The Collector (12 page)

When you start frequenting the night spots of Britain’s major cities, you quickly realise that collecting erotic stories is tame compared to the activities of those who get their kicks from amassing the actual experiences themselves.

When these connoisseurs set their sights on someone, they rarely give up until their conquest is complete.
Introduced to me by a friend of a friend of a client of Kit’s, the owner of this story obliged my request to speak into my dictaphone.

‘He stood about 6 ft 6ins tall, probably because his boots were so chunky. Without them I guessed he’d be a bit shorter, but his sheer bulk meant he’d still look like a giant. His ginger hair was cut tight into the back of his neck, but was thicker at the front and sides. As with many ginger-haired folk, his face was bespeckled with freckles. I decided to make it my mission to find out if he had freckles anywhere else.

They were laughing, chatting together, all four of them propped against the bar, giving the impression that it would take a meteor to move them. I felt restless as I watched them. It had been ages since my last fuck and I was horny to the point of desperation. He already seemed a challenge; a mountain I had to climb.

I kept staring at him, until eventually he looked in my direction and I managed to catch his eye. I did a half smile and turned away at the same time. It was classic stuff really, but it was enough to make sure he’d look at me again.

I’d known they were in there, not only because I’d got used to their routine over the past week, but because today their van was parked directly outside the pub.

Physical jobs. I’ve always been attracted to men in manual employment. It’s something about all those dirty clothes and tool belts; as if they are always ready to tackle any situation, any task.

Removal men were a bit of a diversion really, but the thought of all that strength qualified them for my attention. No wimp could get a solid wooden double wardrobe up a staircase without pausing for breath.

They were still talking, but I knew I had caught his attention, so I headed up to the bar to get another drink, standing as close to the group as possible. They were laughing about their latest job, something about an aquarium. Just before I turned my back on them with drink in hand, I looked directly into his eye, nodded and sat back down; trying to concentrate on the newspaper I’d bought with me.

About twenty minutes later I got up and headed for the door. I gave him one last glance (making very sure he saw it), and left, hoping I’d given him enough to piqué his curiosity as well as his groin.

I’d got about 100 yards down the road before I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t turn. I knew it was him. I could smell hard work on him; sweat, dust and beer.

A large hand caught my shoulder and turned me round. He was about to speak when I put a finger to his lips and shook my head. I hadn’t been after a cosy chat.

He nodded and simply cast his arms around as if to ask ‘where?’ I gestured to the van. Inclining his head, he pulled the keys out of his pocket and dragged me along after him, his urgency appearing as hot as mine.

He undid the back doors of the box van and almost threw me in. He really was as massively strong as I had fantasised. Not fat, but big and hard and toned. My mouth almost watered at what was about to happen.

Banging the doors shut behind us, we found ourselves in almost total darkness, with just our silhouettes visible in the gloom. We stood on an uneven pile of the rugs and sheets they used to cover clients furniture. We knew we didn’t have long, his mates would be out soon; unless they had been told to wait, I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

His shirt was already off, his jeans and boxers followed. As my eyes became accustomed to the shadows, I drew a sharp breath as his dick jumped to attention. He looked determined, menacing even, and I was quickly aware I would have to let this man be in charge, and freely do whatever he wanted. For a fleeting second I wondered if I had finally bitten off more that I could chew, yet my body had already taken over, and I knew I would go wherever this new experience took me.

He roughly pulled me closer and dragged my t-shirt over my head, leaving my bare chest to shiver against the van’s dank atmosphere. Then, forcing me to my knees, he offered his shaft to my mouth. I took it without hesitation. It almost filled my throat, forcing me to choke a little as I accommodated its width and length. He tasted both salty and sticky; this man worked hard, and now he was playing hard, and I was on the receiving end.

He increased his pace, thrusting into my mouth faster and faster, his fingers twisting tightly into my neatly cropped hair. Just as I thought he’d spill into my mouth he withdrew, placed a massive hand on the small of my back, and pinned me face down against the uneven surface.

I felt hasty fingers undo my belt and yank my jeans and underwear down just enough to reveal my small, taut, backside. The stale air brushed my skin briefly before I felt my own belt crack down. I howled out at the unexpected pain. He struck me twice more before he let out a groan of impatience; the first sign that he was enjoying himself as much as I was.

He hoisted my arse up towards him, as if my body weighed nothing at all. I heard the rip of a packet as he hastily pushed on a condom. A gob full of spit was smeared over his length as lube, and, after an initial probe with the end of his cock, he rammed himself inside my arse.

I really hope that van was sound proofed, as boy did I yell. He was just so fucking thick, I thought I’d split in half. I could feel his orgasm build as he increased his speed, drumming my body against him, until he finally let out an ogre’s roar, spunking into me like a machine before dropping my unsatisfied body to the floor.

I lay there for a few seconds, gulping in deep breaths. Then he knelt next to me. ‘Let’s sort you out,’ he spoke kindly, revealing the gentle nature which lay beneath that giant body. He cupped my own penis in his fist, and firmly brought me to my own blissful end.

We said nothing to else to each other. I left first, walking home triumphant.
It wasn’t until later that I realised I never did find out about the extent of his freckles.’

The blindfold she’d secured around her own face blackened the room, but her eyes were tightly shut anyway. Her fingers lingered teasingly on the lace trim around her knickers.

In her mind she saw them; the strong hands which had her waist held firmly in their strong grasp. They were tanned and rough from hard outside labour; the nails scratched her skin as the fingers slipped inside her waistband.

Her own fingers traced the echo of her imagination as the lacy fabric was gradually eased down. She lay back on the bed, spreading her pale smooth legs wide for her invisible companion.

In the shadow of her thoughts, he moved forward, towering over her prone body. He picked up her hands and placed them on her firm breasts, ordering her to rub her nipples between her fingers.

She did as she was bidden, pinching her nut brown tips and rolling them between her palms. He had told her to be silent, but she was unable to comply. A sigh of satisfaction escaped from between her lips. He was pleased she had disobeyed; now he could punish her. Pushing a hairbrush into her hand, he ordered her to smack her right thigh with its back, before placing her left thumb into her slightly open mouth.

As she struck herself with the oval brush head she deflected the pain by concentrating on her thumb, treating it as though it was his firm dick. Licking, sucking and nipping. In the darkness he knocked her hand out of the way and replaced it with his thick shaft. Her tongue caressed its tip while she continued to assault her own leg.

He pulled out; her thumb made a small slurping noise as it followed suit. She ran the wet digit across her bare chest, forcing a squeak of pleasure from her lips at the damp touch on her hard inflamed nipples.

Her leg was burning as she dropped the brush. Behind her mask he kissed her sore thigh. He whispered in her ear, and she obeyed. Her slender fingers fished around in the cool glass of gin and tonic she’d placed next to her bed. She extracted an ice cube. Her body jumped as stray droplets of alcohol and mixer melted into her. For a second she lost her concentration, what she was about to do might just be too much. No, she could see him watching, waiting for her to act.

The ice cube was starting to melt in her hand. She rubbed it over the fast bruising thigh and gasped as sheer cold coursed through her. Her breath became shallow and her mouth felt suddenly dry as she started to stroke herself between her legs, slowly trailing her fingers so they circled but never touched her clit. She removed the cube from her leg and placed it on her overheated chest, causing herself to cry out in blessed agony as the chill swept through her tits, whilst her other hand continued to warm her pussy.

She swapped actions, pushing the ice cube against her neglected clit and pinching her right nipple. She cried out anew into the vacant room as the slowly nurtured waves of desire became stronger.

In the dark he was watching, his hand on his cock, leisurely gliding it up and down as he enjoyed the spectacle before him.
The ice cube had halved in size. She pushed its remains into her pussy’s hungry mouth. It was the final touch as her body spasmed and bucked against the bed.
Beneath the blackness of the blindfold he came, shooting his load across her chest, her body twisting as her imagination brought them both to a satisfied silence.

The dominatrix is not always young, slim and basque bound. Submissives don’t naturally cower, and can be found hidden within the strongest personality. Anal exploration is not just the province of the gay community, and far more of us are bi-sexual than society is yet ready to admit. You don’t have to be beautiful or thin to be attractive, and you should never ever assume that the ordinary looking forty-something couple in the street only do it missionary style.

The gambit of sexual experience within the bounds of this small country, indeed, within the bounds of the English Home Counties alone, is wide indeed.

I have collected stories that are shocking, touching and arousing. Am I always convinced that the tales I hear are true? Are they embellished or exaggerated? Perhaps, although I pride myself on the care I take, and the large number of tales that didn’t make it into this book are (hopefully), the ones I suspect of being more than a little over-told by their protagonists. I willingly admit however, that in those cases where I have simply overheard a conversation, there are frequently gaps I have used my own imagination to fill.

I shall leave you now, and head off to continue my search. The fantasies of the British public are just waiting for me to find them. I’ll head to Scotland first I think, then maybe Devon and Cornwall, possibly Wales… I’m the one with the chestnut hair and the half smile. The female with the brightly coloured notebook and a slim black roller pen in the corner of a coffee shop, on the back seat of a bus, or sat on a stool at the edge of the club bar.