Synopsis: This story is excerpted from Max Swyft's latest fetish/TV/TS novel. Layton works in his aunt's antique store. It is where he first sets eyes on the vivacious Aurora Spillane, the woman who soon becomes the object of all his dark fantasies. Aurora is captivated by Layton's delicate looks and shy demeanor and soon ensnares him in her special brand of feminine depravity.

This story is rated X.

The following are excerpts from Max Swyft's new novel, Layton's Lament. It is copyrighted and may not be used or reproduced in any form.

 

Layton's Lament

by Max Swyft

 

Layton meets Aurora for the first time:

The woman is back, browsing the aisles. Today she wears a navy blue suit that's maybe just a little too tight. The buttoned jacket's shoulder pads make her appear rather broad-shouldered, yet compliment her robust stature. The single-breasted jacket emphasizes a large bosom, narrows from the shoulders to a slightly flared peplum waist that's anything but waif-like. It's difficult to tell under the jacket but her waist looks firm. An above-the-knee skirt hugs wide fleshy hips.

The smart tailored clothes compliment the tall buxom woman. All of that is simply lost once her legs are considered, put with the rest of her healthy body. She wears blue, closed-toe pumps which make her look even taller. She possesses the long legs – not of a model – of an athlete.

Legs with definition, as is the popular phrase these days. A body with definition.

Her apparel is designed to bring attention to her physique. Clothes that accentuate a fit-and-flare, robust silhouette. An anorexic she is not. If anything, she's reminiscent of seventeenth or eighteenth century artwork, the paintings of voluptuous women.

Something across the isle catches her attention and she turns, deftly shakes long black curly hair from the side of her face. Like thick black water, it falls over one shoulder. So black it shines like hard coal. She crouches, testing the darts and seams of her skirt, examines something near the floor.

Her action propels me closer so that I might see her compromised position; wide hips and appreciable buttocks resting on the backs of her pumps, necessitating a rise in the hem of her skirt. Carefully but quickly, I cross two isles and look toward her. She's half facing me, skirt molded over thighs and well above her knees. Knees which are modestly together in ladylike fashion.

I'm not surprised. Her comportment, the way she carries herself, all of it signals culture and refinement. In short, a Lady, something not so easy to find these days. And something more. Something I sense while I clandestinely watch her; a woman of grit, a woman sure of herself.

This is her third or fourth visit.  Mentally I tick this off as I fuss with a porcelain figurine at the end of the isle. My eyes absorb her, hunger after her like a thirsty man craves water. She's looking at Diana who's been mistakenly placed on a squat wooden footstool. Diana is not what she seems. The real Diana, sculpted by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, is over one-hundred years old, and sat atop the old Madison Square Garden. This Diana, though sculpted like the old, is perhaps a mere sixty years old, circa the forties. This smaller replica, stands naked, one foot on a globe, bow and arrow in outstretched arm, the string passing between cold bronze breasts, nipples eternally pregnant. Still, it's a valuable piece, in it's time was probably considered sensual . . . daring, her nakedness vividly sculpted.

I look at the woman squatting in the isle, a forefinger tracing the bronze sculpture, think of her naked. Well, not quite naked, not at first anyway. Perhaps wearing pumps, fetching lingerie. The vision is so intense I blink my eyes, as if to dispel it.

Aunt Martha knows her, at least from here in the store. However, I sense a kinship beyond dealer and collector. Several times I've stopped myself from asking aunty about her. It's a premonition that stops me, sends a little shiver along my spine. It's like if I don't know her name she will not discover me.

And I her.

Yet I've felt her eyes on me. That, too, brings a shiver, a dampness to my palms, and, a nagging invigoration that is both sensual and foreboding.

Like now. My face is flushing, my palms already bedewed.

She's still on her haunches. Only now she's looking at me.

My legs carry me forward. Nervously I look around, hoping I might spy Aunt Martha, send her in my steed. Alas, it is not to be. The store looks empty . . . just the two of us in the isle, from a side window a thin slice of late afternoon sunshine cuts across her upper torso in sword-like fashion, dust motes dancing lazily around large breasts.

A smile spreads lush red lips, accents a wide singer's mouth, perfect white teeth framing the tip of a pink tongue, the furrow creasing the middle. A sensual vision, that wet pink tongue.

My view of her knees – and above – is completely unobstructed now. My thumbs rub my damp palms. My pulse quickens. Her shins look huge. It's the way her legs are folded, her impressive thighs pressing tightly against them, making them look larger than they are.

There is just the barest evidence of slightly wrinkled nylon about her ankles. She walks on feet befitting a woman of her stature. Her skirt molds itself along her lower torso. I notice all this and more as I hunker down, facing her, see a hint of toe cleavage in the arched vamp of her pumps.

It is her eyes I'm avoiding. I fear she will skewer me with them.

Yet I know I must look.

Dark, deep, hypnotic. Crows feet at the corners, slight age wrinkles border high cheeks, punctuate the lush mouth.

Her eyes are large pools of dark unspoken promise.

"Young man," she says, voice low, husky. "I like this statue." Her fingertips trace Diana's bronze nakedness. It's unique." Her palm cuddles Diana's buttocks, fingers curling around her, long red fingernails caressing Diana's naked thighs. "I feel I've seen it before."

"Hmm, yes, you probably have ma'am. This is a replica from the sculptor by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, known as Diana, smaller scale of course. The original was atop the old Madison Square Garden." I break eye contact, pretend to admire Diana, furtively glance at her knees, the way her legs are slightly parted, wonder of the mystery that lays beyond the skirt's hem, within the darker funnel of blue-tinted hosiery.

Her hand touches my knee, sends a charge along my thigh. I'm grateful to be hunkered down like I am.

"Is it terribly expensive?" Hopeful, hand warm on my knee, causing havoc in my lap.

The price code is faded, unreadable. I know this, since I've had to move the statue several times, find a new home for it on other pedestals. The pedestals sell. So far Diana has not.

"I can ask Aunt Martha." I look around. It seems we're alone, just the two of us.

Suddenly her hand is gone from my knee. She stands over me, smoothing wrinkles from her skirt. Her dark lamps fall on me. She offers her hand.

Looking up, I push a lock of blond hair from my forehead, take her hand, rise, hope she doesn't feel the slight tremor, notice my clammy palm.

"Why, you're shaking young man," she says in that low, almost gravelly voice. The voice makes me think of an older woman, a movie actress, her identity flitting about my memory. But just the voice. That's all this woman has in common with the unnamed actress. "You look a little feverish. These spring colds are the worst."

My eyes slide away. I flinch as she touches my cheek with the back of her hand. She pretends not to notice. I risk a look at her face. Her dark eyes are averted. I follow their direction, see what she sees.

There is the barest hint of a smile on her full lips, the creases pale against the deep red of her lipstick.

My lap betrays me, makes me want to melt into the ancient woodwork of the old antique warehouse.

"Layton, are you taking care of this lady's needs?"

I turn, look at Aunt Martha approaching from the end of the isle from whence I came.

"Oh, Aunt Martha, there you are. This lady is taken with Diana. I was just coming looking for you."

As Aunt Martha gets abreast of us she looks at the tall buxom woman. Recognition flashes in her eyes. "Mrs. Spillane, how nice to see you again. I love the suit." My portly aunt waves a dismissive hand at me. "You run along, Layton. I'll take care of Mrs. Spillane."

I look at her left hand, see the diamond wedding ring. How could I have missed it? I feel relieved, and at the same time disappointment bubbles within my heart. As I turn to make my exit I stop, feel those dark eyes on me. She gives me a smile, drops her eyes to the front of my trousers, which are now in order.

. . . .

Before realizing it I'm through the double doors, crossing the creaking worn wooden floor, pushing open the door to the office.

She sits in a stuffed early American armchair, the one that matches the worn sofa. Her legs are crossed, nylons glinting dully in the shadowy room. Large dark eyes skewer me and she smiles. Now I feel foolish, my affected presence not needed. I glance at her bosom beneath the now open peplum jacket, see the outline of her bra through a white nylon blouse, the buttons straining the fabric as if her bosom is about to boost forth in all its milky glory.

My aunt sits in her customary captain's chair at the roll-top desk, big buns resting on a chair cushion. "Yes, Mr. Lampkin?" Using my surname signals she disapproves my presence.

"Er, hmm. It's Sunday and there's nobody in the warehouse. No deliveries until tomorrow. Will you be okay here alone, ahm, I mean the two of you?"

Aunt Martha and Mrs. Spillane exchange looks.

"Huh. You're here," says my aunt. "You might as well make yourself useful. Be a dear and brew some tea."

"Of course."

I pass by Mrs. Spillane in the armchair, surreptitiously look down the open vee of her blouse

where the top of it is unbuttoned. A deep cleavage of snowy breasts nestle in the bra cups. It makes me wonder whether or not she wears an underwire bra. As I pass I look at her face, too, see those dark eyes watching me with amusement and something else.

Something that brings another involuntarily shiver.

Behind them I busy myself boiling water on the small stove, set out tea bags, listen to them talk. It seems Mrs. Spillane, besides being taken with Diana, is also interested in a French commode, a low chest of drawers with elaborate hand carving on the front. If it's the one I'm thinking of, besides being a practical storage piece, it's quite expensive. One of a kind.

The genuine article, as they say.

By her clothes and sophistication, I already know Mrs. Spillane is a woman of means. Her consideration of the French commode confirms it. If she buys the commode it will have to be delivered, which sets me off in a brief fantasy; taking it upon myself to personally deliver her treasures, being invited to tea and then to her boudoir to do dirty unmentionable things for her.

I linger in the little kitchen, eavesdropping. So far there's been no mention of a Mr. Spillane. My active imagination conjures a vision of him: A husky man, tall, wide of shoulder, having a gruff voice. I see her enveloping herself in his arms. He pulls her ample buttocks against him and devours her lips with a deep kiss. Her hand slides between them and frees his member. Her hand looks so tiny as she –

"Mr. Lampkin," my aunt heralds, "What's taking you so long? You've been lethargic all day my dear boy."

"I noticed he's a little flushed," comes the gravelly sensual voice of Mrs. Spillane. "Perhaps he's coming down with one of those dreadful spring colds. They're such a menace to get rid of."

"Yes, aunty. I'm just dipping the tea bags now." I turn and address the back of the armchair where sits Mrs. Spillane. "Would you like sugar and cream, ma'am?"

"Just cream, please." She doesn't turn and look at me and I'm a little disappointed.

Finally I serve them from a sterling silver tray, Mrs. Spillane first. Without asking I take the rocking chair across from Mrs. Spillane, watch as she sips the tea, pinky finger in the proper position, and no slurping noises. But I already know there will be no slurping noises from this larger than life, elegant lady.

Slurping noises summons another fantasy; in bedchambers, the vision so clear I have to blink my eyes to dispel it. I feel color rising in my cheeks, wonder of my imaginative debauchery. I risk a quick glance at Mrs. Spillane. She smiles at me, slowly crosses her legs the other way.

A blue-hued glimpse of heaven. The most generous display so far. Substantial thighs that no doubt could crush a melon.

More color blossoms in my cheeks.

"Your nephew's such the gentleman. I wouldn't be surprised if he served us in an apron," says the buxom Mrs. Spillane.

"Not here. But he wears them at home when he helps around the house and when in the kitchen. He's such a dear," says aunty. Then adds: "He does look a little feverish. I'll put you to bed early. Make you a nice hot toddy – no alcohol of course. Layton does have such a delicate system."

I feel her eyes on me, squirm in the rocker, brush a lock of hair from my forehead, wonder if she pictures me naked.

"Layton?" I look at her. Speaking directly to me. "You remind me of someone. Your face," she says, resting a forefinger along her cheek. It's those grey eyes. So enchanting. Your skin – it's delicate, like porcelain. I bet you have to guard against the sun's ultraviolet rays."

I nod and blush, look at the oval rug which is the centerpiece of the room and kind of defines the combination office and den.

"Oh yes," says aunty, "he does have dreamy eyes. They change color you know. Sometimes they're blue with a tinge of grey."

Mrs. Spillane looks at me and I try to challenge her stare. It is too much and my eyes slide away, but not before I look at her legs yet again, so fetchingly revealed in blue hose. Does she wear sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose? It's hard to tell since her large feet are tucked into closed-toe pumps.

I wonder how she'd react if I ask . . .

"The French commode," says aunty. "It's one of a kind. If you really want it, I'll discount it a little. I'll miss it. The piece's been with me for a long time. Before Layton started working for me, actually. Of course it's handmade. The French were so devoted to their work."

"Martha, I wouldn't think of you discounting it. It's not a question of money. I'll not play upon our friendship to garner a discount."

"Aurora, you're too kind. If I want to give you a discount, well then, that's what I'll do," says aunty, giving me a sidelong glance.

Aurora! What a pretty name. And it seems the two of them are friends. Maybe from the past. I cannot recall ever hearing her name before.

I catch movement from the corner of my eye. The beautiful Aurora's foot swings from the fulcrum of crossed legs. Back and forth, drawing my eyes like a magnet. Her pump slips off the back of her foot exposing a reinforced French heel!

The mystery of her stockings solved!

I know she's watching me watch her legs. That damnable swinging foot. It is the way of women. How they ensnare a man's attention. How they use sexy lingerie to enhance their voluptuous figures, to capture men within their evil vice of sexuality.

To enslave them . . .

I wonder of her intimate scent. From the tips of her hose to the fragrance of the long black curly hair which cascades below broad shoulders. I see myself naked before her as I sniff after her like some crazed dog.

. . . .

Late that morning I'd been taking inventory of some of the old stuff that inevitably accumulates on dusty shelves in the back of antique shops. There were no customers so I tried to make myself busy.

Buster found me, offered to help. He's one of two warehousemen Aunty employs. Young, athletic, a few years older than me. He works out, likes to wear tight tee shirts and jeans, show off his physique.

My stomach sank as he approached.

"There you are, Layton. Back here in these dusty shelves. All this stuff is junk. Are you hiding from your aunt?" he teases.

"No, Buster, I'm taking inventory if you must know." I brush a lock of hair off my forehead, turn my back to him.

He peers over my shoulder, looks at the clipboard. I smell his cologne. He stands too close, his hips brushing my butt. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," he says quietly. "I just wondered."

"Yes?" I step forward a little, make a checkmark beside an item on the clipboard.

"Your hair, Layton. It seems blonder. Are you coloring it?"

He moves closer, tries to close the distance between us. I turn around, hold the clipboard between us, use it as a shield, ignore his smile. "No, I've told you before. The sun bleaches it naturally." He makes me self-conscious.

"Huh," he says, moving around me, looking at something on the floor beneath the metal shelving. "And your eyebrows?" He turns his head, looks at me. "Do you pluck them or does your aunt do it?"

"Contouring, Buster. That's what its called. It's none of your business who contours my eyebrows. Most gentlemen contour their eyebrows, if it's any of your business."

He stoops, hands on knees, head turned toward me, the tight jeans molded against the muscular globes of his ass. The tee shirt, which hugs him like a second skin, flatters his physique. He looks back under the shelf.

Showing off.

He knows nothing about me. Just thinks he knows.

"I like it," he finally says.

I move forward, peer under the shelf, wonder what he's looking at. "Tell me something?"

"What?"

"Why do you splash cologne on your stubbly face? You must have two days beard growth."

Buster rubs his lantern jaw, smiles. "Do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"My cologne, my beard stubble?"

"Not really. You look like a ruffian."

"My stubble would give your delicate skin a rash." He looks at me, smiles, flashing very white and even teeth. "What about the cologne? Do you like it?"

"It's okay I guess. What is it?"

"Polo."

"What are you looking at under there?"

He stands, steps back. "Have a look."

He moves to give me room. I bend at the waist, peer into the murkiness, see the statue.

Suddenly I feel his hands on my hips. He pushes against my buttocks. I squirm, try to free myself of his grasp but he holds me like a rag doll.

"Do you see it, Layton?" he says, voice low, guttural.

"Turn me loose!"

"Pull it out for me," he says, pressing himself into my backside. "I want to see it."

"I will not!"

His deep laugh mocks me. "Not that," he says. "The statue you silly twit. Pull it out."

He releases his hold on me. I stumble forward, careening into the junk under the shelf. The clipboard drops to the cement floor and I grasp the statue to break my fall.

Buster reaches for me, pulls me effortlessly from under the shelf. I clutch the statue in my arms as he holds me, arms encircling my waist. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Now turn me loose!"

"Oh, sorry," he says, smiling.

I stumble back. My back hits the vertical support, saves me from falling. The statue slides from my grip and I grab hold of it before it hits the floor.

"What do you think?"

I look at him, right myself, brush hair from my face. I've put off getting my hair cut far too long. "What do I think of what?"

Rain beats loudly on the corrugated roof over our heads.

"The statue."

"Oh, this." I put it on a nearby crate. It's black marble-like surface depicts a naked man on a round pedestal.

"It's Adonis."

"I can see that, Buster."

He steps forward, trails his fingers over the defined musculature of the statue. His fingertips come to rest between the statues legs, at the sculpted bulge there. He looks at me and smiles. "I'd like to have this. Do you think you aunt would discount it to me?"

"Huh! She'll probably end up throwing it out. I'm sure she'd just give it to you."

The hand that's caressing the statue drops, massages his crotch. "Layton you should go have a beer with me after work at one of the clubs."

"You've asked me before."

"Yes, it'd be fun."

My eyes fall to his crotch. My face flushes. The brute's misread me. I'm not what he thinks. I'm not anything like him. Even though he thinks so, this from a previous encounter.

"Am I interrupting something?"

We both look to the isle. There stands my aunt. I wonder how long she's been standing there, how much she's heard.

. . . .

It's been raining all day. We're on our way to deliver the French commode and Diana. Aunty drives and were almost there. I'm glad. My bladder is full. I'm a little anxious, too. Thinking about the regal Mrs. Spillane brings tantalizing visions, fantasies that make my forearms tingle.

I wonder how she'll be dressed today. My vivid imagination pictures her in several provocative outfits. I cross my legs over the uncomfortable tightness in my lap, peer through the rainy windshield at the narrow road, the forest, trees blossoming with buds and leaves, the surrounding hills greening with foliage.

Off in the distance, through the rain and grey gloom I see the house, its outline darker against the overcast, the front shrouded in tall pines.

As we near the front the gravel becomes asphalt, the lane sweeping across the front of a large rambling Victorian house.

Aunt Martha stops the van in front, leans across me. I'm aware of one heavy breast on my arm and think of Mrs. Spillane's breasts, if her's are firmer, lovelier to look at. Instinctively I know Mrs. Spillane's breasts will be a sight to behold, the aureola wide and bumpy, the nipples fat and rubbery, begging to be suckled.

I realize that breasts that big will sag somewhat but I don't care. Yet in my mind I see them youthful, full, like the fat twins of missile cones, the tips dark and engorged.

The rain smears our view of the house. I roll down the van's window, wipe raindrops from my face and squint at the old house.

It is an old, three-story Victorian, with an intricately carved, double-door portico. A porch extends from the right side of the portico and wraps around the house. The left corner is marked by a two-story tower with sash windows. A gable roof extends right of the tower and under the eaves a dormer window faces us. Back from the front of the house two chimneys extend over the roof.

I catch movement from a third floor dormer window. A curtain parting. Someone looks out – just a face – then the curtain falls back in place. It's hard to tell in this rain, the dark glint on the window. A pale face with white hair. That's my first impression. My eyes hold the window to see if the face will reappear but it does not. Still, I look up, the window dark, feel someone watching me. A movement at the window! Just a blur of white, like it's maybe a shirt or blouse.

. . . .

There's a small fire in the hearth in the parlor. It warms me, my wet hair and clothes. Aunt Martha sits on a grey brocade love seat sipping tea. Across from her is Mrs. Spillane. She's dressed in tight corduroy jodhpurs and chunky heeled knee-length riding boots. Over a manish cotton shirt she wears a leather vest that accents her large bosom. Today her below the shoulder, curly coal black hair is in a ponytail.

I sit at the end of the couch close to the fireplace. I'm aware she's looking at me while she talks to aunty. "I won't hear of you driving back in this rain, Martha. There are severe storm warnings out until late tonight. Possibly hale."

"I really must be getting back," says aunty, halfheartedly.

"Nonsense. I've plenty of room and Briscoe's fixing a nice dinner. I insist."

"But we've no clothes."

"I'll see to that."

I risk a look at her, rub my hands together.

"Are you all right, Mr. Lampkin?" says the throaty voiced Spillane woman.

"Ah, yes. Just a little damp from the rain."

"You look positively drenched." As if to confirm it I sneeze on cue. "We'll have to get you out of those wet clothes," says Mrs. Spillane.

Her dark eyes settle on me in a curious way. "Is there something the matter?"

She crooks her head, looks at me, curly ponytail depending behind one shoulder. "It's just your face and . . . I don't know. You remind me of somebody. It's those large pretty eyes for one thing. And well, your hair, you're wearing it differently than when I saw you last."

With my 'pretty eyes' I throw a dagger at aunty. She combed out my hair this morning against my will; parting it in the middle and the front over my forehead. It's too long, over the tops of my ears, and until this rainy inclement weather, it's been sunny and summery which bleaches my natural blond hair, makes it blonder. It happens every year.

"You don't like it," I say, unconsciously using my fingers to comb hair back from the side of my face.

"Oh, yes!, I do like it. Such nice golden hair. The way it's styled. It compliments those grey eyes. You should let it grow."

"It's already too long." She crosses her legs. The tight jodhpurs with the inseam patch of leather on each leg accent powerful thighs. A strange thought makes me blush.

"And you blush so easily," she teases in that distinct throaty voice.

I picture her with a quirt, riding Briscoe's's naked back, whipping his buttocks. She rides him around in a dark room while I stand naked nearby. As she passes she takes the end of the quirt and flicks it on the tip of my excitement.

Such crazy fantasies on a cold dreary day.

I shiver.

"There you go again, Layton. Shivering. We have to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death. Just a minute. I'll have Hildy attend you." The robust Mrs. Spillane crosses the parlor, chunky heels echoing on the worn oak floors of her Victorian manse. Aurora Spillane cuts a smart figure as she strides to the door, the jodhpurs accenting wide hips and firm buttocks. She disappears down the hall.

. . . .

The sun hangs over the western horizon as Aunt Martha pulls in behind the Antique Barn. I look at her. She needs something from the office, wants me to come in with her. I look at my knees in the shiny hose under the hem of the short pleated skirt, shake my head. I'll wait right here. Afraid I might be seen, I scoot down in the seat, plead with her to hurry.

Because of my wet clothes I'm dressed this way. Aunt Martha insisted I wear these girl clothes back. The two of them have contrived to make me dress this way.

An eternity passes.

What's taking her so long? I feel the need to use the facilities.

A knock on the side of the van makes me jump, almost wet myself.

I peer through the partially open window at Buster.

My worst fears realized.

Somehow he gets me to step out of the van, takes my hand and kind of twirls me around, says he knew it all along, asks me to go out, have a brew with him. How did I come to be so sexily dressed? I'm at a loss for words.

From behind us Aunt Martha answers, "Mrs. Spillane wanted to see him dressed. And, well, here we are. He wanted to wear the outfit home."

I spin around, the pleated dress fanning, showing more leg. "I did not!"

"Nice legs, Layton. I didn't know you shaved them." He looks at his employer. "May I take her out for a little while?"

Her.

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

Aunt Martha looks at me. "It's nearly dark, dear. No one would be the wiser. You look so cute. Besides, I have work to do in the office. I came out here to get you. I'm liable to be at it for a while. Why don't you go with Buster, relax, have a good time."

"No."

. . . .

We dance three songs and at the table he takes my hand puts it in his lap, smiles, says it's okay. No one's watching. Maybe it's the beer but I leave my hand there, much like I did in the warehouse, massage him through his jeans. I do it as a bribe, want him to take me home.

I plead with him to take him home and he finally agrees.

On the way back in his pickup he gets me to sit beside him, puts my hand in his lap, tells me how much he's looked forward to this, that he can hardly believe it. He knows that I'm meant for dresses and such, says I'm a natural.

I sit there in silence playing with his cock, think of Aurora Spillane as we cruise back to town on the interstate. Somehow I feel safe in the cab of his truck, in the subdued glow of panel lights. My hand in his lap, playing with his cock. All of it seems surrealistic to me. Hard to explain, really. Like it's some other person doing it. Someone I know intimately, someone who might do such a thing . . . perhaps a girlfriend.

All of this is absurd. Yet I know I make a convincing girl, that if I permit it, Aurora will turn me very girlish for whatever reasons. I am enamored with this Rubenesque woman, sense I'm falling in love with her, that I will do what she wants.

Buster whispers for me to take it out. Without protest I unzip him, free his hard circumcised penis. It's bigger than mine and I look as I stroke it. Then this is it, what girls do in the privacy of their boyfriends cars.

This other being stroking his hard willy, feeling a kind of rush.

"Are you going to cum?" I say quietly.

"Yes." He looks at me. "See, it's not so bad. I think you like it."

I look at his cock, see a drop of seminal fluid appear at its tip.

"Don't you?"

"Don't I what?"

"Like what you're doing."

"This is the only time I'm going to do this. I don't want you bothering me. I'm not a homosexual like you."

"Hah! Some day you'll make some man proud. And you'll be proud to be his wife. Will you kiss it?"

"Don't be vulgar."

"Please. I know you'll like it. Nobody will know."

"No, no . . . , no."

"There are women who are fully supportive of feminine men."

"I want to marry a woman, be her man. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Layton you must realize you're different. There's nothing wrong with being effeminate. There's plenty of guys like that."

We ride in silence as I masturbate him, feel like an unwilling participant, like it's really not me, but some other entity, someone I know who will do these things.

He puts his hand over mine, slows me on his rampant member, looks at me. "Please, kiss it."

For a crazy moment I almost go to into the floorboard of his truck, do as he asks.

"Don't ask me again or I'll quit doing this." I push his hand away and my fist pistons on his meat, faster and faster. I want this over with.

"Yeah, that's it. You can do this any time you want."

"I told you this is the first and last time."

"I don't think your aunt minds the two of us being intimate."

"Leave her out of it."

I wonder about it, doing him with my mouth, what it would be like. Thinking about it makes me feel tingly, excited. Now I'm glad about the skirt. It hides the growing bulge in my panties. Such a terrible reaction. I will it not to be, but my cock won't listen to my head.

"Okay, but your aunt knows you."

We both fall silent, only the singing of his tires filling the silence, the rustle of my hand grazing his jeans.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

"About you. Fucking you."

"That'll never happen. Now hurry. My hand's tired."

And he does. Squirts volleys of semen. I quicken my pace. There seems a lot of it, spilling over his jeans, some of it hitting the steering column, running over my fingers.

"Slow down, you're speeding."

"Sorry, couldn't help it."

"Look at this mess."

Buster smiles, takes my besmirched hand, licks up his cum.

I slide over on the bench seat, hug the passenger door. I feel numb, close my eyes, listen to the tires singing on the pavement, wonder why I ever did such a thing. My stomach roils and a chill wracks my body. I hug myself. It is not just the remnants of his semen drying on my fingers. It is the acute realization of going over the precipice into the unknown.

Crossing a threshold into an erotic world not of my making, yet one which I may be suited for. That and the tightness in my panties, is what makes the bats wings roil my tummy.

. . . .

I sit at the vanity in my bedroom, an array of cosmetics before me. To my right is a glossy magazine with a picture of a young girl on the cover. It is a teenage magazine whose theme is about makeup and comportment, hints about dating boys. Things like that.

When I awoke this morning I found Hildy, Aurora's buxom maid, in the kitchen. She prepared my breakfast and I ate alone. It seems the lady of the manor is shopping, already off to town with Briscoe.

It is just the three of us in this large house. We will soon be joined by Mr. Spillane. For some reason I am not looking forward to meeting him. Then there will be four.

Yet I feel another presence. I remember when my aunt and I first visited Aurora, something caught my eye from a window high on the third story of the old house. I thought I saw a face peering through a window there. A ghostly face. Probably my imagination.

Yet I know it is more than my imagination.

. . . .

Briscoe raises his tee shirt and I gasp. His nipples are pronounced like a woman's and sit atop small but conical mounds, the beginning of breasts.

"You have breasts!"

"Touch them."

I shake my head.

"Go ahead, touch them."

It is like my hand has its own mind. I touch his brown nipple and my fingers graze over the soft flesh underneath.

"Hmm, that feels good."

"Will they get much bigger?"

"Yes. I'm on plant hormones. They don't interfere with other functions."

"Other functions?"

"Yes. Don't stop. It feels good. Yes, use both hands. Other functions means I can still get a hard-on. Ejaculate. Things like that."

"Oh," I say in a small voice.

"Do you like them?"

"I, well, they look so real."

"They are real. You'll have some like these."

"No, I don't want breasts."

"Oh stop denying the way you are. We're in high demand, you know."

"High demand? What do you mean?"

"There are a lot of women who want feminine men. In fact there are organizations who cultivate men to emulate women. The more feminine you are the more you are in demand. Many boys are raised from birth to eventually live their lives as women. In many cases these effeminate men are married to women when they grow up."

"They must be lesbians," I say and feel his warm hand slip under my terrycloth robe. I should get up and run but I've become fascinated with his breasts, how the nipples have come to life in my palms. I marvel at their thickness and length.

"Yes, many of them are lesbians. Or at least bisexual. It's a sign of the future."

What's a sign of the future?" I say, clenching my knees together as his hand slowly wanders up my bare leg.

"The feminization of the male."

"Oh, I don't believe that."

"It's true. There is a great political battle going on. Feminists want to blur the line between girls and boys. They've infiltrated the school systems and the courts, nearly all aspects of society. More and more, boys are becoming like girls."

"I don't believe that."

"Honey, it's true," he says, his hand finally reaching the prize, fingers delving between my clenched legs. "Spread your legs a little. Let me feel it."

Involuntarily my legs relax and his hand cups my penis. I'm already hard.

Briscoe gazes into my eyes, takes one of my hands, which is fondling his breast, and puts it on the bulge in the spandex pants.

We sit side by side, fondling each other.

My back, which faces the line of the wooded east edge of the rolling yard, is warming. Briscoe is half shaded by my body as I sit sideways facing him. Though it looks cold, the sun's glare blossoms in reflected light at the far edge of the pool. A soft breeze touches my hair, caresses my bare legs which are exposed by the parted terrycloth robe, the lace hem of the babydoll nightie high on my thighs.

Our eyes catch and hold for a moment before I look at the pool, its calm surface, hardly a ripple.

I squeeze my thighs as his hand excites the secret within my white cotton panties.

The spandex capri pants he wears confines the hard and indefinable lump that seems hot on my palm, slippery as my fingers trace the obscure outline.

Crazy thoughts flit behind my feverish eyes as we sit by the pool: Aunt Martha sitting in her undergarments applying makeup, our eyes joined by the reflection in the vanity mirror. Picking up things for her, putting them in the clothes hamper. Sitting on the unmade bed while she dons pantyhose – sometimes, but too infrequently, stockings with attached garters dangling from a formidable corset, kneeling and securing the welts of her stockings, helping her with her shoes. Doing the laundry while wearing an apron, basking in her nods and smiles of approval. Working at the store, dusting antiques, waiting on customers, making tea . . . taking inventory in back, aware of Buster's watchful eyes, how he manages to catch me alone, stand too close. The tight jeans he wears and the way he flaunts himself, taking my hand and putting it there, the two of us alone in the shadows while his eyes gaze meaningfully into mine.

All of it so crazy, averting my eyes while my cheeks burn, finally taking my hand away and fleeing the dusty cavernous isles of the warehouse.

Briscoe's fingers have worked inside the elasticized leg of the white cotton panties. I bite my lip as his other hand pets the inside of my smooth girlish thighs.

It is very quiet this morning as the sun rises and basks us in its warm glow, the reflection growing, spreading on the surface of the clear pool water.

I didn't expect this, but his hand feels so good on my hard cock. When I try to draw back my hand he presses it onto his hard flesh with his free hand.

Suddenly he is standing over me, hooking his thumbs in the tight pants, peeling them down to his thighs. He wears no underwear and his cock springs forward right in my face.

"Touch it."

As if by magic my hands rise. I stroke it slowly. My heart beats wildly and I wonder if he can hear it.

A small pearl of seminal fluid blossoms on the tip of his glans. I think of Buster, his hard cock, how I jacked him off in the cab of his truck. I'd told myself then that I hated doing it, that I was just doing him to get it over with. It would be better than sucking him off. I reasoned then, he could have overpowered me, made me suck him off. That's why I masturbated him, got his goo all over my hand.

Now nothing is stopping me.

My slow hands mock me as it leaks over my fingers; the clear syrup of his desire.

A soft sigh of encouragement whispers to me.

I close my eyes and curse these hands that betray me.

I squeeze my thighs and feel the minute wet release in the white cotton panties that hide my own tumescence.

I swallow, feel the queasiness in my tummy, dark misshapen wings fluttering in disharmony making my mouth wetter, making me swallow again and again.

"Kiss it," he whispers.

I look up into his face. My hands slowly stroke his cock. His cock is about the size of mine.

I look at it, notice his balls are hairless, just like mine. More seminal fluid dribbles from the smooth tip, drips over my fingers.

Maybe if I kiss it that will be the end of it.

Maybe that will satisfy him.

But he wants more. . . .

If I just kiss it. . .

I'm very aware of the hardness in my panties . . . of my own decadent excitement.

He puts his hands in my hair and his cockhead is now very close to my lips.

I smell his muskiness mixed with a sweet flowery scent.

Maybe just a little kiss. . .

"No, I can't," I whimper, feeling more of his pearly essence dribble over my fingers.

"Do it. No one will know."

Yes, just the two of us. Who has to know?

"You want to, don't you?"

I look up into his eyes. My face reddens with shame.

The glans look almost like a heart, framed by a collar of foreskin. The head of it will fit into my mouth. My hands work his cock. So close to my lips now that it's a blur.

I'm aware of my tongue sliding over my lips, wetting them, thinking I should be wearing red lipstick for this occasion. My hands draw on his stiff pole and still more seminal fluid shimmers over my fingers as I open my mouth –

"Well, I see the two of you are getting acquainted."

We turn and there stands Mrs. Aurora Spillane.

. . . .

Aurora's husband, Cleve stands, goes to the edge of the pool. He is very muscular and hairy, wears a skimpy pair of trunks. The trunks are like a jock strap, really. The narrow band in back creases his butt cheeks. The little black spandex trunks are obscene the way it hugs his sex.

He fondles himself a lot, too.

Cleve dives in the deep end and is soon swimming the length of the pool, back and forth. He's a good swimmer.

Aurora gets up and jumps in after him. She wears a white bikini. The top hardly contains her large breasts, thick elongated nipples imprinted provocatively on the cups. The bottom is nothing more than a wispy triangle that barely covers her thatched sex. It is tight on her and the crevice of her pussy is outlined in the scandalous crotch. I didn't realize how wide of hip is this tall buxom woman. Her backside is perhaps a bit fleshy, round and large, ass cheeks speckled with a hint of cellulite, as are the tops of her meaty thighs.

Still, she is very attractive.

Hildy sits beside me in a one-piece black suit that does little to hide her plump figure.

I feel self conscious; the skinny kid on the beach with flesh too white, looking anemic.

Hildy helped me with my suit. It is nothing but a triangle of elastic with ties at the hips. There is no doubt it is the bottom of a girl's bikini. Yet it has a specially built crotch that contain elastic loops for inserting my penis. The effect makes my bikini area smooth and girlish.

I drum my toes on the warming concrete apron that encircles the rectangular pool. My toenails, like my fingernails, are painted lavender.

The only thing missing are breasts.

To be a girl my nipples are too small, chest too flat.

But hairless and possessing smooth unblemished skin I can easily be taken for a girl if only I had a bikini top with falsies.

Thinking this I blush and feel Hildy's warm hand on my bare thigh.

"Are you going to get in?"

"It looks cold."

"I saw you looking," she says, fingertips tickling the inside of my thigh.

"Looking?" Innocent.

"Don't be coy with me, Layton. When Cleve came out and dropped his robe your pretty eyes were drawn to his crotch. To the monster hidden in his Speedos."

"I was not!"

"I've seen it." Her eyes bore into mine and I look away.

"Good for you."

She pinches the inside of my thigh and I cry out. "Don't be saucy with me. It doesn't become you, sweetie."

"That will leave a bruise."

"We can hide it with makeup."

"Really?"

"You've a lot to learn if you're going to be a proper girl." Mocking.

"I'm not a girl."

"Girls play with boys cocks."

I look at Aurora and her husband circling in the pool.

"Aurora caught you didn't she?"

The sun is high in the sky, hot like summer, though summer has not quite officially arrived. I've always had delicate pale skin, and as I've said before, my hair turns very blond when exposed to the seasonal sun. My skin doesn't fair so well. It is too sensitive. I burn easily.

I sit in a webbed chaise lounger and wonder about my skin and fair complexion. My long hair turning blonder by the day. These bare hairless legs that look so girlish, my long painted finger and toenails. I did them myself, using cotton balls between my toes, while Hildy watched, gave me pointers.

"Did you want to kiss it, hmm?"

"What?" I look at Hildy, her eyes looking interesting, wanting to know.

"Kiss what?" I say.

"Oh, Layton, it's not so bad. Really." Her hand worms between my legs cups the thin stretchy material of my thong bottoms. "You've nice, kind of pouty lips and an androgynous face. It's only natural that men notice you."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"You're growing between the legs."

"Well, stop it," I say, squeezing my thighs on her persistent hand.

She leans toward me and I feel the imprint of her breast on my bare arm. "Have you ever taken a nice cock between those girlish lips?" she whispers.

"No." I cross my legs, trap her hand. "If Aurora sees you playing with me she's going to be mad. She's warned me away from you."

"No hanky-panky, huh?" Teasing.

I uncross my legs but her hand remains, massaging the growing hardness. The only thing restraining my penis from bulging in the bikini are the loops built into the crotch. "You better stop."

"Did you kiss Briscoe's cock? Suck it?"

"No!"

"You will, sweetie. If ever there's a girly-boy, it's you."

"I can't help it that I'm effeminate. It's not my fault."

"I suppose not. You shouldn't be so reluctant."

I look at her, hold her eyes. "I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"You know," I say, looking at the two of them in the pool. Cleve has his arms around Aurora's waist and I feel a stab of jealousy, wonder if he's pressing his thing against her round tummy. It's a thought – a vision – that makes my penis pulse and leak into the crotch of my bikini.

"That you might like it? Is that it?"

"Something like that . . . yes."

"You were raised for this you know."

"What?"

"Being a girly-boy. Didn't your aunt dress you when you were smaller?"

"Yes, but it was all just innocent fun."

"Hah! You're more suited to dresses and panties than cotton undershorts and blue jeans."

She is right of course. I am girlish but I don't swish like some fairy. Buster saw this in me long ago, tried to bring me out. Made me touch him in the shadows of the warehouse

Maybe being this way is my destiny. And there are women who like this. Could I find a girl, a young woman, who would marry me, knowing how I was, that I was this way?

That it is only natural for me.

Hildy suddenly withdraws her hand from between my legs. I look up. Aurora is staring at us, arms folded on the edge of the pool. Her husband is behind her, both of them looking. Aurora looks at Hildy and the maid stands, says she's cold, and leaves the three of us alone at the pool.

"Come in with us, baby," says Aurora.

I go over to the edge of the pool, feel both pairs of eyes on me. Cleve is looking between my legs and I look down, see a hint of fullness there in the skimpy bikini crotch.

Aurora extends her arms to me. Arms out like that, it accents her deep cleavage.

"The water's fine," says Cleve, taking his hands and splashing me with water, sending goose bumps along my thighs.

I jump over them into the water, swim toward the other side.

. . . .

This moment is like a sexual fantasy. A dream that comes late in the night and makes one hard. It is late. The lights are dim in Aurora's boudoir, lit only by turned-down sconces on the walls. This place where her husband, Cleve, now sleeps. I don't like to think of this as his room. But it is. He sits with Hildy on a tufted chaise.

We are all here for my promised punishment: An over the knee spanking. Aurora is making good on her threat. This because she caught me playing with Briscoe's cock this morning out by the pool.

Cleve is naked, his muscular body complimented by that henna-tinted body hair. He is such a hairy brute. Hildy is petting his turgid member, that which just this afternoon Aurora and I fondled with hands and lips. Hildy, like the manse's mistress, is dressed provocatively. She wears three-inch pumps, black stockings and garter belt, ample breasts spilling forth from a demi-cut, longline bra.

She wears no panties and her pubic area looks neatly trimmed. These fat pink lips that so recently rode my face.

I sit in Aurora's lap, feel heat emitting from her sex. I wear clinging pink stockings with matching garter belt, two-inch open-toe slingbacks, no panties, and a bra with liquid inserts that give me an illusion of breasts. My face is heavily made up, this an earlier courtesy of Hildy's before she became so undressed.

Aurora's long, curly black hair falls about bare shoulders. Her face is heavy with makeup. So much makeup it looks theatrical. Black makeup, from shiny lipstick to eyeshadow. She looks like the ghost of Elvira

She wears leather opera gloves that come all the way to her elbow. The gloves gleam dully in the subdued light and the leather smells rich. She is feathering my bloated penis, my back nestled in the twin mountains of her brassiere encased breasts. The cups of her bra are thin satin and I feel the hardness of her nipples on my back near the back of my bra strap.

She also wears black stockings and a leather garter belt, along with a thin leather thong that hides her pouching sex. Her feet are shod in four-inch gleaming, black leather pumps.

The odor of leather is strong about her. Animalistic.

Beside us is Briscoe, contrite and completely naked. He sits on a red velvet ottoman, limp penis dangling between fish-belly white legs. Despite the circumstances, I again marvel at his girlish chest, the thick darker nipples, fuller areola, and the fleshy cones which support them.

We are all here, present and accounted for.

It makes me think of a line from an old movie; The gang's all here.

This is clearly Aurora's show. Cleve leans back on the chaise while Hildy slowly plays with his pony, using both hands now, slow and deliberate.

Aurora tells Briscoe to stand and show us his backside.

I cannot help the sharp intake of breath when I see his lined buttocks. They carry deep thin red welts and I can see where several welts have broken the skin and are now scabbed over with dried blood.

My penis wilts in Aurora's gloved hand.

"I used the riding quirt on him, Laila. You're just getting a spanking. It won't be so bad, really." Her other leather clad hand cups my marbles and she squeezes until I grimace. The face I make makes her smile.

"Briscoe, sit sideways on the ottoman so you're facing to us. You deserve a treat."

He does as he's told and Aurora tells him to touch himself, make it hard.

"Hard like it was out by the pool this morning."

"Over my lap, dear," she says reasonably, pushing me off her legs.

I catch her eyes but see no mercy in the dark pools. I turn away from Briscoe and try to slide on her lap that way. She smiles sardonically and turns me so I'm facing Briscoe. She pulls me down, drapes one arm over my hips and soon I am nestled high on her legs, my flaccid penis dangling between spread and meaty, black stocking clad legs.

"Laila, you can put your hands on the edge of the ottoman to steady yourself. No, dear, don't look away. You've had Briscoe's cock in your face before."

My face reddens as I feel her hand smooth over my exposed rump. I raise my eyes, look at Briscoe. He smiles and scoots closer, slowly stroking himself, his hard penis just inches from my face now.

"We will understand if you cry, Laila."

I shake my head with a defiance I do not feel.

"Just so we're all clear about this. Why you're being spanked young lady. I caught you this morning out by the pool playing with Briscoe's cock. And while young girls are curious about such things, you shouldn't have taken liberties without permission. We all know what horny little sluts like to do to boys. I believe you were about to suck him, weren't you, sweetie?"

Her leather-clad hands play over my exposed rump.

"No, it wasn't like that," I say in a small voice.

"Do you want to touch it now, Laila? Like you were doing this morning?"

"No."

"I think it's a nice cock for you. A good place to start."

I turn my head, see that Hildy has one of her legs over Cleve's knee.

These people are all sick and I am the chief patient in this madhouse of depravity.

I jump when I feel one of Aurora's leather-clad fingers probe my crack, graze my rosebud.

"Are you a virgin there, sweetie?" she whispers. "Do tell us. We have no secrets."

"Please don't do this."

"But I must, darling. I can't have you prancing around the house like some cheap whore, playing with whoever's cock you fancy."

I think of what I did to Cleve at the shallow end of the pool this afternoon. None of this makes sense and it's all happening so fast. It seems so long ago that my lips felt the velvety smoothness of his helmet, kissed the head of his cock.

I feel her exert pressure in the small of my back with her forearm.

Knowing what's coming my body involuntarily tenses.

The first blow falls – sounding like a pistol shot – on one cheek and I jerk, feel my limp weenie graze inside the nylon web of her meaty thighs.

The first smack is followed by another and another, each successively harder than the last. She tries to hold me still on her lap but I am squirming, trying to escape her leather-clad palm as it descends again and again on my soft round buttocks.

I shake my head, blond hair falling on either side of face. My lips are in a firm line as Aurora spanks my bottom. I flashback to Hildy getting me ready for this punishment, dressing me in pink stockings, garter belt, bra and shoes. She stood me in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom, had me look over my shoulder at my reflection.

Framed in garter belt and the welt of pink stockings, my buttocks really looked girlish. She told me with the right vitamins and herbal hormones, I would flesh out nicely in the ass. That my chest and buttocks would mature together and I would become more girlish each day.

"Closer, Briscoe," hisses Aurora. "Get your cock in her face. Make her suck you. You have my permission to make the little tart suck your cock now."

I feel the blunt tip of his penis on my cheek. It leaves a wet smear. I turn my head away from Briscoe's lap.

"Take her head, hold the little bitch."

Aurora is in good spanking rhythm. The blows to my round butt cheeks are coming faster and harder, which makes my hips drive forward into the hot nylon prison of her substantial thighs. As she spanks me, and Briscoe rubs his penis across my face, I am aware of a warm glow building between my legs.

My buttocks are on fire and my penis chaffs inside stocking legs as I thrust forward in a vain effort to escape the discipline of her hand.

Briscoe is poking his hard cock at my lips. My face is wet with the smear of his excitement.

I remember him leaking over my fingers this morning as I masturbated him.

"Suck him, sweetie," commands Aurora.

She rains fierce blows on my hot round buttocks, the same girlish buttocks that I secretly admired in the full length mirror just a little earlier.

I turn my head and gasp for air, see Hildy sitting on Cleve's naked lap, his pony sliding into the lips of her clinging vulva.

Briscoe twists a fist in my hair, brings my face back to his hard cock.

I am bucking my hips as I'm being spanked and my own cock is fully hard now, pleasure somehow rising up from the harshness of this burning punishment.

Aurora's spanking diminishes a little and I feel her squeezing her impressive thighs on my weenie. Maybe the worst is over. I wonder about this pain and pleasure, all mingling together, making me feel like I've never felt before.

Briscoe's cock rubs along the line of my pink lips.

Aurora's hand rubs my buttocks, pinches the soft round flesh.

"Do it, baby," she whispers.

Yes.

I part my lips and accept Briscoe's circumcised glans into my mouth. His helmet is warm and soft, even in its hardness. I flick it with my tongue and he dribbles inside my mouth.

His hands caress my face and he hunches forward as I swallow him past the ringed foreskin of his crown, feel the shaft on the inside of my lips.

"Yes, oh yes. That's it," he says.

My hands find the outside of his thighs and I encircle his hips, swallow more of his manageable penis. It fills my mouth and I suck it, roll my tongue around, trace the veined underside, licking and sucking his sex.

Aurora's powerful thighs are doing magical things to my penis, even as her hands pet and rub my tortured buttocks.

More of Briscoe slides into my mouth and saliva leaks from my lips.

I suck harder, swallow more, feel his pubes tickle my nose.

Aurora pushes on the back of my head and I swallow him completely. For an instant I panic, think I may gag, but the feeling passes as he fills my mouth.

"Oh, fuck!," Aurora says in a husky whisper.

I am aware of the building passion as I move my mouth on Briscoe. I am cradling his hips in my arms now, my face fast in his lap.

Sucking his cock just like Aurora told me to.

Doing what girly-boys like me to do to them.

Riding with Buster in his pickup flashes in my feverish mind. This is what he wanted me to do, scoot down in the seat and suck him, fellate him.

Just like I'm doing now.

Briscoe starts moving his hips, bucking at my face, nearing his zenith.

I hear Hildy cry out as I feel my helmet hum.

"Take it," says Briscoe in harsh whisper. "Suck my cock."

I renew my effort, feel his glans contract, sense his nearing zenith.

Somehow Aurora bends over me, kisses my back. I feel one of her gloved hands come below her legs and grip the tip of my cock.

"Try to do it together," she says at my ear. "When he squirts in your mouth I want you to cum, too."

And then it happens. As if on cue. All at once.

I feel the little hole expand and he shoots the first volley of semen into my virgin mouth. I swallow as another glob erupts from his fountainhead. His semen is thick, a little salty and plentiful. I take his shaft in hand, jack it, feel his flood of release as more of it explodes into my mouth.

Aurora milks me with her thighs, rubs my blunt head with her leathery fingers. My hips piston on her lap and I climax, shoot all over her nylon thighs.

Briscoe's cock is still in my mouth and another flare of his essence sprays inside my cheeks. I swallow this thinner amount, lick the head, tease the last of his climax onto my tongue, as I complete my orgasm all over the inside of Aurora's thighs.

I find myself on my knees, Aurora pulling my face between her legs. I see the splotches of my own excitement dripping on her black nylons, smell the evidence of my own depravity. I look quickly into her dark eyes and know what I must do.

I lick the runnels of my cum from her legs, savor the prohibited taste, swallow it all, clean her legs with my lips and tongue.

Finally I am done and it is over.

I am cast in their dark shadows . . . and know I am doomed.

 

What you have just read are exerts from Max Swyft's novel, Layton's Lament. It is a full length novel and will soon be available from Mags Inc (MagInc.com). There are many other of my novels which are now available from Mags Inc, though you have to hunt through the web site to find all of them. You can also call; 800.359.2116, and talk to Mark Holden. Tell him Max Swyft sent you.

You may also contact me by email: I would like to hear from you, your thoughts about this very abbreviated piece, any constructive criticisms, or any other things you might wish to discuss. Your privacy and mine must be respected.

    

   

   

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