Addicted
by
GORDON
Addicted first
published in 1996 by Hodder & Stoughton. Published as an eBook
in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.
ISBN
9781907976407
Chimera (
ki-mir'a,
ki-
) a creation of the imagination, a wild
fantasy.
New authors
are always
welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing
work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to
you, we would love to
hear from you
.
This work is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior
written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published, and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all
characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of
age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely
imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual
happening.
Copyright Ray
Gordon. The right of Ray Gordon to be identified as author of this
book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is
fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
One
My feet wide
apart on the deep pile carpet, tightly bound with leather straps,
my naked body bent like a rag doll over the sofa back, my wrists
handcuffed, I rested my head on a cushion, praying that my
degrading and humiliating ordeal would soon be over. As my abuser
parted my tensed buttocks and forced a candle deep into my
defenceless bottom, the lewd sensations permeated my quivering
pelvis and I waited in fear and anticipation.
"Beg me to
fuck your arse!" he laughed wickedly, thrusting the candle
violently in and out of my aching bottom. Uncouth, vulgar -
debased. "Come on, Helen; plead with me to spunk up your tight
arsehole!"
I murmured the
unfamiliar words of cold, crude sex. "Please, fuck my arse."
"Ask me to
spunk up your arse."
"Please, I
want you to spunk up my arse."
"Louder!
Please shove your cock up my arse and fill me with your spunk!"
"Please, shove
your cock up my arse and... and fill me with your spunk!" I sobbed
uncontrollably as he withdrew the candle.
He entered me, my private hole, used and abused me there,
gasping his filthy expletives, giving a running commentary on his
obscene act.
Who's using
whom
? I pondered in my sexual plundering.
The naked truth was, we were using each other - I needed him, and
he needed me - each of us appeasing our unique desires, fulfilling
our desperate needs. I hated him, my vile partner in my vile
adultery. To him, I was nothing more than a common whore to be
taken, a sex object to gratify his sordid male desires. But we
needed each other, desperately.
Before
releasing me, he whipped me, thrashed my naked buttocks with a
long, thin bamboo cane until I begged for mercy. He fixed a dog
collar around my neck and led me around the room on a chain,
slapping my stinging buttocks. He used cucumbers, carrots, wine
bottles, vibrators - committed every perceivable act of degradation
imaginable.
Finally
reaching home after my horrendous ordeal, I sank into a hot bath
and cleansed my abused body, washed the sperm from my
perspiration-matted hair, from my flushed breasts, my oozing
vaginal crack. I thought of my husband as the hot, soapy water
lapped around my inflamed sex slit. Poor Tony! Six thousand miles
away on a business trip, working hard for promotion, and I'd not
only committed a wanton act of adultery, but behaved like a common
slut.
The extreme
guilt and shame overwhelmed me. For hours on end I cried, swearing
never again to give myself to another man, to be faithful to Tony.
But I knew that my tears were futile. Unable to help myself, I knew
I'd go back for more - more filth, more humiliation. Though I
desperately wanted to believe them, my oaths and affirmations were
meaningless. I knew that I'd visit my sordid, perverted neighbour
again, allow him to have anal sex with me, to chain me to the wall
and whip me, to photograph the most intimate parts of my naked
body. Now ordinary married life with Tony in suburbia was a
lifetime away.
Looking back,
it's incredible that just three months earlier we'd been blissfully
happy together, enjoying the fifth year of our conventional
marriage, the beautiful detached house we'd recently bought on the
outskirts of Surrey. Our lives were idyllic, Tony earning a good
salary, with promotion looming on the horizon, me establishing
myself as an artist, my paintings selling well at a top London
gallery. Never had I dreamed that I'd look at another man, let
alone...
It was Tony's
first business trip abroad that had sparked off the incredible
chain of events that, even now, I find difficult to comprehend. He
was to go to Paris for a fortnight, flying out of Gatwick early
Monday morning, leaving me to concentrate on my art. I'd been
looking forward to spending time alone in the house, getting on
with my work, even though I loved Tony dearly and knew I'd miss him
terribly. It was only two weeks, after all - hardly a lifetime!
He'd climbed
into the taxi dressed in his new suit, clutching his briefcase in
one hand, a copy of The Times in the other. His black hair
well-groomed, his crisp white shirt and tie immaculate, he looked
the part, I thought, watching the taxi pull away and move slowly
down the drive. I was still waving as the car turned into the lane
and disappeared from view - until the sound of the diesel engine
had faded, and only the singing birds disturbed the early morning
air.
Wandering back
into the house, the appealing prospect of spending two whole weeks
painting suddenly veered into a daunting loneliness. There was a
void, an emptiness without Tony. But he'd soon be home, I consoled
myself. I sat in the garden sipping decaffeinated coffee, listened
to music - Tchaikovsky's first piano concerto. Wandering into my
studio, I gazed at the oils, the brushes standing in jam jars, like
dried flowers. Nothing inspired me to paint. But it was only day
one - I had two whole weeks ahead! The inspiration would come, I
told myself.
A week passed.
Not only did the inspiration elude me but I felt panicky, nervy,
uneasy - although I didn't know why. I'd missed Tony more than I'd
imagined I would. But we'd talked on the phone every evening,
whispered our sweet nothings, and the day he'd be home was nearing.
I felt at ease with the house, comfortable and secure in my
surroundings. So what was the problem? I pondered. My stomach
churning, my chest tight, my breathing uneasy, I wondered whether I
was falling for something.
By the tenth
day I was in a terrible state, climbing the walls as if craving
alcohol or nicotine, though I'd only ever enjoyed the odd glass of
wine, and never smoked. Taking deep breaths, walking around the
garden trying to convince myself that nothing was wrong, I
eventually rang my doctor.
"I'm sure
there's nothing physically wrong," our revered young doctor, John,
pronounced, perching on the edge of the sofa, his blond hair
cascading over his tanned forehead as he packed his stethoscope
into his leather bag. "I'd put the tightness in your chest and the
breathing difficulties down to anxiety."
"But I'm not
anxious!" I laughed. "I've never suffered from anxiety!"
"You're
probably missing Tony more than you realize. This is the first time
you've been apart, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is.
So are you telling me my symptoms are psychosomatic?" I asked
disbelievingly.
"No, not
exactly," John smiled unconvincingly, making for the door. "See how
you feel when Tony comes home. If nothing changes, give me a
ring."
My respect for
John plummeted with my condition. By the twelfth day I looked tired
and drawn, my hands trembling uncontrollably, my palms wet, my
heart palpitating. I was becoming a nervous wreck! Pacing the
lounge floor, I found myself biting my nails, something I'd never
done in my life.
Although I
felt awful on the day of Tony's return, I took a shower and dressed
in my blue satin miniskirt and sexy white blouse. I didn't want him
worrying about me, fussing over me - he would have enough on his
mind without me causing him problems.
My makeup
veiling the dark, puffy bags beneath my blue eyes, my long, blonde,
crimped hair cascading over my shoulders, I scrutinized my slender
body in the full-length mirror. My reflection smiled back
reassuringly. Tony wouldn't know how I was feeling, the
inexplicable anxiety, the heart palpitations, the uneasy breathing.
He'd never guess how I really felt deep inside. That beneath my
sunny facade, I was like a raincloud ready to burst.
"Hi!" he
grinned, dropping his briefcase on the step and flinging his arms
around me as I opened the front door. "Miss me?"
"God, yes!" I
cried, burying my face in the musky haven between his broad
shoulder and his neck.
You're probably missing Tony more than you
realize
. John's words reverberated around
my mind as I held Tony close to me. Strange though it was that
being parted from him for a few days could turn me into a physical
and mental wreck, as I savoured his urgent hardness against me, I
instinctively knew that the doctor had been right.
We dashed
upstairs to the bedroom, almost tearing each other's clothes off as
we dived into the king-size bed like a couple of excited kids at
Christmas. Tony was strong with rippling muscles - firm but gentle.
His dark eyes locked to mine, I felt comfortably weak and intensely
secure with him by my side, naked.
Moving on top
of me as I opened my legs to him, he pressed his male hardness
against my own yearning sex. My eyes closing as he locked his lips
to mine, he gently penetrated me, his penis gliding into my aching
vagina, filling me with his love. As he began thrusting, pumping
his maleness into my quivering body, I fervently nibbled and bit
his neck, lost in my sexual delirium, in love.
"I've missed
you!" he gasped as he quickened his rhythm, his penis driving into
the very core of my being. "God, how I've missed you!" My mouth
open, my eyes rolling, I clung to him, digging my fingernails into
his taut back as my body trembled and my climax stirred, already
welling within my contracting womb. We usually spent at least half
an hour building up to fever-pitch lovemaking, Tony's tongue
delving between my vaginal lips, me sucking his beautiful purple
globe into my hungry mouth. But now, after two weeks away from each
other, there was no holding back.
"Coming!" he
gasped, his face nuzzling my neck, his breath warming my tingling
skin. His familiar aftershave filled my nostrils as my climax
gripped me, my vaginal muscles tightening around his solid penis as
the sensations erupted within my pulsating clitoris. His sperm
gushing, bathing my inner sanctum, filling me, our naked bodies
perspiring, locked in a burning passion, we rode the crest of our
lovemaking, surfed the foam of our carnal ecstasy.
Panting, our
bodies entwined in lust and love, we lay trembling in the aftermath
of our desperate passion. My sopping sheath lovingly gripping
Tony's deflating penis, trying to keep hold of its prize as he
raised his hips and withdrew, I had a strange sense of still
wanting - of incomplete satisfaction.
Tony rolled
onto his back and spread his limbs. Facing me, he smiled, brushing
my golden hair away from my sex-flushed face. "Are you OK?" he
asked, lifting his head, his smile turning into a concerned
frown.
"Yes, of
course," I gasped, although my heart was palpitating wildly and my
chest felt tight, my breathing fast and shallow.
"How did you
get on while I was away?"
"Not bad," I
lied, praying that he wouldn't ask to see my work.
"How's the
Blue Lady?"
"She's coming
on."
The Blue Lady!
The half-finished painting sitting uncomfortably on the easel in my
studio had beckoned me. Stephen Giles, Tony's managing director,
had commissioned me to paint her, the subject being his wife,
Becky. He'd decided on the title, but he wouldn't say why. I'd
imagined that it had something to do with her drifting into their
dimly lit chamber in a misty blue negligee, hauntingly ripe for
love. I imagine many things when I'm working.