Beefeater -- #Fetish #Erotica #FreeReadingFest #Prizes

Image by fen357 from Pixabay

 

"You know what I want." I can barely get the words out between gasps. Phil's got my blouse unbuttoned and is diligently sucking my nipple, with the expected effect. He stops briefly to swirl his tongue in a deft circle around the aching nub, then nips at the tip. I moan as my clit jumps in sympathy.

Encouraged, he fastens his mouth on mine while he sneaks his hand up my thigh. I'm sopping and dying for him to touch me, but I slap his hand away.

"No way! You're not getting into my knickers until you agree."

"Oh, come on, Moe. You know I can't do it."

"Of course you can. If you want to. If you want me, want me enough."

He bends to my breasts for another long, delicious suckle. He's trying to soften me up. I mustn't let him know how much success he's having.

"Really, I can't. It's like -- sacrilege." There's genuine distress on his face, but it might just be the result of frustrated lust. "Those uniforms were designed by Queen Victoria, for Christ's sake."

I snuggle up to him with a sweet smile. "I know. That's part of what makes it so hot. The centuries of tradition. Don't you think that it would be hot, Phil?" I stroke the his swollen cock through his jeans and give him a wet kiss with lots of tongue. It's hardly possible, but I actually feel him become bigger and harder. "It's not like this is just for me. I know you'll enjoy it."

"Yeah, but if Geoff catches me, I'm finished. A halberd through the heart! You know how he is about the Warders."

"He won't, I promise. We'll be extra careful. We'll do it when he's on duty."

"And what about my mum?"

"Doesn't she play bridge a couple of nights a week?"

"On Tuesdays and Thursdays, most weeks."

"So all you need to do is figure out the next Tuesday or Thursday night that Geoff's on the watch." I find the bulb of his cock and pinch it through the denim. He yelps. "Should be easy for a smart guy like you."

"Okay, okay, you win. Tell me the details of your devious scheme, and I'll do what I can." Phil stands up and starts pacing back and forth in front of the TV. He's trying to get his hard-on to subside. Mum's due back from work any minute, so I've got to talk fast.

I lay out my plan. As I do, I get wetter and wetter. I've dreamed about this since I was in my pre-teens. Maybe earlier. But until Uncle Geoff, the man we all thought was a confirmed bachelor, married Aunt Helen, I never saw a chance to turn my fantasy into reality.

I remember sitting on Uncle Geoff's lap when I was really young, four or five. It was a vast expanse of navy blue, with lovely red highlights. Geoff liked to show off his uniform when he came over to visit us. And he did look fine in it. He's not tall, but he's solid, and his sandy hair and beard look golden showing against the rich, dark blue of his hat brim.

Even now, I remember the feel of the tight-woven wool against my thighs. It was smooth, almost silky, not scratchy like the wool skirt and blazer my mum made me wear to church in the winter. I can bring back the scent, too, smoky, cigarettes and wood fires, with just a hint of my uncle's Old Spice after shave.

By the time I was old enough to be getting myself off, my mind was full of men in archaic blue and red costumes, touching me as I touched myself. They were faceless, but unflaggingly eager.

Some folks, I know, will start quoting Freud to me at this point, babbling on about father figures and displacement and the subconscious. It's true that I don't remember my dad, that Uncle Geoff was all the father I had. But I didn't lust after my uncle. Just his uniform.

I had a normal sex life. I lost my virginity in the last year of sixth form, then shagged a couple of guys during my two years at college. They didn't know that when I came, I was imagining blue wool and garnet trim. At first I mentally dressed them in the Beefeater uniform. After a while, though, I realized that I got more turned on picturing myself in the Yeoman Warder's costume.

Anyway, it was all just fantasy until last summer.

As soon as I met my cousin Phil at Geoff's and Helen's wedding, I knew that he fancied me. And to be honest, the feeling was mutual. I didn't let on, though. I figured I could use the attraction to get his help.

Phil is artistically pale, with messy black hair, green eyes and a cynical grin. He looks just like the devil that he is. He actually hit on me at the wedding reception, cornering me and feeling me up in the coatroom. Here at last was the accomplice that I needed. He was clever, too, working on his MBA at Imperial College.

He had turned out to be more timid than I expected. I had to work hard to convince him that some ancient English god would not strike him down in a bolt of lightning for conspiring with me. Lust, however, is a powerful motivator.

"Maureen, I'm home." Mum bustles into the den only ten minutes after Phil leaves, juggling sacks of groceries.

"Here, let me help." I take two of the bags and follow her into the kitchen. Mum considers me to be something of a disappointment, twenty four and still living at home, working as a shopgirl when Andy's already a junior partner in accountancy, and Cassie has given her two grandkids. But the truth is, she'd be awfully lonely if I took off, too. Of course, I will, someday. But at the moment, my goals are more near-term.

"How was work?" she asks, putting the potatoes on to boil.

"Slow. Lucy sent me home early, since they didn't need me." Of course, I don't mention the fact that Phil picked me up from work in his cute green Mini, or our clinch in the den.

"You really should look for something more challenging, Maureen. Something with more of a future."

"Yes, you're right, Mum." I'm saved by the sound of my mobile ringing. I stroll off to the den to have some privacy.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I mentally check the calendar. Tomorrow is in fact Thursday.

"Right. Geoff's assigned to the Escort of the Key, so he'll be out until ten. And my mother's got a tournament. She warned me that it might go till midnight."

Tomorrow. I'm simultaneously terrified and overwhelmed with excitement. My pussy is slick and swollen.

"I didn't expect it would be so soon..."

"Do you want to do this, or not?" His breathing is heavy. He's excited too.

"Yes, yes of course."

"I'll pick you up at seven thirty. You'd better be ready for me."

I'm ready now, wet and open and dying to get off. Except that my legs are trembling. I sink down on the sofa. Tomorrow.

Somehow I manage to make it through the next twenty four hours. I'm dazed with desire, my knickers a sodden mess from the moment I put them on. At work I nearly give Mrs. Washburn the box with Ms. Simpson's black lace teddy, instead of her WonderHold ExtraFirm girdle. I catch the error (imagine prim Mrs. Washburn opening that parcel!) at the last moment. Lucy notices and gives me a dirty look. When she touches me on the sleeve, electricity sizzles through me, straight to my pussy. My whole body is sensitized, pulsing with the current of fantasy on the brink of fulfillment.

Mum has cooked roast beef, normally my favorite, but I can hardly eat a bite. "Are you feeling sick, Maureen?"

"No Mum, I'm fine. I just had a big lunch. Maybe I'll have a cold plate later." I begin to clear. Mum looks at me suspiciously.

"Are you going out?"

"Oh yes, didn't I tell you? Cousin Phil and I are going to a movie." I always find that a half-truth is far safer than an outright lie. "I'd better go get ready."

Mum is skeptical. She's not sure she approves of her brother's new step-son, though Phil's always polite and attentive to her. She told me that she thinks he's fast. If she only knew!

"Well, make sure he has you back before eleven, now. Tomorrow's a work day, you know."

"Of course, Mum." By eleven o'clock the Ceremony of the Keys will be finished. By eleven, it will be done, my lifelong desire fulfilled. My heart is beating so hard, I almost expect that she'll hear. "I'll see you later."

In my room I strip and shower, then pull on a soft jersey that stretches seductively over my breasts, and a denim skirt. No underwear; I want to be as close to naked as is possible. My pussy throbs. I'm terribly tempted to touch myself, bring down the level of tension, but I resist. Save it. Save it for Phil and Queen Victoria.

Phil is ten minutes late. I'm ready to kill him when he finally arrives, especially when his grin tells me that his tardiness was deliberate. "Hey, cuz, you look great." He leans over the gear stick to kiss me, and I let him, but when he starts to paw my breast, I pull away. He tastes of Wrigley's chewing gum and whisky.

"Have you been drinking?" I try to sound stern, but his closeness sends my arousal into high gear.

"Just a shot of courage. Or two."

"Well, be careful. The last thing we want is for the police to pick us up."

"Of course, madam."

He drives through the mayhem of London with exaggerated caution, stopping on amber lights, keeping our speed well below 30. It seems to take forever. I glance over at his crotch. He's hard, I'm sure of it, which is a very good sign. I sit back in the bucket seat and try to relax.

It's eight fifteen by the time we arrive at the outer gates of the Tower. Phil flashes his resident's pass at the guard on duty, and we sail through. We park in the common lot, then walk across the Green to the neat rowhouses that shelter the Yeoman Warders. The Warders and their families are required to live within the Tower grounds. Uncle Geoff's place is dark other than the lamp above the door. Phil looks around nervously before turning his key and letting me in.

"Come on. The wardrobe's on the second floor." He whispers, even though we are clearly alone in the house.

I follow my cousin through the shadowy halls and up the stairs. I can smell his sweat, his maleness. Juices from my pussy drip down the inside of my thighs.

He knocks at a closed door. I catch my breath; doe he expect an answer? In any case, there's no response. The door swings open, and then we are there, in my Uncle Geoff's bedroom, where he sleeps with my new aunt, where he stores the regalia that set him apart from the common mold of man. Phil turns on a dim lamp near the bed.

"There." He points to a plain-looking oak wardrobe in the corner. In a heartbeat I'm standing in front of it, pulling at the handles, but I can't seem to get it open. It's like one of those nightmares, where you try to move, to lift your hand and grasp your desire or to flee from your ultimate fear, but you're frozen. All your efforts are futile.

Tears well up. So close... Then Phil grins, reaches into his pocket and holds up a key. "He keeps it locked. Thieves, he says. Each uniform is worth more than a grand, after all."

The key turns smoothly. I fling the double doors open, and there they are: the uniforms. There's the scarlet and gold dress uniform, with its snowy white ruff and puffy headdress. A pair of black patent leather shoes are aligned carefully underneath.

This gaudy finery doesn't interest me. I'm focused on the undress uniform, the sea blue tunic and trousers with the ruby-red piping spelling out ER, Elizabeth Regina, across the chest. The jaunty hat with its circular brim. It's a chilly October night, and my uncle must be wearing the winter weight uniform. The summer uniform is wool too, but light, almost like linen. I reach out a finger and trace the bright trim around the cuff. It feels as though someone is trailing his fingers through the folds of my cunt.

Finally impatient, I pull my jersey over my head and toss it on the floor, then undo my zip and step out of the skirt. Phil releases an appreciative wolf whistle. I hardly notice. I reach for the tunic, pull it from the hanger, slip my arms into the sleeves, fasten it up to my neck. It's loose, of course. Every time I move, the finely knit fabric brushes over my swollen nipples, fanning the smoldering heat in my cunt into new flame. The cuffs fit snugly. On the shelf I find a pair of spotless white gloves. I pull them on, then consider the trousers.

My cunt is soaked, dripping with desire. In my fantasies, I'm always bent over, my Beefeater's trousers pulled down to bare my bottom to the men waiting behind me. Geoff's pants are way too long, though. Plus if I bring them anywhere near my raunchy wet pussy, they'll be soaked and stained by my juices, and possibly spoiled forever.

That thought by itself almost makes me come. But I cling to a shred of common sense and pass the trousers by. Instead, I reach up to the shelf and pick up the hat. I plant it on top of my tangled red-brown curls. My hair's so thick that it's a perfect fit.

I turn to face the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. I can hardly breathe. The person looking back at me is a stranger, a saucy pixie with hazel eyes and flushed cheeks. Her parted lips look bruised from kissing, fuller and redder than mine. The royal hue of the coat contrasts with the creamy paleness of her thighs. When the placket in the front separates, you can glimpse the fur of her mound. Her hat is perched at an irreverent angle, not straight across the brow the way Uncle Geoff wears it. Under her venerable costume, her body is ripe and open. She lets out a little sigh. She's begging to be fucked.

The tunic reaches to my knees, but I can feel currents of air creeping underneath it, caressing my naked bum. I'm aching to plunge both of my hands deep into my pussy. I imagine those pristine white gloves becoming wet and sticky with my fluids. I think about leaving them, afterwards, on the shelf in Geoff's closet, to fill up the hallowed space with the common, oceany smell of sex.

Every depraved image makes me hornier. Then I notice Phil's reflection. He's sitting on the bed behind me, staring, his cock jutting from his trousers and pointing straight up at the ceiling. I want that cock like I've never wanted anything.

"Turn around," he whispers. I drag myself away from the mirror and face him.

"Open the jacket. I want to see your tits." He grips his swollen organ and it jumps eagerly.

It's hard to undo the covered buttons in my gloves, but I manage. The fabric hangs open, the scarlet calligraphed 'E' brushing against one breast, the 'R' against the other. Without being told, I cup my tits and fondle them with my gloved fingers. The nappy cotton is soft as velvet. Every touch shoots straight to my clit. I brush my thumbs over my rigid nipples. It's like someone's rammed a thick, flaming candle deep into my cunt. My muscles clench, sending darts of pleasure out to my extremities.

Phil gestures impatiently. "Get over here, wench, and eat my meat."

I'm on my knees in front of him in a trice. I bend over and swallow his whole cock. There are no preliminaries, no teasing. We're beyond that now. Phil moans and grabs my shoulders for support. I work my mouth up and down along his impressive length, savoring the silky texture and salty taste. I can almost feel his hard, slippery rod, sliding in and out of my hungry cunt.

As my head bobs, the hat tumbles off into his lap. Now when my mouth reaches his root, I graze my cheek against the hat brim. I have a vision of Phil's come, spurting white curlicues across the navy fabric. My pussy twitches and shudders. I'm ready to explode.

I can't take anymore. I release his flesh with one lingering lick of appreciation, and flop onto my chest on the bed, my bum in the air. Phil needs no further invitation. I hear the crackle as he opens a condom package. He parts the back flaps of the tunic and sinks his cock into me in one smooth motion.

He's in deep, so deep. It's delicious, incredible pleasure with a fringe of pain. I squeeze my cunt muscles around his resilient flesh. He moans and pulls out, only to ram himself in again. Groping his way through the wool bunched under me, he finds my nipples and pinches them hard. Now it's my turn to moan.

"Please, oh yeah, oh... Fuck me, Phil, oh please, yes..."

"You bet I will, you kinky little slut. I've been waiting for this a long, long time."

Oh, and so have I, but now, it's worth it. He speeds up his strokes, slamming into me, pulling out, plunging in again, faster and faster, a train puffing and steaming as it hurtles down a hill. No brakes, we're going to crash, and we don't care, there's nothing now but his cock in my cunt.

I arch my back, writhing against him, trying to force him deeper still. My clit feels huge and tender; I'm desperate for him to touch it. He releases my tits, but instead of ministering to my poor hungry clit, he grabs my butt cheeks and opens me wider. I'm so close, I'm quivering all over. Just one touch is all I want, all I need.

He does touch me, but not my clit. Instead, he approaches the forbidden tightness of my back door, stroking, circling, then wiggling just the tip of a finger, barely inside. My whole body tenses, on the edge, trembling with terror and lust. He can't, he wouldn't, would he?

Suddenly there's a rush of wind and I'm floating, looking down at my own body, at Phil riding me with all his strength. His jeans are down around his knees. Crumpled blue and scarlet fabric covers my upper back, but I can still make out the appliqued crown emblem across the shoulders. My bare buttocks swell out from under the tunic, pale and inviting. The dark crevice between them is easily visible in this tableau, Phil's meaty cock disappearing into my cunt, Phil's finger poised and pressing against that moist whorl of muscle. I see the Beefeater's hat, discarded, on the floor. My white-gloved hands clutch desperately at the bedspread.

It's the hottest thing that I've ever seen.

There's this moment where time stops. I'm on the peak. Then I swoop back into my body and everything happens at once. Phil pushes his finger into my bum-hole, triggering guilty pleasure too intense to bear. At the same time, he grinds his cock into me, his come exploding in my depths.

It's finally enough. I shimmer, shatter, dissolve into a whirl of sensation. And I don't imagine anything. No dirty pictures. Everything is washed in clean, white light, pulsing in time with the throbbing in my sex.

The striking of a clock somewhere in the house brings me back to awareness. The dead weight of Phil's body is still draped across my back. He's surprisingly heavy. Solid. Without thinking, I count the chimes. At ten, I yelp and scramble up from the bed, dumping Phil on the floor and simultaneously reanimating him.

"Come on! It's ten o'clock. Uncle Geoff will be back any minute."

Phil looks suitably alarmed. I strip off the tunic and hang it back in the wardrobe, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. He retrieves the hat and lays it on the shelf. I tug off the gloves and place them carefully next to the hat. With a twinge of regret, I realize that they do not, in fact, smell of my arousal. Phil grabs the condom and wrapper. I scoop up the pile of my clothes from the floor. We close the wardrobe just as we hear the slam of the door downstairs.

"Come on. My room's across the hall." As we slip into Phil's bedroom, we hear Geoff's tread on the stairs. "Under the covers," my cousin hisses. He lies down and I press my body against his, enjoying the echoes of our recent pleasure. He pulls the sheets over my head. We both hold our breath.

There's a knock on the bedroom door. "Phillip? Are you here?" The door opens and Uncle Geoff is silhouetted against the hall light.

"I'm here. Went to bed a bit early. I've got an exam tomorrow."

"Ah -- that's probably a good idea." Geoff takes a step into the room. I tremble, holding onto Phil's hand. What will Geoff do if he discovers our treachery? "Anyway, have you been here all night?" He switches on the light. I cower against my cousin.

Phil sits up, pulling up the blanket so his step-dad won't see that he's fully dressed. "No, I just got home, maybe fifteen minutes ago. Why?"

"Well, somebody left my wardrobe unlocked. The key's in the lock, but it's not turned. Do you have any notions as to who might be responsible?"

I peek out and my heart does a somersault. Uncle Geoff's wearing his Warder's uniform.

He sounds so stern, every bit the royal guard. Meanwhile something pokes against my thigh. I reach down to find that Phil's getting hard again.

"Maybe my mum needed to put something inside and forgot to lock it? Or maybe it was Mrs. Ferguson?"

"Hmm. Well, nothing seems to be gone. But I do like things to be in order. Anyway, I'm sorry to disturb you. Good night, and good luck in your examination tomorrow." He flips off the light, and I let out the breath I've been holding.

"Thanks. Good night." The door closes.

"Wow, that was close." I snuggle against my cousin, stroking his growing erection. "Thanks, Phil. Thanks for everything. That was really fabulous."

He reaches under my arm and clasps my bare breast. His skin is cool and slightly moist. The bed smells of him, a smell that is now familiar, and definitely exciting. I can feel him grinning in the dark.

"Yeah, it was, rather."

"We'll have to do it again some time..." I slip my hand into his pants and give his balls an affectionate squeeze. His cock jumps to attention.

"Well, actually, since you're such a kinky girl..."

"I am not!" Phil insinuates a finger between my buttocks. I can't help gasping.

"As I was saying ... since you're so kinky, maybe you'd be interested in trying something else."

"Something else? Like what?"

"Well..." He seems to be shy all of a sudden, but his cock is more swollen than ever. "You work at a lingerie store, right? Corsets, negligees, that sort of thing? Do you ever get to sample the merchandise?"

Light is dawning. "Well, I get an employee discount. And sometimes if something is damaged, Lucy might let me have it." I stroke his silky hardness, imagining the possibilities. "So you want me to dress up in some kind of risque lingerie?"

"Not exactly." Phil kisses me, a lingering kiss that's full of as much sweetness as heat. "I've never been able to tell anybody else about this, but I know that you'll understand."

All at once I have a clear picture of what he really wants, in full, outrageous detail. My pussy liquefies. I grab his hand and force it between my thighs so he can feel my answer. He gently disengages and slips his cock into me instead.

The clock downstairs strikes eleven. I realize that Mum's going to give me hell when I finally get home. Right now, though, I'm I'm imagining a longer term future.

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Perception -- #Psychology #OlderWomanYoungerMan #FreeReadingFest #Prizes

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

 

He was late, of course. They always were. Undergraduates these days had no sense of responsibility. They didn't seem to understand that she had a schedule to keep. Her time was scarce and constantly overcommitted. Fortunately, he was her last subject of the day, but she had a long night of work ahead of her nevertheless.

And the way they dressed. He's probably arrive in a stretched-out tee shirt, jeans bagging around his ankles and a baseball cap turned backward. Never mind that she was a member of the faculty. Respect? She snorted to herself. That went out with the twentieth century, or maybe the nineteenth.

Of course the girls were just as bad, with their universally blonde hair and bare midriffs, pierced navels and painted-on jeans. Just like the one that Allen had screwed, blatant sexuality and no substance.

Dr. Knowles grimaced as the familiar pain lanced through her. Damn him! It shouldn't hurt so much, two years later, but she couldn't help it. Despite everything, she had loved him, loved him still, never mind that he was a totally different creature from her. Gregarious, easygoing, imperturbable, with that quick, crooked smile and those ever-so-blue eyes. Relaxed and comfortable in his lithe, lanky body, while the tension sang through her frame. His students loved him, and no wonder; the way he clowned and postured in his classes, he was more an actor than a teacher. He always appeared to be enjoying himself. Sometimes she envied him, even though she knew that she was more intelligent and a better scientist.

His bitter laughter echoed in her memory, from that awful night when she had finally confronted him with his infidelity. "What do you expect, Jessie, when you're so frigid? I swear, your work turns you on more than I do!"

It wasn't true. She ached at the sight of him, his taut muscles and fluid movements. She adored the heat of him, breathing against her neck, coaxing her legs apart with his own. There was just something in her that couldn't quite let go, perhaps some remnant of the iron control she had needed to exercise in order to get where she was in her career. Whatever it was, he sensed it. At the deepest level, he never touched her.

Perhaps, after all, she had never really trusted him. Of course, in the final analysis, he had hardly proved himself trustworthy.

Maybe she was lucky to be rid of him. Since the divorce, she had no conflicting demands on her time, but could focus entirely on her research. She should be grateful. It was just a question of adjusting her perceptions.

A soft knock on the door of the lab interrupted her musings. Finally! "Come in," she called, steeling herself for the ordeal of the next half hour. Sometimes she wished that she had specialized in animal behavior instead of human cognition.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Knowles. Sorry that I'm late."

He was not what she had expected. He appeared more mature than the typical student subject, in his midtwenties at least, with angular features and frizzy ginger hair pulled into a ponytail. He wore well-fitting jeans that were faded but clean, an elaborately embroidered shirt, a leather vest and cowboy boots. Nobody dressed like that these days. His flamboyance reminded her of someone she might have known back when she was a student. She gave him a half-smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. --" She consulted the signup sheet -- "Murphy. Thank you for volunteering for to participate in my study. If you will please read and sign this release, we can get started."

Her subject fixed her with startling eyes the color of jade. "Whatever you say, Dr. Knowles. But please, call me Ian."

His stare made her feel extremely odd. The room wavered for a moment, like air shimmering above hot pavement. She was relieved when he sat down in the chair to her left and bent over the clipboard to read the legalese of the document. She turned to her computer and typed in the passcode to begin the experiment.

The lab control program generated a number for him, and then randomly assigned him to one of the three experimental treatments. Group S. Her stomach knotted. If only he had been in Group A, for athletics, or even Group V. He seemed very relaxed, not at all the violent type; she wondered if the aggression materials would have affected him at all. But the S group... Dr. Knowles swallowed hard, opened her desk drawer, and pulled out a copy of a girly magazine.

"Now, Mr. Murphy -- Ian. The purpose of this study is to investigate how emotion influences perception. For the next ten minutes, I'd like you to read this publication. Then we'll perform some tests using the tachistoscope."

"The what?" Ian grinned at her, jeweled eyes flashing. She felt a flush climbing into her cheeks. Something told her that he was teasing her. "'Tackystascope'? Is that for measuring how tacky something is?"

"Of course not. A tachistoscope is a device that exposes visual stimuli for very brief periods of time. Fractions of a second." Embarrassment made her tone frosty. But why should she be embarrassed? "It allows us to evaluate perception without the influence of conscious thought."

"Really?" Now she was sure that he was mocking her. "Fascinating!"

"Please read the magazine, Mr. Murphy. I'll let you know when it's time to move on to the next phase of the experiment."

Ian just smiled, and began leafing through the images of smooth, abundant flesh. Dr. Knowles set the timer and tried to ignore him, reviewing some notes from a previous study. But her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the pictures that he was so eagerly perusing.

Here was a woman bent over so that the globes of her derriere filled most of the page. She was looking back over her shoulder, an inviting half-smile pouting on her lips. Despite herself, Dr. Knowles felt a stirring between her thighs. The woman in the picture seemed so -- accessible. Dr. Knowles forced her attention back to the computer screen, but the whisper of a page turning pulled her eyes back to the tabloid.

Now the image was of a slender black beauty, her skin shining as though oiled. She cupped her breasts in her palms, offering them to the photographer. Her thumbs strummed over her nipples, which were the size and color of roasted almonds. Against the slick chocolate of her face, the woman's teeth were shockingly white.

Dr. Knowles' own nipples tightened in sympathy, pressing uncomfortably against the starched cotton of her blouse. Her panty hose were suddenly hot and constraining, and outrageously damp in the crotch. What was going on here? She had looked at these images a hundred times without any kind of reaction. She had chosen these stimuli. Why were they suddenly having this effect?

Ian glanced up and she hastily turned back to her monitor, but she knew that he had caught her surreptitiously examining the photos. Her cheeks flamed, and the ache grew in her sex. She was careful not to look up again until the timer rang, marking the end of the conditioning phase.

"Now then, Mr. Murphy, we'll move on to the next stage of the experiment. Sit here, please." She indicated the high, backless stool in front of the tachistoscope eyepiece, which stood on a table against the right wall. "I want you to look through here. Everything will be dark. Then I'll show you some pictures, very briefly, and I want you to describe what you see. Don't be concerned if you cannot grasp the entire scene; these pictures are deliberately designed to be complex. I just want you to tell me what first catches your attention."

"I'd rather continue looking at the Playboy," her subject said with another of those disturbing grins. "But I suppose that I need to follow your instructions. For the sake of science."

"If you please." She stepped aside so that he could reach the equipment, feeling the familiar frustration that the university had given her such a cramped laboratory space. She deserved better.

Despite the close quarters, there should have been plenty of room for Ian Murphy to pass her. Nevertheless, as he did, he deliberately brushed against her, hip to hip. Startled, she pulled away, and slammed her backside into the computer desk. "Damn!" she hissed under her breath. It hurt. She'd have a bruise tomorrow. Meanwhile, she still felt the ghost of his touch, a kind of warm pressure that didn't abate even though he was now sitting tamely in front of the apparatus.

Murphy was looking at her, clearly amused. Her cheeks burned.

"Sorry," she apologized lamely. "This room is a bit tight."

"No problem. So, I just look through these goggles?"

"That's right."

"It's all black."

"The pictures will start in a moment." She turned and clicked the button on the screen that initiated the experimental sequence. After a second, the light in the tachistoscope flashed, briefly.

"Wow!"

"What did you see?"

"It's a street scene, someplace picturesque. Paris, maybe. There's a couple, a man and a woman."

"Yes?"

"It was hard to see, but I think they were in an alley off to the side. Her back was against the wall. I think that her skirt was raised."

A thrill of satisfaction coursed through Dr. Knowle's upright frame. The apparatus flashed again.

"Hmm..."

"What did you see this time?"

"A naked woman."

"Anything else?"

"She's on a balcony. One foot is on the railing, and she has one hand between her legs. She's jacking off."

Jessica Knowles blushed deeply. There was a woman in the picture, along with cars, buses, a hot air balloon, a crowd gathered around a unicyclist, an armed holdup taking place off in a corner, two dogs sparring in the foreground. But the woman was clothed, and definitely was not touching herself.

"Are you sure?" She shouldn't be questioning his perceptions; it might ruin the experiment. But she couldn't help herself. She'd never had a subject respond so strongly to the pre-exposure sensitization.

"Well, it went by pretty fast, but I could swear that her mouth was open and she was coming. I could almost hear her."

She gave him a sharp glance, but he was still peering into the scope, waiting for the next image. His right hand was in his lap, though, and she was horrified to realize that he was languidly stroking a substantial erection through the worn denim of his trousers.

Jessica was sweating now. This man played havoc with her objectivity. Perhaps she should terminate the experiment right now. The computer sent another image to the 'scope. Murphy sucked in his breath.

"Whew! That's hot!"

"What is?"

"It's a threesome. Two guys and a woman, mounted between them. She's, like, suspended from their cocks. One in her pussy and one in her ass. Her feet aren't even touching the ground!"

"Mr. Murphy!" Jessica felt panic, but her voice was ice. "Don't play games with me! Tell me what you really see."

"I swear, Dr. Knowles, that is what I see. Come and look for yourself."

Flustered and annoyed, Jessica clicked to pause the sequence, then again to loop the last stimulus. Murphy relinquished the stool; she had to hike up her skirt to get onto the high seat. She felt his eyes on her legs as she got settled.

She took a deep breath and lowered her eyes to the viewing port. For a moment that seemed to stretch for hours, she stared into the blackness, her heart pounding in her ears. A faint trace of a scent reached her nostrils -- sweat and man-musk. It reminded her vividly, painfully, of Allen. Then the fluorescent bulbs flashed, illuminating the scene for an instant.

She wasn't prepared, wasn't paying attention. The scene was a jumble of lines and curves; she couldn't make any sense of it at all. Releasing the breath she was holding, Dr. Knowles tried to relax and concentrate.

"What did you see?" Ian asked, alarmingly close. "Did you see them?"

"No..." There was a disturbing quaver in her own voice. "No, I didn't see anything. I wasn't ready."

"Pay attention, Jessie," he whispered. Then two events occurred simultaneously. The tachistoscope flashed again, repeating the image in question. At the same moment, Ian reached his arms around her and cupped her breasts in both palms.

"Oh!" She cried out in surprise and dismay. Because she caught a glimpse, just a hint, a tangle of naked bodies, left of center in the scene. Her field of vision went dark, but the afterimage burned in her brain. She didn't know which she found more shocking, the unexpectedly lurid perception, or the fact that her subject was now unbuttoning her blouse and sliding his fingers across her bare bosom. She had always thought that it was ridiculous for her to wear a bra, considering how flat-chested she was, but in his grasp, her breasts felt fleshy, full, and exquisitely sensitive.

"You must pay attention, now. Don't ruin the experiment." His voice in her ear was honey, warm, sticky, dangerously sweet. The tachistoscope lit up again, and now the image was clear, the rutting threesome drawn in obscene detail. The woman's back was arched, her head thrown back, her mouth wide with a scream of ecstasy. The view went dark just as her subject grasped both her nipples and twisted them hard.

"Oh, please..." she moaned. She had no idea what she was pleading for. Her sex was damp and heavy. The throbbing that his fingers induced in her nipples echoed between her legs. She continued to gaze into the eyepiece, not daring to look at the man who was teasing, was tormenting her.

The instrument lit up again. It should have been the same image, but now Jessie could swear that the man whose penis had been buried in the woman's pussy now had removed it, and was forcing its rampant length down her throat. Then again, darkness.

"No, no, it can't be..." The fingers on her body began to wander downward, across her belly, but were foiled by the waistband of her skirt.

"Put your feet on the rungs and lift yourself off the seat, Jessie. You can put your hands on the table for support. But don't stop looking into the machine."

Why was she obeying him? Her confusion was complete. He loomed behind her; heat radiated from his body, so close, too close. She squirmed nervously as she felt him raising her skirt from behind, hitching down her hose and panties, baring her buttocks. She should scream, should resist somehow. Instead, she stared into the tachistoscope, surrendering to the lascivious scene that was playing itself out before her eyes.

"Arch your back so that I can reach your butt," he murmured. "Yes, that's right, that's perfect."

His hands were cool on her rear cheeks, and gentle at first. Then he pulled the globes apart, roughly. Fear shot through her, as another picture filled her field of vision, the woman's bum held open and exposed by one of her companions, her recently reamed anus gaping. She tried to speak, to protest, but somehow the words died in her throat. Her breath left her completely when he bent over and fastened his mouth on her sex.

He was brusque and forceful, stabbing into her folds with his hot tongue. She felt him nip painfully at her clit, then the pain dissolved into radiating waves of pleasure. She didn't realize that she pushing backward, grinding herself into his face, riding his tongue like a jockey riding a mount. Her attention was momentarily distracted by the picture that flashed before her, the woman now dangling by her wrists from above, her legs held open by the two men while someone she could not quite make out plunged an enormous dildo into the woman's vagina.

"Ah..." The vision burned into her retina and the rasp of his tongue against her swollen clit set up a reverberating circuit. With each wet stroke, her mind elaborated the picture, noticing the juices streaming from the woman's crotch, the veins on the artificial cock as it was pulled stickily out of her, the woman's taut muscles as she strained toward her climax. With each new lascivious detail that Jessie noticed or imagined, her own cunt gushed and grew more sensitive.

The 'scope flashed again and now Jessie could see that the person wielding the dildo was a second woman, raven-haired with pendulous breasts and meaty thighs. The scientist melted into an animal as simultaneously the 'scope went dark and Ian thrust three fingers into her lubricious depths. Grinding herself against his hand, she felt the first shimmers of an orgasm, flickering in the distance. It had been so long, too long...

She shut her eyes, unable to bear the intensity. The lights flashed again, and even through closed lids, she could swear she saw the dark woman burying her fist in the other's cunt. Her moan sounded obscenely loud in the small room.

"Tell me, Jessie," Ian said softly, the hint of mockery still there even as his fingers danced inside her. "Tell me what you want."

"No... don't call me that. He used to call me that."

"Your husband? He was a fool to let you go, Jessie. So what should I call you then? Jessica seems too formal, don't you agree?" He flicked his thumb across her engorged clit, making her squirm. "Jess? Jezebel? How about that, my scarlet woman? You seem quite inclined toward fornication this evening."

"Oh..." Jessie could not speak. The orgasm crept closer, teasing her.

"Tell me what you want, Jezebel, and I'll give it to you." He suddenly slipped a finger into her anus, and she screamed at the deliciously rude invasion.

She couldn't see him, behind her, but she could imagine his grin. She was mortified and at the same time eager, eager to have him use her, to open her body to him. The tachistoscope flashed another image, but now she was fully occupied by the sensations he was generating in her sex, and the tantalizing, distant vision of her climax on her body's horizon.

"What do you want?" he whispered in her ear, wriggling a slick digit deep into her bottom. "Say it."

She could barely choke out the words. "Please... please, make love to me."

"Make love?" he laughed. "No, that's not quite right, is it? Say it. You can say it, Jezebel. You won't shock me."

"Fuck me," she whimpered, finally, undone by his mouth and hands. "I want you to fuck me."

"All you had to do was ask," he said softly. He turned her around to face him. His cock protruded from his jeans, jutting proudly toward the ceiling. She blushed, then moaned as he lifted her from the stool and settled her on that thick stalk of flesh. The sensation of him sliding into her was both strange and wonderfully familiar. With thighs and cunt muscles, she gripped him hard as he carried her over to the narrow bench on the opposite side of the room.

Holding her up by her naked buttocks, he hooked the bench with his foot and pulled it away from the wall. Then he set her with her back against the polished wood, momentarily pulling out of her. She could not help grimacing at the obscene slurping sound her cunt made, reluctantly releasing his penis. Ian grinned, straddled her, and drove his cock back into her, pinning her to the bench.

For a moment, the force took her breath away. Then the pleasure welled up inside her, wave after wave, synchronized with his fierce thrusts. She tilted her pelvis, twisted against him, trying to force him deeper. His penis grazed her womb, and the twinge of pain only brought the pleasure into higher relief. Teasing her still, he nearly withdrew, lightly rubbing the bulb of his cock against her engorged and aching clit. Electricity shot through her. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

"Pay attention, Jessie," he reminded her. "Look at me." She fixed her gaze on his eyes, which were bottomless green pools. She felt transparent, light, suddenly free of her past, her present, her self. As he sank back into her depths, she clutched his shoulders and relaxed her cunt, opening to his probing. He went deeper than anyone ever had before. Her climax hovered nearby, just out of reach.

"You don't recognize me, do you?" he gasped between thrusts. She arched toward him in silent answer. "Two years ago. I was in your Psych 202 class. Sat in the very front." He slammed his cock into her, suddenly angry. "You never noticed me, though, did you? You weren't paying attention..."

He eased his attack, became more gentle. "God, I loved to watch you. You seemed so cool and competent, a creature of intellect, not passion. But I knew. I could feel your frustration. I always knew that I could give you what you wanted, what you needed... When I heard your husband had left you, I thought, good riddance."

"When I saw you on campus, though, you always seemed to be deep in thought; I didn't want to interrupt. I sensed that you weren't ready. Not yet..."

His thrusts accelerated suddenly. He pistoned in and out of her, faster than she could have imagined, fractions of a second, instantaneous, driving himself, driving her to the peak. Then all at once she was there, at the top and tumbling over the edge into blissful oblivion, laughing and crying at once as she felt him pumping his own release into her.

It was dark when she regained control of her thoughts. She lay there still, in disarray upon the hard bench, her back and buttocks deliciously bruised.

Her cunt was empty, but still vibrating with recollections of pleasure. Semen had dribbled out all over her skirt, which was bunched beneath her.

The room was empty, she could feel it. He was gone.

Her mind whirled. She would have to throw out his data. Maybe the whole experiment had been rendered invalid... What had happened, anyway? Had he somehow tampered with the lab control software? But that wasn't possible, the lab was secure, she was sure of it... Did she have his phone number, his email address? She'd have to get back in touch, to apologize, to make amends for her totally unprofessional behavior...

Without her realizing it, her hand drifted to her pussy and casually grazed her still-sensitive clit. A bolt of excitement shot through her, leaving delicious echoes in its wake. The tachistoscope, still cycling in its loop, flashed in the dark room. She remembered the images of concupiscence it had revealed and smiled to herself, stroking one finger slowly between her slippery labia.

Never mind working tonight. She needed a long, hot bath. She'd think about the experimental implications tomorrow. And she was nearly certain, yes, quite sure, that she had included a field for email address on the volunteer sign-up sheet. It wouldn't have been like her to omit an important detail like that.

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