the tokens for?” I ask.

“You can get into the main party without them, but special events will require tokens,” he says.

I have a little money in my walled, but I’d like to save it. Celestina gives me a glance which says, “Of course we want tokens.”

“Okay then, how much are they?”

“The bronze are a thousand dollars, the silver are five thousand, and the gold are twenty thousand.”

“Dollars?” I say. “I didn’t bring my wallet with the twenty thousand. I think we’ll pass this time.”

“Of course, sir. If you are interested at other times, we accept Debit or Credit cards.”

A diminutive guide takes over, and we follow him down a narrow staircase into a sub-basement. He can’t be more than ten years old, but I don’t recognize him. As I’m halfway down, I smoke rising up from the dance floor and hear music from a live band.

The stair case must have a fake wall. All the way down the stairs, pricks still out for those who want to experiment. I wonder what they had to do to qualify for that job. Celestina grabs each one in turn and says, “I’m so very glad to meet you.”

When we finally reach the main dance floor, I see a smoky haze permeating the basement. It has that distinctive odor from marijuana. I think it might be best to take home Celestina right now. She jumps into the sado-mash pits and begin dancing. She calls to me to join her, but I would like to survey the room first.

I have to believe there has to be more than 200 dancers on the dance floor. The Jellicle Cats have met up with a few more cat-themed participants including a tiger, lion, and panther. Quite the solid them in that corner. In another spot, I notice Hebetyria dancing with a young guy. Strike that, they’re actually engaged in sex on the dance floor. However, in all my searching, I could not find the distinguished figure of Victor Vandeprave.

Celestina tows me into the dance floor and convinces me to start dancing. The smoky haze, mixed with sweat and a lot of rubbing helps to relax me, and I’m enjoying myself rather well. After about twenty minutes of intermittent grinding and groping, Celestina decides she needs a quick break to freshen up. I’m not thinking very clearly, so I let her travel to a quiet area on her own, while I dance solo. I’m trying to blend in with the crowd and move around every few minutes.

I move myself around the crowd – all of us dressed in skimpy attire. Nobody seems to mind when I rub up against them.

I’m nearly to the opposite side of the dance floor, and I still haven’t seen a sign of Victor. Which is pissing me off. I turn and look back across the mountain of people gyrating to the music, and I see no hide nor hair of him.

From behind me, a hand reaches to my waste. It’s a tiger. She must be affiliated with those women who are all dressed as some sort of cat. “I had no idea you were interested in this sort of party. Are you having fun, Kyler?” She says this as if she knows me.

I twirl around to get a better look at my acoster. “I should have known,” I say. “Kitty Hinshaw, how are you doing tonight?”

“Meow,” she says. “Would you like a dance?” I figure, ‘why not?’ She’s old, but she looks great. Dancing with Kitty can’t be as hard as it seems.


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Anonymous 14/08/03(Sun)23:58 No. 22174 ID: 7ede4a

I just wanted to pop in to say that I'm a huge fan of two of your stories (PedoCella and this). I hope that you keep writing. It's a shame that you probably won't get published because of your subject matter since you definitely have the talent.


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Thanks Random+Evername 14/08/04(Mon)04:03 No. 22175 ID: 0beccd

Thanks for the feedback. Funny thing -- I write other stuff, but I get few comments on those.

I think as soon as I'm done with Celia, I'll get back on Shimmer Child. I think it's a cool concept, but I have a lot more development needed on the characters and plot. That being said, it is clearly PG.


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Anonymous 14/08/06(Wed)05:00 No. 22184 ID: 7ede29

This plot is pretty good. I'll check out your other stories on fictionpress (besides the celia one, that one is good too)
Also, I don't mean to worry you or anything, but there's a chapter in the shattered end of hollow canyon where you accidentally put Celia's name in place of Angelika. Don't remember exactly which chapter, but just a heads-up.


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Anonymous 14/08/07(Thu)05:20 No. 22199 ID: f5b1c2

>>22165
Eh, should've extended the limo scene (blowjob from the Whos while Celestina sits in his lap, maybe) and started with the party in the next update.


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Sorry Random+Evername 14/08/08(Fri)21:49 No. 22220 ID: a9fc7c

You're right -- I let you down. In fairness, the party has only just begun.

I won't let it happen again.


>>
Chapter 20 Random+Evername 14/08/13(Wed)07:44 No. 22253 ID: 0beccd

Chapter 20

Life in Schenectady left me completely unprepared for this panoramic 3D eye-ecstasy. Erotic Comic-con for grown-ups. Morally destitute and physically impossible are phrases that would come to mind if I had the capacity for a complete, rational thought. Inebriated by the steamy mass of sexuality and cannabile vapor, I descend into a goofy, primeval stupor.

A mass of bodies press against me in the seductive, carnal mélange which reeks of sweat and sex. Some clown (literally, with huge red shoes) brushes against me and spills half his drink on my ass followed by a race to see who can save the drippings from reaching the floor. I will proudly bear those teeth wounds for at least a week.

With both of us in bare feet, Kitty Hinshaw is shorter than I expect. I rest my chin on her shoulder clinging from the notion that she’s legal in every way, which somehow makes it okay. I don’t notice when the music stops. She runs her fingers along the string in my ass-crack. It feels pretty good. I could get used to this.

Kitty gently nudges my shoulder while holding my hips against hers. “I didn’t realize you were quite so adventurous,” she says with a wink.

“I have eclectic tastes,” I say wondering when I became this adventurous. “You make a great tiger.” I admire her feline grace. She’s not completely nude under her body paint. She wears some little doily to guard her crotch from mine. If I wriggle a little more, I might break it free.

My hand caresses a path along one of her stripes, across her nipple. “You have cute little tits,” I say with a high-pitched giggle. I don’t know where that came from.

She leans in closer to my ear, which pulls my face into her chest. “After my pregnancy, I had them reduced. My husband, Blair, prefers them small. Nice work don’t you think?”

Her words take a few days to register. Only a few inches from the nipple, I open my mouth and bite down. I roll her nipple between and taste the very tip with my tongue. Her body paint is cherry flavored.

“Whew,” she says with a shiver. “You like them childishly small, don’t you?”

“What?” I say. I jerk my head back away from her, flustered. “No, no … that’s not it.”

“You simply must come to my next sleepover. We’d have a wonderful time.” Kitty runs her hand over the back of my neck, and gently draws me back into her chest. “Vienna must be an absolute treat for you?”

I pull away again. Is that what she thinks? “No, I would never do anything like that.” My throat is parched. I’m faint, dizzy from the harsh smoke which fills the room. I wonder when Celestina will return with our drinks.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Kitty says. “You’re secret is safe with me. I didn’t even know you were a disciple.”

“Of what?”

“Why Skull and Daggers, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I say. “Are you one, too?”

“You must know better than that. Skull & Daggers is a fraternal organization,” Kitty chuckles. “Skull & Roses is the sorority. I’ll never forget my touchstones. Magnificent. The ritual fills you with an incredible sense of power – almost immortality. Your uncle, Shimon, was my second.” She shrugs. “I don’t know why your aunt hates me for that. It was just a ceremony.”

None of that makes any sense. What the hell is a touchstone? My cock is pretty firm – like a stone. She can touch it.

“I went through a phase in college where I just had to taste that that rough, hand-circumcised scepter,” Kitty continues. “I think there are supposed to be four more touchstones tonight. Oh, here’s your date now.”

I turn to see Celestina weaving her way through the rolling waves of epidermal sea. She carries two plastic cups over her head through the parting waters.

Kitty cranes her neck and whispers in my ear, “You were ballsy bringing her here. I hope Victor doesn’t find out. Celestina and Vienna … they’re perfect. If Caroline was like either of them, Blair would be the next president of Europe.”

“There is no President of Europe,” I say.

Kitty laughs and pulls away from me. “I hope you don’t mind me keeping him warm for you, Mistress,” she says dipping her eyes to the ground. Kitty glances in my direction. “Oh, look, Nagini is peeking of his den.” Kitty reaches down and pulls what little fabric I’m wearing over the tip of my clearly exposed manhood. I have a sudden rush of pleasure when Kitty pats the top of it before dancing away.

“Who was that?” Celestina says handing me a drink. “It looks like she left you with a bad case of stripes.” She wipes her finger along my cheek and removes some body paint.

I take a long swig of the punch to cool me off. “I thought I said ‘no alcohol.’”

“Nah, this is just punch.” Oh, okay, I guess. She takes a sip of her drink and drapes her other arm over my neck I catch a grand view of her near-perfect breasts. Her nipples are thick and deep with almost no areola. I think I want to kiss them. “Sorry I took so long. This place is wild,” Celestina says. “That dyke from art class has barbed wire wrapped around some guy’s nuts.”

“Zulima?” I say, “She’s not a dyke. She’s a sadist.”

“Whatever,” Celestina says. “Oh, and I saw a couple of little runts running around naked. It was funny as hell. The Indian boy had the cutest little hard on.”

Somehow, my mind found its way through the fog and remembered why I was here. “Where’d you see him?”

“Over by the water cabinet,” Celestina says. “Isn’t that a funny phrase? That’s what my mom calls it.”

I scan in the direction that she’s pointing. I see a rough-hewn gap in the stone wall, but I can’t make out much more. I suck down my drink and say, “I’ll be right back. I want to see these kids.”

She grabs my hand and says, “I’ll show you.”

Celestina sashays in front of me. Fourteen, right? Her hips draw notice from every eye around us. Twisted characters from children’s stories in old, worn-down bodies can’t compete with that. (Although, Little Bo Peep is endearing in a totally fuckable way. “Baa, baa little black sheep,” I growl like a big-bad wolf. The way she gyrates with her penis-shaped shepherds’ crook is true talent.)

We reach an opening -- to one side is a lounge area with a few thousand pounds of bare flesh rolling orgiastically around the furniture, to the other side are a few, very talented bartenders with limited ID checking skills. Distant noise from the band is quieter in this area.

“I don’t understand,” Celestina says. “He was right here a moment ago.” She pulls me toward the orgy room. “Maybe they’re in here.”

Perhaps it’s my Catholic upbringing or a few too many penises in the mix, but I don’t see that could be fun. I always considered sex as a form intimacy not a communal, public activity.

This group seems to take pleasure in having an audience. There is even a rooting section for a ginormous black guy, who satisfies four people at the same time. His fingers are thicker than my boyishly cute Polish manhood. I don’t see what so impressive about him until he withdraws from one of the girls accompanied by a slurpy, sucking sound. Simultaneously, Celestina and I say, “whoa”.

I regain my composure first and say, “Come on.” I tug on her arm, pulling her outside the orgy room. “Nobody here matches your description.”

Beyond the bartenders, there is a narrow hallway, running downward. I notice a flicker of movement in the shadows. “I see something.”

She’s walking away from us with her hand on the wall. She has stringy, dark colored hair on a very short head. “Chai,” I yell as a guess.

She looks back over her shoulder and sees me. It is Chai. She flashes a toothy grin, and then turns and runs away from me. “Shit,” I say chasing after her.

“Where are you going?” Celestina says. I ignore her. Down the one sloping passageway, then turn right.

An armed guard in latex police chaps steps out from behind a pedestal and raises his hand. “Stop,” he says. He holds out an electronic tricorder. “Thumbprint scan.”

“I just need to talk with someone,” I say to the guard. Celestina catches up to me, wheezing to catch her breath. The thumb print scanner approves her admittance.

“No problem, just one brass coin for each of you,” the guard says.

“A thousand dollars?” I say wide-eyed. “Each? What for?”

Celestina whacks me on my arm, “I told you to by some of those tokens.”

“You bring the money, next time,” I say.

I try to figure out if there is a way past this guard without drawing attention. He doesn’t seem so tough. Of course, neither am I. “Can you call her for me? Her name is Chai. She’s about that high.” I hold my hand out to my shoulder height. “I just want to ask her something.”

The guard sighs.

Before he can respond, my skin crawls. I shiver from a slight breeze. Like when you are home alone, and you know something is outside in the darkness. I recall figments of blinding pain, and I hold my breath and pray it disappears. An erect penis presses into my ass and a hand comes down on my shoulder. My legs go numb.

Shit, where did he come from?

“I’m sorry Mr. Vandeprave,” the guard says, “I was taking care of him.”

“That’s quite all right, Hans,” Victor says. It’s all right for him. I can’t breathe. Hell, I think my nervous system stopped functioning and my limbic system blew a fuse. “Celestina, would you please excuse us?”Vicotr asks.

Celestina chuckles. She taps victor on his shoulder with the riding crop and says, “You must refer to me as Mistress.”

“No,” Victor says, “I don’t believe I do. But I will contact your school and let them know not to worry about you.”

Celestina gulps and backs away leaving me alone with Victor and a very dark-skinned Hans.

“Are you enjoying yourself at my weekly soirée?” Victors says. His hand held a firm grip on my shoulder. I feel my carotid pulsing in my neck.

“Uh, sure,” I cough.

“I’m afraid I must apologize,” Victors says maintaining his grip. “I had no idea who you were when I invited you to my house. I trust Shimon has taken good care of you.”

“I could have died,” I say trying to catch my breath.

“That would have been a shame,” Victor says. “I could not know the company you kept. Your friends are not insubstantial.”

A shame? Fuck. Dying would be a lot more than a ‘shame’ to me. “What about the kids?” I ask gaining some measure of confidence. “I thought I saw Chai a moment ago.”

“Is that what this is about?” Victor releases my shoulder and pats my back. It seems affectionate, but feels possessive. “Hans, would you locate Chai for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Hans says. He has a receiver inside his pedestal. He picks it up and whispers into. “She’ll be out shortly sir.”

“Thank you,” Victor says.

We wait quietly in the cave-like passage. Minutes tick by. It’s unnerving, particularly since we’re all practically naked. To break the silence, I decide to ask, “Where are we?”

“We’re underground, of course,” Victor says with a chuckle. Hans joins him in his mirth.

That chuckle – I can almost feel his sharp rod penetrating my ass, shredding my lower intestines. My back pinned in an unnatural arc.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Somehow, I have to find a way to push away those memories. “You’re name is not really Hans, is it?” I ask. They both chuckle a little more boisterously. Shit.

Finally, I hear footsteps on the stone. A naked little Chai comes walking up the walkway just like I remember her. “Hey Victor, what’s up?” she asks.

“Kyler saw you and was concerned about you?” Victor says. “He wanted to make sure you were okay.” He’s caressing his hand across my back, while Chai looks at me expectantly.

“Well,” I cough to clear my throat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, a’course I am,” she says. This is so weird talking to a naked twelve-year-old girl in the presence of three grown men.

“Nobody is hurting you?”

“No way.” Chai smiles with a broad grin. “I was nothing in Bangkok. But here, I’m like a movie star. Everybody loves me.”

“Good,” I say. The narrow cleft, between her legs is puffed, swollen pink. I remember why I’m really here. I glance at Victor and then back to Chai. “What about Khandaya? Is she okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Chai says. “She’s doing fine. It’s a pisser about her arm. If she had both, she’d probably be as good as me.”

I glance back at Victor. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. I turn back to Chai. “Well, I guess that’s it then,” I say. “Tell Khandaya I asked about her, okay?”

“Thank you, Chai,” Victor says. “You are dismissed. With that, Chai turns and does her duck-footed walk back down the passage. Her tiny little hiney disappears into the darkness.

“I’m glad that’s settled amicably,” Victor says. I still haven’t breathed. “You’re welcome to stay, of course,” he continues. “I simply ask that you respect our rules.” I don’t even know what those rules are. Then he adds, “Khandaya, hmm? She’s a sweet child. If you are discreet, perhaps she can be yours someday.”

“What about Celestina?” I ask, but I’m more concrened about Vienna.

“Don’t be greedy,” Victor says. “Oha, and don’t dawdle too long. I would consider returning Celestina to her school very soon. I’m sure she is missed.”

“I think that would be wise,” I say mirroring his stilted formality.

“Oh,” Victor says very pointedly. “Respect Celestina in every way. I would hate her to be … um … diminished. Both her and Vienna are very important to me.” He grabs my shoulder again and stares at me to make sure I understand. “I don’t need both of them, if you catch my meaning.”

I nod my head and swallow what little moisture I can find. It’s a threat as clear as can be. For some reason he wants Vienna and Celestina, but problems with either one could be life affecting. I am a fucking college student – with no money or resources, my car is one bolt away from rusting away completely. How the hell am I supposed to help them?

It’s got to be an idle threat. Uncle Shimon is a mega-zillionaire and Celestina’s father is a state senator.

I turn to walk away, rapidly, with all of the self-possession I can muster. Once I turn the corner I begin to jog into the party where I find Celestina playing with the kitty club. Kitty Hinshaw is kissing her while teasing her … you know … her kitty. I grab Celestina’s arm more forcefully than I intend and say, “Let’s go. I’ve done what we came for.”

“Aw, we’re just getting started,” Celestina says.

I don’t give her a chance to back down. I interlace my fingers with hers and retrace our steps to the entrance where we left the limo. She raps me a few times with her riding crop. The car is there waiting to take partygoers back.

“Are you finished, Mistress?” the maitre de with the precious coins asks.

“No,” Celestina says with glee. The maitre d smiles.

Another servant finds our clothes and hands them to us. The driver holds the door open. I climb in after Celestina and take the seat next to her. We’re alone in the spacious back.

As the limo begins to back out of the cave, I catch Celestina eyeing my crotch. “You look you’re pretty excited,” she says. I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just give a quick shrug. As the limo picks up speed, Celestina straddles me with a knee on each side of my lap. She says, “I’m fucking horny as hell.”

What a coincidence.

I feel the warmth of her vulva burning through both of our underwears. She bends in close and bites my lower lip. Her hips press against me and slides lengthwise up my shaft.

I forget all about Victor and shudder in pleasure. I reach my hands between us and cup her breast. A moment I’ve salivated about since that first art class. They’re perfect. She whimpers when I pinch her nipple.

Celestina kisses my cheek with a vengeance, then moves to gnaw on my earlobe. I move my other hand to her ass and explore it with my finger.

“Ooo,” Celestina groans into my ear canal. She begins to move in rhythm.

My hand slips lower between her legs and sample the dampness. Unconconscously, I writhe in harmony with her. I place both hands behind her and drag her along my shaft. At the peak of each swell I hold her up for a second to sustain the intensity all the while pushing away from the seat. With each wave, our bucking grows louder. I think I’m about to push through the floor.

“Fuck, Oh fuck.” Before I can fathom, I pull her to the top of my cock and Celestina squeals. I hold there while I shoot waves of jism into my g-string.

When I’m done, I hold her in place until the sensitivy dies down. “I think that was the best sex I ever had,” I say. It wasn’t even sex, not really.

Celestina bends her head back and smiles a broad gasping grin. “Fuck,” she says. “That was so fucking awesome.” She rolls off me, and I realize I am covered in sweat. She is too. She reaches over to fondle my shaft and giggles. “You’re still hard.” She leans down to my cock and licks off my jism while I can only find the energy to pant. “I’ve never felt anything like that,” Celestina says. “I can’t wait to tell Vienna.”

“No,” I plead. I remember where I am all of a sudden. “Please, whatever you do. You can never tell her. You can never tell anybody about this.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“Just please. I could lose my financial aid or go to jail.”

“Okay,” she grins. She peels back my g-string and licks up the final bit from the tip. “As long as we can come to the party again next week.”

Fuck. Celestina is not the type who keeps secrets. I am so screwed.


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Anonymous 14/08/13(Wed)13:28 No. 22255 ID: f5b1c2

And now there's death threads and massive conspiracies. No longer interested.


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Anonymous 14/08/13(Wed)15:56 No. 22268 ID: 590ca9

>>22255

Well, what did you expect. Smelled like international child pornography and sex trading all along. Let him tell his fucking story.


>>
I appreciate the feedback from both of you Random+Evername 14/08/13(Wed)21:12 No. 22271 ID: a9fc7c

I debated with myself about this conspiracy. It's not my favorite approach either, but it gives me a way to develop Vienna's character as more than just an object of Kyler's affection. I thought her character was too weak in my initial outline.

I usually rewrite my stories based on ideas that I try, but don't seem to quite work when I get there. I would appreciate anybody else's feedback or suggestions.

Thank you for the feedback. I can keep writing for a little while -- the next chapter would not be affected.


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Anonymous 14/08/14(Thu)04:40 No. 22273 ID: f7372a

>>22271

You should just write the story that you want it to be. Plot-heavy stories are usually pretty appreciated here and often end up gaining the biggest followings (My Private Camwhore, that Roommates story that only updates once a year but is still on the first page constantly). Don't change your vision just because of some random whiner on an imageboard who hates to read. None of the best works of art have been made via compromise.

You do need to take more care in editing and proofreading your text though. I saw plenty of basic you're/your mistakes and other such things in the last chapter. It makes you look a bit careless since these types of mistakes are easily spotted in a single read-through.


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Anonymous 14/08/15(Fri)19:03 No. 22287 ID: d40b75

>>22271
Your work shows considerable potential, The web is getting Incredibly tangled to the point where it's getting hard to keep track of things and even harder to foretell anything, All I can ask is you keep writing. The mass conspiracy is an interesting touch and I look forward to seeing how it influences Vienna. I also hate Victor more with every meeting...


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Shadow 14/08/16(Sat)07:10 No. 22290 ID: 3756c5

I'm getting bad feelings again.... Victor is another slimeball that needs to die in a fire. May he get the fate he deserves.

But please keep writing, or the suspense may be the end of me.


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Anonymous 14/08/19(Tue)14:00 No. 22318 ID: 13cbd7

i come to this page everyday just to see if this story or Roomates has been updated.


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Anonymous 14/08/23(Sat)01:04 No. 22329 ID: 26107d

>>22271
I was really happy with the street rat x rich girl theme in Kyler and Vienna's interactions. The moment Kyler came to the conclusion about his involvement with Celestina earlier in the story I took that as a permanent shift away from these shenanigans.

Everything involving Victor feels like an annoying hindrance to what I want from this story and these characters. Not going to lie, the moment Celestina showed up in his flat I rolled my eyes and figuratively threw my hands up.

I hope others enjoy this and see it to its conclusion, but I won't.
You are a good writer though, some solid characterization, and mostly enjoyable prose. I'm just not interested in the story anymore, not against drama, but this doesn't jive with me.

Cheers.


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Anonymous 14/09/17(Wed)05:21 No. 22446 ID: 7ede29

This is one of the best stories here, in my humble opinion. Keep it up, OP!


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Chapter 21 Random Evername 14/09/30(Tue)05:27 No. 22513 ID: b12ebc

Sorry for taking so long. I had to resolve my nightly migraines that have been occurring since the beginning of summer. I'll keep it up, but I don't think I'll be able to maintain the same pace I had before.

Chapter 21

My head throbs mercilessly. I shut my eyes and lean my head against cold glass to get some relief. I’m trapped in a brain blender stuck on puree. I detect the door’s telltale-warning click just before the blinding dome light blasts a hole through my retinas.

“Shut the door,” I moan.

“You would not believe what happened last night?” Vienna says jumping in the seat next to me, ignoring my misery.

I think I might believe just about anything. I crack open one eye and ask, “What?”

“Celestina did not make it back for curfew. The director was livid. We had a midnight bed check and muster in the dining hall. They searched the grounds.”

“I thought the high schoolers didn’t have a nine pm curfew,” I say trying to remember exactly what Celestina told me.

I put the car in gear and focus on the small increment of road ten feet at a time. This forty-year-old Fred Flinstone-mobile has devoured my entire life savings and it is not responding well to the cold. I probably should take it in for an oil change or tune-up or something, but my funds are running low. Uncle Shimon hasn’t paid me, yet. I have to avoid those mighty brick pillars lining the entrance to the academy.

“Don’t be foolish,” Vienna says. “Their curfew is at ten. Hey, don’t forget my stuff.”

I notice it back there on the curb. Rather than attempting a treacherous reverse maneuver, I jump out of the car, with the engine idling, and jog back to get it.

When I return, Vienna continues her story. “Oh my God, can you imagine? A senator’s daughter and she flew the coop. The police showed up and everything.”

Oh, wow. My pre-med degree is over.

“Then, at two in the moring,” Vienna continues, “the police just leave with no explanation. Celestina shows up like ten minutes later. Strolling through the door as though it was just another day at the beach.”

“She’s safe then?” I ask. I dropped her off by curb about a half a block away from the school.

“Of course she is,” Vienna says. “I don’t think she’s going to make it to class this morning. What happened to you?”

“I pulled an all nighter,” I lie. “I had a massive project. Did she say what she was doing last night?”

“Nope,” Vienna says. “She spent the rest of the night groaning about a headache.”

Using pure muscle memory, I somehow weave my car to the natatorium. When we stop, I ask Vienna, for once in her over privileged life, to carry her own stuff. I lean my head back against the window to grab a few more winks when I hear Vienna sigh. “You better shape up,” she says. “You’ve got to be ready by Friday night.”

“Um, sure,” I say. I don’t quite remember the deal, but perspiration starts to bead on my forehead.

“Good,” she says, “I’m still working out the details to maximize your punishment. It’s going to be a doozy.”

Punishment … now I remember. She plans on “punishing” me for glancing in the back seat while she was changing. My imagination revs up its turbo-charger.

How bad could it be? I wonder. She’s only twelve. I know better. Vienna has a brutally efficient imagination.

For the rest of the week, I try to concentrate on my classes. Vienna keeps dropping hints, like “Rosalita has purchased supplies for our session: clippers, dye, and gorilla gel.” She cackles with a high-pitched Joker laugh. I’m glad I can be so entertaining for her. “Bring a pair of shorts,” she says, “short shorts.”

“I don’t have any short shorts,” I say.

“Oh, thanks for telling me. I’ll make sure Rosalita gets you a pair.”

My greatest dread is running into Kitty Hinshaw. Now that she knows I’m not gay, I don’t think it would be wise to make an appearance around young girls in leotards. I manage to avoid her through Friday. I catch sight of her once from the vantage point of my car stakeout, but I duck down.

Thursday morning, Celestina runs over to my car. She seems chipper. “Hey, Kyler,” she says, “Are you ready for another go next week?”

I wince without an answer. I didn’t achieve anything last Tuesday beyond a nasty migraine. Why would I possibly make that sojourn again?

Friday, after gymnastics, we take the extended drive to the Stegman empire. “Are you anxious? Are you worried?” Vienna asks with a chuckle. You would think all of those activities would drain her energy. Bouncing off the dash, the door, and the driver, she can’t sit still. She’s incredibly cute in that hyperactive, twelve-year-old girl sort of way. She adds, “You should be shaking in your boots.” She’s so excited that I believe my punishment will involve whips and horse tack.

I barely say three words on the drive besides, “Can you give me some idea what you have in store for me?”

“Nope,” Vienna says with that evil cackle. S&M it is, I guess.

I pull into her driveway and park the car in their small cutout next to their four-car garage. She tells me to put our stuff in our rooms and meet in the kitchenette. Rosalita greets me with a smile and “Buenos noches.” Vienna asks her if all of her supplies are ready. With a wink, Rosalita smiles at me, “Si, senorita.”

I savor my bowl of mush, which tastes a lot like a last meal. I try to convince myself that Vienna likes me. It works until I remember that she and Celsestina speak every day. What sort of sexual perversions have they been discussing? I didn’t worry about Celestina beyond her casual hotness and access to Victor’s party. She was already well on her way to post-modern sexual celebrity. I had nothing to do with that.

Vienna is different. I would feel terrible if I created a psychological mess with her.

Finally, I finish my meal and say, “I’m ready.” I can’t even look her in the eyes.

“No, you’re not,” she says. “You have to change into your shorts.”

I picture something like those 1970s era basketball shorts like Magic Johnson wore in college. When I get to my room to change, I discover they are black, short, spandex boxers … and very snug. High school football beefcakes always seemed comfortable wearing them outside. I’m not an exhibitionist by nature. I don’t think I could get used to that sort of exposure.

But this is for Vienna. Underwear that looks a lot like shorts doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal. I throw on a long t-shirt and leave the rest of my belongings in my temporary bedroom.

When I return to the cleaned kitchen, Vienna commands, “No shirt.” I shamefully comply with her demands. Even though I’m not nude, I feel my scrawny torso is exposed in Vienna’s kitchen. Rosalita or her parents could enter at any time.

I sit in the chair she has pulled aside for me. On the counter, Vienna has an array of torture implements available – clippers, large and small shears, a scalpel, comb, and chemical vials. I gulp. “What’s in store for me here?”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Vienna chuckles. She holds the shears with both hands. They look sharp. I don’t like the swoosh they make when she tests the functionality in the air. “Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

She runs her hand through my shaggy mop of hair. “I decided that you are going to be my art project for the weekend. First step: the hair.”

I breathe easier. “Do your worst,” I say. She places a large towel around my neck.

Of all of the possible scenarios that I imagined, being Vienna’s art project is the least worrisome. She could trim me like a poodle and I wouldn’t care. At college, I’m basically a loner. It’s such a frivolous waste of money that I haven’t cut my hair since summer. She has plenty to work with. Maybe she’s even doing me a favor.

“Have you done this before?” I ask.

She chuckles, “Does it matter?” I guess not.

Vienna activates the clippers and begins trimming without mercy or prejudice. She has some structure in mind. As she runs the clippers past my ear, it sounds like mosquito Mongol hordes buzzing me. She trims the right side of my head, leaving only a thin layer of stubby bristle-fuzz. Waste hair flutters to the floor beneath. Then she starts with shears to touch up my right side.

She positions herself in front of me and stares directly into my eyes. It’s intimidating. Finally, she picks up tweezers and a scalpel and starts to shape my eyebrows. I hold my breath and try not to move.

Aunt Liz makes an entrance and says, “What is going on here?”

Vienna jumps, but I offer an explanation, “I volunteered to be her art victim for the weekend.” I worry that she might notice my undershorts, but her tennis outfit and Vienna’s sweats are just as snug. I act cool and hold my breath.

“You’re a braver person than I,” Liz says. She seems tired and run down from a long week. She goes over the refrigerator and finds a blended energy drink. “I’m turning in early. Don’t stay up late. You have a meet tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Mom,” Vienna says. She looks me over with an evil glint as though her mother’s words were carte blanche approval to ravage me for the rest of the night. She doesn’t seem to worry much about the swim meet.

“Is your father around?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says. “He’s in Singapore or something.”

She finishes carving my eyebrows and blows off the excess hair with a category five, industrial strength leaf blower. She surveys her chemical concoctions and finds one that looks to be a sharp shade of burnt orange. Very quickly she dabs splotches next to my eye, then smoothes them in with her thumb.

Finally, I will myself to relax and just go with the flow. “I trust you,” I say.

She grins. “You won’t make that mistake twice.” After she completes the application of several layers of cosmetics from yellows, reds & oranges, she applies a thick layer of goo to my hair. She whips the towel from around my neck and says, “Next stop, the garage.” She grabs my hand and leads the way.

“Can I take a look at a mirror?” I ask.

“Nope. You said you trusted me.”

“But I’m curious.”

“Glad you’re not a cat,” Vienna says.

The cold concrete floor bites with each step. Vienna lines me up along the wall on a piece of cardboard, and fires up a brand new air compressor with a big red surge tank. Not that I know anything about air compressors, but this one is much more impressive than Uncle Woj’s. Nobody has to restrain it from walking across the floor.

She removes the towel from around my neck and tosses it on a shiny black BMW. Then she affixes a nozzle and stainless steel canister to the end of the hose, places her hand on my shoulder to twist me around, and sprays my back with something damp.

She works quickly around to my chest and then touches up the outside of my legs. She waves the jet carefully to diffuse the edges of the pattern. After she’s satisfied with one coat, she removes the canister and puffs a cleaning solvent through the nozzle. Then she follows with a second color. She sprays it onto a piece of paper to clear out any excess orange before the red stream is constant.

So intent, I could be a canvas for all the deference Vienna grants me. I begin to relax and enjoy being the object of her attention. She tugs on my waistband to try to minimize the sharp edge. When she reaches my legs, she pushes on the inside of my knee and sprays my thigh. It tickles, but Vienna doesn’t seem to notice.

Vienna works quickly. Before I know it, I’m covered with an autumn color palette. I have no idea what she’s creating. She steps back to take in the entire product, shakes her head and winces. I think my spandex shorts are interfering with the aesthetic.

“Do you want me to take them off?” I ask. I’m not sure if that’s an appropriate suggestion, but she’s an artist. Right?

Vienna shrugs and blushes as though I’m intruding on a private moment. “You don’t have to,” she says.

“I know I don’t have to,” I say. “Is that what you need?”

Vienna licks her lips and nods a firm yes.

I try to act nonchalant. It’s no big deal. She’s seen me in the buff before. But we’re alone in this four car cavern. This is a private moment, and I’m nervous as hell. I’m cavorting with my twelve year old cousin, naked except for a few layers of body paint. Worse yet, I’m in an unheated garage. I wonder if I need to explain shrinkage to her. My light, pubal covering makes it all worse.

She clears the old paint from nozzle and returns to the original orange. Tingles rage through my cock when she sprays it with the orange body paint. She doesn’t say anything, but she stops to stare at it for a few seconds before she continues. She walks around behind me and sprays the color into my ass. I feel so funky. I finally begin to relax when she returns to my front. As though she overlooks the human nature of her canvas, she places her fingers on my sack to nudge it aside. “Oops,” she says jerking her fingers away, “sorry about that.”

When she jerks her fingers away, my longing for her touch is so strong, it stings. My hips waver in her direction as though, in that split moment, I’ve become addicted to the contact. “It’s all right,” I say with a shiver. “Do what you have to do to make it right. I don’t mind.”

Which is about as grand a lie as I’ve ever told. I guess that’s why my second nose has gone all Pinocchio on me.

Vienna furrows her brow, bewildered by my growing cock.

“Truly?” she asks. I nod, momentarily mute. “You know,” she says, “I didn’t really think you’d let me paint you.” She hesitates for a moment, fingers my sack aside, and sprays some orange, then she shifts to the other side. Her fingers are rough, callused from her gymnastics. Kindling for desire.

“This is fun,” I say. “I enjoy being your canvas.”

She uses several stencil masks to sharpen the last colors – brown and gold. By the time she reaches my feet, I realize that it looks like feathers. She paints my toes like talons. “I’m a bird,” I say.

“Not exactly,” Vienna says.

“A phoenix?”

She finishes the final touches. “I’ll meet you up in your room for the final touches.” She hands me my shorts and wraps the towel around my waist. “Don’t let Rosalita see you. I’d get in beau coups trouble.”

Not nearly as much trouble as I would.


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Anonymous 14/10/03(Fri)20:43 No. 22521 ID: b83645

Hrgh!


>>
Random+Evername 14/10/04(Sat)06:05 No. 22524 ID: b12ebc

I don't know what that means. I hope it's good.


>>
Chapter 22 Random+Evername 14/10/04(Sat)06:06 No. 22525 ID: b12ebc

Chapter 22

Vienna pours excess paint into a drum and rinses the canisters with a solvent. I offer to help, but she shoos me out, shrouded only in my large, extra luscious, bath-towel.

I make my way, swiftly & silently, up the back staircase to the bedroom that I have come to consider my room. The easel, where Vienna captured my near-death experience, remains standing where I last saw it. At the base of the stool, Vienna has left a variety of materials from charcoal to colored pencils and oil paints.

I’m captured by a childish whim. I toss my shorts and T-shirt on the bed and sit on Vienna’s throne. I scan the room for something and select an object on which to focus. Nothing particularly fascinating … an ornate vase with cattails stretching from the opening and faux grape vines rippling down the sides. I lose myself in the shape and pattern. With the colored pencils, I sketch the outline on Vienna’s drawing pad. I haven’t tried drawing something this difficult since high school.

It must be fifteen, twenty minutes later. I’m darkening in a grape leaf when I hear the door open. Vienna has changed into a short, pink nightgown that doesn’t even reach mid thigh. Her willowy legs retain a child’s slenderness. Her muscular quads grow taut with each step.

In her hand, she wields a six-foot long, wooden curtain rod. What is she going to do with that?

“Hi,” I say setting the pencils down on the lip. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She leans against the rod and studies my work. “It’s pretty good,” she says. “You should draw more.”

“No, it’s not.” I shake my head. “I was just goofing around. I can’t draw symmetrical curves to save my life.” I always enjoyed art class. My mother seemed to appreciate some minor talent, but art supplies were a luxury we could never quite afford. “What’s the plan?” I continue. “I can’t believe you’re going to bring your naked cousin project into school for a grade.”

“This isn’t for school,” Vienna says. “School assignments are always so structured. I wanted to try something different. Something that’s pure creation. Just for fun.”

She hands me the wooden rod. “You’re going to hold this like it’s a spear,” she says.

I’m not even sure what she means. I allow the towel to drop to the floor and cradle the back-end with my arm to brace it. I hold it in both hands and point it straight out as though I’m ready to do the pole vault.

“No, no, no, no,” she says. “In one arm over your head.”

I hold the wooden rod like a javelin throw, but I can tell by her expression that I’m not getting it.

“Here let me show you,” she says. She places one arm around my waist and the other under my elbow. “Now point it at the ground.” She sighs at my inability to read her mind. It’s almost like she doesn’t realize the insane cravings she ignites in me. “Wait. Let me get some pillows.”

She runs around the bed and grabs all of the pillows – the decorative and functional ones. She places them on the floor around my feet. “Stand on this,” she demands. She lifts my left leg up and positions it on the pillow. “Now, point the spear right at the head. You’re vicious.”

“I get it,” I say. “Like Saint Michael battling Satan. Except he carried a sword.”

“Kind of,” Vienna says heading back to her stool. “But you’re no angel.” She flips the page, hiding my amateurish cartoon, and maneuvers the easel to a better position for full-frontal inspiration. She chooses a red pencil as her weapon and begins the outline of the image. Within moments, Vienna is lost in her artistry. I am no more than a mural on the wall.

Very quickly, I grow restless. My arm wilts under the strain. “Keep holding it high,” Vienna says. How could she know? She hasn’t even looked up from her canvas.

I search around the room for something to distract my attention. The hunting tapestry hanging on the wall is unusual. Three riders in red jackets and black hats circle the foliage while four hounds lead the way chasing a fox. It’s the same tapestry that hung here Thanksgiving, not really all that fascinating. Hey, wait a minute … there are five hounds. One is poking his nose out of the base of a bush. It was there all the time.

God, I’m bored.

It doesn’t take long for me to fixate on Vienna. In her drawing mindset, her expression tightens. Her speed and focus are incredible. Like some sort of savant, she divorces herself from reality. Shifting around on the stool, she lifts one foot, then the other, without taking her eyes of her creation. Finally, she settles into an Indian-style position with her legs crossed in front of her. It gives an impression that she’s floating on air, like a Hindu Swami or the Last Airbender. I enjoy the glorious view of her scantily sheltered crotch.

The white fabric stretches across two slight, barely discernible bumps – clefts of fascination, aching to be kissed. Her thighs, too, are magnificent works of art. Flesh is smooth and inviting. Left and right curves of her proximal muscles, the sartorius and gracilus, form a hollow cave, which broaden as they approach her pubic tubercle. The fabric gapes open – just a little -- between her muscular grotto and the hem of her panties. It seems just barely large enough to fit my finger. I lick my lips as I imagine myself doing just that – mentally navigating the shadow of wanton decadence.

“Why does it grow like that?” Vienna says, not even glancing up. She shakes me out of my trance.

“What?” I say.

“You know ... your penis … .” She points the back end of her pencil toward me, then continues to draw. “It’s got a little Miraclegro in it. Why does it do that?”

“Um … .” Shit. A good thing I’m encased in body paint. I consider responding crudely -- describe my shaft as a laser-guided, heat seeking spear. Instead, I forego my ego and remain clinical. “It’s an involuntary neuromuscular response,” I say, “An unconscious reaction to ... um … desire. I can’t really stop it.”

I hope those are big enough words to allay her curiosity. I think I’m lucky when she pinches her lips and tilts her head to the side. She makes another long sweeping arc on the sketchpad with her pencil. Then, for the first time, she looks up, her eyes open wide, and she drops her pencil on the floor. “Me?” she asks. She starts laughing like a goose. “You have the hots for me?”

“Yeah,” I say chuckling along with her. I rest my spear (the wooden one) on the ground. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

“Well,” she shrugs. “I’m just a kid. I didn’t think you looked at me like that.” She raises a good point. I have no response.

Vienna returns to her drawing. She doesn’t get very far. She searches through the pencils and can’t seem to find the one she’s looking for. “I got my father’s huge nose,” she scowls. “And everybody says I look like a boy. I got no tits at all.”

“Aw Nugget, you definitely do not look like a boy.” In the few weeks that I’ve been driving her, I never once considered that she thought of herself as plain or ugly. “Everybody’s got a nose. Some are plain, but yours is unique. A whole lot different than your father’s.” It’s a lot smaller for one thing.

She rolls her eyes. I’m not doing very well. I’m not even sure how to address her anxiety on her chest without sounding sillier. “As far as tits are concerned – you have plenty. Trust me. The size is not that important.” At least not since Thanksgiving.

“You’re sweet,” she says. I can tell that her mind is mulling over my ideas. She doesn’t seem to be buying my theory on female beauty. I mean, practically every girl in her gymnastics class and dance class has less.

She starts to draw a little more, shading in a spot of orange. I return to my pose, launching the spear into arm-straining territory. It’s killing me, but I don’t want to complain. Complaints would not impress Conan the Gymnastian. I try to think about anything other than this cute, young girl in front of me.

After a few moments, Vienna shakes her head. She sets down her pencil and sighs, “This isn’t working. I have to take a break.” She flexes her fingers a few times. “Would you like to see what I have so far?”

“Sure,” I say with a grin. I gladly set the end of my spear on the ground and use it as a walking stick over to the easel.

Her sketch is an outline of two figures – me standing over a demon with my foot on his knee. Surrounded in flames, two huge wings stretch from my shoulders. My spear is pointed right at the head of the other guy while his snake-like tongue swirls around my neck. It’s brilliant and disturbing, but I have no idea what it is supposed to mean. We’re both nude, so it looks a lot like rape.

“Great works of art are often based on religion or mythology,” Vienna begins to explain. “I decided to try to mix them a little. You guessed right – you’re a phoenix.”

While she talks, her eyes dodge back and forth between the sketchpad and my cock.

“The phoenix rising from the fire is a metaphor for the sunrise,” she continues. “Um … I’m … uh …. I’m recreating a daily battle between good and evil with the darkness being a demon of some sort and the phoenix is sort of like an angel. Darkness will have a face that’s all cratered like the moon. I’ll darken it in with paints over the weekend. I think it will be pretty cool when I’m done.”

“At least I’m the good guy,” I say. The moon looks pretty tough. I guess we each win once a day.

By this time, she’s staring straight at my cock without glancing back. I’m trying to compliment her on the idea, but I don’t think she’s listening. My cock, the closet narcissist that he is, puts on a show for Vienna like a peacock spreading his feathers.

“It’s so funny looking,” she blurts out sharply. “It’s like a big ol’ hairy sack of elbow skin.” That was deflating. “Aww, now look, he’s going away.”

I have nothing to say. I just chuckle.

“You know, I’ve seen lots of nude male sculptures,” Vienna continues. “But you don’t really get perspective until you see it in the flesh.” Out of what seems like a moment of curiosity, she reaches and grabs hold of my sack and giggles. “It’s like there’s two marbles in there.”

I get that amazing jolt of tingle-iasis. I close my eyes and try not to over-react.

“Once, Tabita Wentworth and I stayed behind at the museum and checked out the sculpture’s nads. They were cold and solid.” Vienna bounces my nuts between my fingers. I try to mentally command her to be gentle. “You need to shave again. Your stubble is pretty sharp,” she says. “Is this okay? You said I could touch you if we weren’t in front of class.”

“I don’t mind,” I say. My voice squeaks. I know I should stop her, but … what the hell? She’s only curious. I’m starting to feel a little fuzzy. I lean more weight on the wooden walking staff.

All of a sudden, Vienna leans in and plant a kiss on the center of my shaft. That shakes me out of my daze. She pulls away with a little bit of red and orange paint on her lips.

“Celestina says that’s supposed to feel good,” she says. Her mouth stays open with her tongue pressed against her teeth.

“Are you guys talking about me, again?” I ask.

“No, that was before she knew you,” Vienna says. She pulls lets go of my sack. “Last year, in the lunchroom, she had one of those frozen ice pops. It was so cold that it stuck to her tongue.”

Vienna giggles, but she looks at me with curiosity as though asking me to confirm Celestina’s words. I’m on shaky ground here. I’m not sure how to answer her.

Vienna doesn’t give me the chance to stay noncommittal. “Do girls really do that with your penis?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” I admit wishing it might occur any moment now.

She tilts her head and studies me. “It looks nothing like an ice pop. I don’t think it looks I could do that.” She shuddered.

Aww, shucks. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I say.

“Celestina says guys expect it. She says it feels really good for them.”

“Just stop talking about Celestina.”

Vienna stuck her tongue out and touches it to my shaft for a moment. She glowers as if she doesn’t like the aftertaste.

She opens her mouth as if to ask say something else, but stops herself. She reaches up and fingers my shaft like it’s a flute. She’s barely touching it which makes me shiver and burn at the same time. I’m not even sure if I should encourage her. My knees waver. I probably shouldn’t be standing, but I can’t bring myself to move.

“Does it feel good when I touch your penis?”

“It feels really good,” I say.

Involuntarily, I push her palm against the tender underside, so that it forces my shaft against my abs. A jolt of excitement runs up my spine. Fuck, it makes me gasp. Almost immediately I realize how fuckin’ depraved that was. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.” I release her hand.

“I don’t mind,” Vienna whispers. She licks her lips and places her palm on my shaft again. “Like this?” It’s really warm.

“Move it up and down a little,” I suggest.

“You should see your face.” She grins. “Celestina says I can get guys to do anything for me when I do this.”

“Stop talking about Celestina,” I say more angrily than I intend. “I just don’t want to talk about her.” Hell, I don’t even want to think about her.

I decide to take a little more command of this situation. If I could, I would try to reach Vienna’s crotch, but it’s out of reach. Instead, I reach down and run my finger across her nipple.

“Ooh,” Vienna says with a quiver. She pulls away. “Is that what it feels like for you?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Do it again?” She places her hand back on my shaft to encourage me.

With a little more confidence, I place my hand under Vienna’s chin and contort my body to kiss her. When she tilts her head in response, I trace my fingers down her neck to her chest. I don’t know about those kids at her school, Vienna’s breasts are perfect. There’s just enough softness to form tiny swells under my touch. Her nipple stiffens when I roll my fingers across it. I barely pinch it and roll it between my finger and thumb. Her jaw becomes rigid. She tries to draw in her breath and takes my tongue with it.

Her tiny palm is moving steadily across my shaft. My knees buckle. I’m thinking I should warn her what’s coming next, but I can’t formulate the words.

I hear knuckles rapping on the door, but it sounds like it’s from a dream. Before I answer, the door knob rotates and the door cracks open. “Señor Yakubowski, are you awake?” Rosalita says in a lilting Hispanic accent, “I have fresh baked cookies and milk for you.”

Shit!

I pull away from the kiss and glance at the door. In one leap, I move away from Vienna, grab my shorts from the bed, and dive behind the footboard. I quickly try to shove them over my legs. I return to my feet and see Rosalita stopped in the doorway, glaring. A platter of cookies splattered on the carpet. If looks could kill, I imagine they would look a lot like Rosalita.


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Anonymous 14/10/04(Sat)22:12 No. 22530 ID: 56d973

PERFECT (in every way)


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I like it A Big fan 14/10/08(Wed)00:45 No. 22544 ID: 5684f9

I like complicated stories. The more complicated the better. I love that we have a conspiracy and an antagonist.


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Anonymous 14/10/30(Thu)06:05 No. 22653 ID: 8513a4

I can't imagine anything I would change to improve the story you're telling. You have a real talent and this is breathtaking.


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Anonymous 14/12/17(Wed)14:41 No. 22980 ID: 8ec50f

More please?


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Anonymous 14/12/18(Thu)01:16 No. 22984 ID: 0dbf24

I've missed this author. He hasn't updated this or his other story recently.


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Anonymous 14/12/21(Sun)03:42 No. 23000 ID: c8f6a2

This is one of my favorite stories here, hopefully you haven't given up on it.


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Anonymous 15/01/01(Thu)20:35 No. 23043 ID: 15701f

I agree with above - this is possibly my favourite too. I hope you haven't given up on this OP. Could you give us a sign please - just knowing continuation is on its way will make a wait easier to bear


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Anonymous 15/01/05(Mon)08:58 No. 23064 ID: c86d5d

I also agree. Please let us know you still live and this is still going...


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Anonymous 15/01/06(Tue)13:14 No. 23078 ID: a13f33

Enjoyed it very much... but the cliffhangers are killing me!!!


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Anonymous 15/02/07(Sat)23:35 No. 23249 ID: 8ec50f

still waiting


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Anonymous 15/03/24(Tue)13:48 No. 23408 ID: 84d96c

Dear Random Evername,

I'm a real fan of your story and I've been following it from the beginning, enjoying every chapter (particularly those that feature the play between Kyler and Vienna). I'm hoping you keep an eye on any new posts and are in a frame of mind to answer this and (hopefully) relieve our concern, as there hasn't been an update now for approaching 6 months (not even a response to a post). Are you planning to complete this? I'm hoping that it's just a 'can't find the time' thing - I can fully empathise with that as I have decided to write a story for this board and am having real problems getting sufficient words down to satisfy myself, never mind any interested readers! I hope it isn't your migraines continuing, because I wouldn't wish that on you.

So in short, it's clear there are many desperate fans of this story who would become so much less desperate if we just knew that some time - as soon as you feel able to do it - you will be continuing.


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Update Random Evername 15/03/25(Wed)14:49 No. 23410 ID: a523c0

Thanks for the feedback. I do appreciate it. Since the beginning of last summer, I am a lot sicker than I thought. I'm managing, but I can't write nearly as much as I used to. I'm concentrating on my Celia novel first, then I'll try to get back to this one.


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Anonymous 15/12/12(Sat)13:42 No. 24032 ID: efe040

I'm bumping this up, JIC. Whilst I'm at it, I hope you're feeling better Random. Are you able to give us an update? We can be patient, but it's nice to know where we're at .


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Anonymous 16/01/03(Sun)07:52 No. 24068 ID: 735cd1

>>23410
Just want to let you know that I'm a fan of both, and I think you're a great writer.


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Anonymous 16/07/25(Mon)04:31 No. 24489 ID: 938ee9

Random Evername - I hope you're getting some respite from your symptoms. Just checking in. I'm surprised more people aren't doing the same - who knows, perhaps they are but just not commenting, as I don't most of the time. On this occasion I thought I'd send a note to you, just in case you look in every now and again.

You mentioned previously that you wanted to concentrate on your novel 'Celia', so 2 questions really:

(1) Is 'Celia' on line and available? Sorry if you've already posted details, but if not do you mind letting us know how/where we can See

(2) Do you have a feeling as to how long we may have to wait to see your continuation of this (excellent) story?


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Anonymous 19/05/31(Fri)02:39 No. 26077 ID: 315a0e

Lovin the story and i cant wait for the continuation. Also bump.


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Anonymous 19/07/13(Sat)19:28 No. 26121 ID: 76bc2b

>>26077
god how many years since he last updated and im still waiting, would buy the novel.


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Anonymous 20/05/31(Sun)21:59 No. 26776 ID: 8fe15c

Agreed, I read a novel or two a week, and this is better than most of them



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