Addicted (5 page)

"I haven't
disturbed you, have I?"

"No, no I was
just..."

"What are you
working on at the moment?"

Sperm
.

What was I
working on? Me, sucking sperm from a man's orgasming penis,
drinking his come. Laura knew where my studio was and hurriedly
made her way there. I suggested that we go into the kitchen but she
wanted to see my latest creation. Standing before the painting, her
dark eyes widened.

"God!" she gasped, holding her hand to her mouth.
"That's
you
!"

"No, it's not.
If it looks like me, it's not meant to," I replied softly. The
painting was good.

"You can tell a mile off! It's
you
, Helen!"

"It's a
commission."

"Who on
earth..."

"Someone you
don't know."

"But... God!"
she gasped again. "What are you going to call it?"

"Adultery," I
blurted out, unintentionally.

She turned and
looked at me as if she knew that I'd just committed the sexual act
with the young man. I wanted to tell her that I had, but I
couldn't. Secrets shared are no longer secrets. Had she drunk from
a man's penis? I wondered, picturing her full red lips taut around
a huge cock. Did she allow her husband to come in her mouth?
Mouth-fuck.

"Come through
to the kitchen and I'll make the coffee," I said, turning and
leaving the studio. She followed me, no doubt thinking her
thoughts, thoughts of adultery. Filling the kettle as she sat at
the table, I wondered whether to tell her of my addiction. "Tony's
away for a month," I said instead.

"A month? God,
you must be lonely?"

"I have my
work."

"Your
adultery."

My heart
leaped. "Oh, the painting. It was commissioned by a young woman.
She gave me rough sketches of what she wanted."

"It's an
unusual request!" she giggled.

"She's an
unusual woman."

Did she drink
the sperm gushing from her husband's penis? I again wondered,
eyeing her succulent red lips. I wanted to watch Laura sucking a
man's knob and swallowing his sperm, although I didn't know why.
She wore a short red skirt, her shapely thighs exposed, and I
thought about her clitoris, wondering whether she masturbated. I
wanted to watch her masturbate. No, I didn't.

"I sat on the
common," I said nonchalantly, pouring the coffee.

"Did you?" She
frowned, probably wondering why I'd mentioned it. "You seem
different, Helen."

"Different?"

"Yes. Is
everything all right?"

"I'm addicted
to sperm."

She looked at
me as if I were mad. Perhaps I was. But I had to tell her, share my
secret. It wasn't a secret now. She asked me what I meant, and I
explained everything - almost everything. I kept the young man
secret.

"It's
incredible!" she finally breathed.

"It's
awful."

"Tony's away
for a month, what will you do?"

"I don't know.
What can I do?"

I reiterated
and went into further detail, telling her more about the hippy
doctor, enzymes, testosterone, the panics, the palpitations. I
explained that, in order to work, I had to have sperm every other
day - in order to survive! The story was fascinating - I didn't
realize how fascinating until I'd told it.

"I only wish I
could help," she sighed.

"No one can
help me. Only... only Tony. Do you masturbate, Laura?"

Why on earth
did I ask her that? I shouldn't have asked her such a personal
question. Her dark eyes widened, staring at me, reflecting my image
as I sat opposite her. She fiddled with her hair - long, jet-black,
shining, alluring... Averting her gaze, she was obviously pondering
on my question. I imagined her in the bath, her thighs wide, her
fingers between her parted pussy lips, massaging her clitoris - her
mouth open, gasping in her coming. I didn't know why I'd imagined
that.

"No, I don't,"
she finally replied, her head low. "I think you should see someone,
Helen."

"See
someone?"

"Chat to
someone about... about your problems."

"A shrink, you
mean?"

"Yes, no...
You're different, what's happened to you?"

"I seduced a
young man on the common. I needed sperm and..."

"You seduced a
stranger?"

"I had to. I
can't survive without sperm, Laura."

"I don't know
what's happened to you, but I don't believe a word of it. Addicted
to sperm? Seduced a stranger? You should write fiction rather than
paint!"

"Truth is
stranger."

She made a
feeble excuse and left. I wished I hadn't told her, it was stupid.
I felt sadness dripping onto me from a heavy cloud, seeping into
me. I could endure sadness, but not panic. Tchaikovsky would
comfort me. I busied myself, touching up the painting, the
intricate details - sperm trickling from my taut lips as I engulfed
the young man's cock-globe.

Not only did I
need sperm, but masturbation, I discovered, becoming aware of my
wet panties. Climbing the stairs to my bedroom, I wondered what
Laura would think of me if she knew about my candle. She'd think me
bad. Taking the phallus from its box, I slipped my panties off and
lay on the bed, my legs out straight, wide apart. I was bad!

I was about to
slip my dildo into my wet pussy when I sensed my nipples become
erect, sensitive. Unbuttoning my blouse, I lifted my bra clear of
my breasts. They were firm, well-rounded - my nipples standing
proud from the dark discs of my areolae. Raising my head, I cupped
my breast. I could reach my milk bud with my tongue, I discovered.
Sucking my teat hard, the sensations inducing my juices to flow
from my sex hole and trickle between my buttocks, I imagined the
young man at my breast.

The bedside
phone rang as I slipped the huge candle between my swollen labia
and drove it deep into my pussy - my cunt. "Cunt," I murmured. A
strange word. "Cunt." Cruder and cruder in my masturbating.
Ignoring the phone, I slipped the candle out and drove it home
again, watching my stomach rise as the phallic piston pumped me
up.

With my free
hand, I massaged my swollen clitoris, inducing sensations of sex to
emanate from my pleasure button. I thought about the young man
again as I pistoned and caressed - his penis, his purple globe,
spunk gushing from his slit. Spunk. I liked the word, I liked the
taste. Pistoning, massaging, wetting, coming... I felt calm,
relaxed, masturbating on my bed.

The phone
didn't stop, the rhythm of the bell out of time with my candle
rhythm, putting me off. I stilled the candle, leaving it embedded
deep within my hot cunt. Stretching my outer labia, juicing my
hand, I sucked my fingers, tasting my vaginal fluid. Warm, sticky,
sexy. My clitoris throbbed beneath my caressing touch, responding,
the sensations building, the explosion nearing. The phone stopped
and I resumed my phallic pistoning, pumping my cunt up, bringing
out my sex milk.

"Fuck!" I
gasped, my crudity exciting me, wetting me all the more. "Fucking
my cunt with a candle!" Tony had never talked dirty to me during
sex. I wondered why. I'd like that, talking dirty, telling me that
he was fucking my cunt with his cock. Mouth-fucking me with his
knob.

At last, the
waves of pleasure rose, welling up and crashing over me, sweeping
me away on the crest of sexual ecstasy. "Fuck!" I gasped as I rode
my climax. "Fucking my cunt! Candle-fucking my wet cunt!"
Shuddering as my orgasm peaked, taking me higher, I tossed my head
from side to side, lost in my self-loving, my sexual delirium.

As the
sensations waned, I slowed the candle to a gentle, massaging
rhythm. Pumping, opening, filling, withdrawing and pumping again.
My clitoris pulsating in the aftermath of its coming, sensitive
beneath my loving caress, I finally lay still, the candle deep
within my sex-wet cunt, my clitoris receding beneath her pink
bonnet.

Slipping the
candle out of my hot sheath, I sensed my juices pouring from my
open hole, trickling between my buttocks. Scooping up my slippery
come, I sucked my fingers, savouring my vaginal cream. Scooping,
sucking, scooping, sucking, until I was dry - satisfied. Easing my
full breasts back into my bra, I climbed off the bed and stood on
my sagging legs. Dropping the wet candle into its box, I closed the
lid - my secret.

In the garden,
the breeze wafted up my skirt, cooling my naked vaginal lips,
drying them, caressing. Reclining on the sun lounger, I closed my
eyes as the phone rang again. Tony? Maybe, maybe not. It didn't
matter; I didn't want to talk, to engage in trivial conversation.
I'd masturbate again, later. I'd take my secret candle-penis from
its secret box and piston my cunt until I came.

"I've been
mouth-fucked by a stranger." The words bubbled from my lips,
bubbling my cunt juice, swelling my clitoris. "Adulteress.
Prostitute. Whore." I loved masturbating and I again wondered why
I'd not thought about it before while Tony was away. I'd masturbate
daily with my waxen penis, bring myself off - bring my cunt off.
Talk dirty and candle-fuck myself. The sun warmed me, my cunt
comforted me - sleep engulfed me.

The weekend,
Sunday morning - quite, peaceful. People attending their churches,
seeking redemption from their gods. I was in a state of panic,
seeking peace of mind. Sperm, I desperately craved sperm. A penis,
big, stiff, hard, spunking - not a candle. A candle for immense
sexual pleasure, a penis for survival. Where to find sperm on
Sunday morning? In church? Were all priests perverts? I didn't
believe the tabloids.

I wandered
across the common, half expecting the young man to be there, his
balls heavy, full. I felt dreadful, wretched. I noticed a
middle-aged man walking across the common wearing tight jeans,
bulging jeans. He'd have sperm in his sperm-laden balls, unless his
wife had sucked him off, given him head, drained him before he rose
from the marital bed - mouth-fucked. He passed by, unaware that I
was offering sex.

The sun was
hot, too hot - wet, sticky. I lay on the grass, my chest tight with
anxiety, my hands shaking, wondering whether another man would pass
by, notice me and stop. I wasn't wearing panties, my wet vaginal
lips cooling in the morning breeze - swelling. My breasts were
free, braless - my nipples erect, alive. God, how I wanted a man
sucking my nipples, his hand between my thighs, masturbating me to
orgasm. I hadn't masturbated yet; my panic wouldn't allow
masturbation, orgasm. I'd candle-fuck my cunt after I'd had my fill
of spunk, after I'd been mouth-spermed.

My vocabulary was becoming cruder by the day. I'd painted the
word
fuck
on the
white stone wall of my studio in big red letters, although I didn't
know why. I'd wanted to paint
cunt
, but thought better of it. Tony
wouldn't understand, I wouldn't understand. It was my studio, my
wall, my paint, my cunt - so why not?

Voices neared
and I sat up, male voices. Two young men taking long strides across
the grass, two shots of sperm. They passed me by without a glance,
I didn't exist. My stomach sank as I watched them walk away, become
smaller with distance. Their balls would be heavy, swinging -
full.

"God!" I
gasped as my heart leaped. "God, I need a man!" It was all right
for Laura, she had her husband. She'd probably been well spermed,
enjoyed a Sunday morning fuck. Her cunt would be brimming,
overflowing, bubbling with spunk while mine was empty - thirsty.
Images of a stiff penis swirled within my racked mind. Images of a
knob throbbing in orgasm, sperming, spunking in my thirsty
mouth.

I wandered
down the lane towards the house - pining for sperm. Where was
Geoff? Why hadn't he been on the common looking for me? Didn't he
want to come in my mouth? Perhaps he'd wanked instead, wasted his
male cream, the drug I so craved. Was Tony masturbating, wasting
his sperm? Did he masturbate? I'd asked him when he next phoned.
Wanking in his hotel room, sperming, spunking.

"Hallo,
Helen." The female voice drifted past me like a leaf on the wind. I
stopped, emerging from my dreams, my sperm-dreams.

"Oh, Lydia!" I
greeted the girl. Her breasts billowed her tight T-shirt, full,
rounded. Had she sucked her nipples? "How are you?"

"I've just had
a row with David," she said forlornly. "I've left him by the pond,
sulking."

"Oh, I'm sorry
to hear that," I replied, my heart leaping as I pictured him by the
pond, his penis sperming into my thirsty mouth as I knelt before
him, gobbling his knob.

"He found out
that I once had a lesbian relationship," she confessed tearfully.
"I was trying to explain and..."

"A lesbian
relationship?" I interrupted her. I'd thought I'd known her well.
Obviously not!

"I didn't know
what I was doing, it was a mistake. David won't even listen to
me."

"Shall I go
and have a word with him?" I asked, the prospect of sperm causing
my mouth to water. Lesbian?

"Yes, if you
would."

"Leave it to
me," I smiled reassuringly. "I'll speak with you later."

She wandered
off, her long blonde hair flowing behind her like a curtain of gold
silk. My God, a lesbian relationship? I walked to the pond in
search of David, in search of sperm. Tony didn't figure so much
this time. My adultery was necessary, I couldn't help it, I had no
choice. If I were to carry on with my work, pursue my career, then
I'd need sperm every other day. It wasn't my doing, I hadn't chosen
this path - it was the will of God.

"David!" I
called as I passed by the erect penis-like bulrushes and approached
him.