Barry Metcalf's Blog - Posts Tagged "mystery"
REVELATION
'Mildred leaned forward, one conspirator to another. She opened her eyes wide and held their stares. “I did hear,” she whispered across the plastic tablecloth to her rapt audience, “that the bulldozers clearing the site for reconstruction found a skeleton buried there.” She sat back and devoured the looks of disbelief on her cronies’ faces.'
What is the significance of Mildred's startling revelation? Read more and find out....
What is the significance of Mildred's startling revelation? Read more and find out....
THE YEAR THAT WAS
As 2014 disappears into the mists of time and the first days of 2015 roll out, I find myself reflecting on the past twelve months. For me it’s been one of many achievements, and the promise of more to come.
Early in the year, I was contacted by an American publisher and offered a book contract for the second novel in my ‘Oz-Files’ series. The first had been published eight years ago by an Australian publisher and literally gone nowhere so, late in 2013, I’d bitten the bullet and send a manuscript to Evolved Publishing, a fairly new publishing company I’d read about online. Long story short, I ended up signing a three novel contract and, while I awaited the appointment of an editor and a cover artist for the first release, I was so buoyed by my good fortune I managed to complete the seventh novel in the series featuring Martin & Claire, a project that had stalled for almost two years. Once begun, the words flowed fast and furiously and, almost before I completed the epilogue, I’d begun work on the eighth novel in the series.
My writing continued at a rapid and constant pace, and some three months later I’d finished another manuscript. About this time, I began collaborating with graphic artist, Mallory Rock, who managed to transfer the vague ideas from deep inside my subconscious into a fantastic cover for ‘Broometime Serenade’, the second book in this series and my first release for Evolved Publishing. I couldn’t have been more pleased.
While waiting for the appointment of an editor to begin work on ‘Broometime Serenade’ I continued writing, the ideas still flowing in a constant stream, the words demanding release. I completed another manuscript and began working on the ninth novel in the series, where I discovered the lives of my two detectives beginning to take a series of unexpected turns. But you’ll have to wait for the release of those books to find out what direction those changes take.
Around this time, two events in my personal life caused significant upheaval. I moved house and my father passed away. While the first simply ate into my writing time and caused minor disruptions to my schedule, the second threw me into total disarray. Although my father’s death wasn’t totally unexpected, the loss of a loved one always causes one distress. Needless, to say, the writing dried up like a waterhole during a drought.
Not long after my father’s funeral, an editor was appointed to pull my writing into some sort of order, and Mishael Witty and I began working on making my writing tighter and more powerful. At this time, I was thankful for the opportunity to lose myself in the pages of my novel and push my grief to the back of my mind. In due course, the edits were completed and the novel was released in eBook and paperback form. A month before Christmas, I received my first box of books and was able to surround myself with the physical evidence of my achievements. Thus ended an eventful and satisfying year.
Thank you to all at Evolved Publishing.
Broometime Serenade
Early in the year, I was contacted by an American publisher and offered a book contract for the second novel in my ‘Oz-Files’ series. The first had been published eight years ago by an Australian publisher and literally gone nowhere so, late in 2013, I’d bitten the bullet and send a manuscript to Evolved Publishing, a fairly new publishing company I’d read about online. Long story short, I ended up signing a three novel contract and, while I awaited the appointment of an editor and a cover artist for the first release, I was so buoyed by my good fortune I managed to complete the seventh novel in the series featuring Martin & Claire, a project that had stalled for almost two years. Once begun, the words flowed fast and furiously and, almost before I completed the epilogue, I’d begun work on the eighth novel in the series.
My writing continued at a rapid and constant pace, and some three months later I’d finished another manuscript. About this time, I began collaborating with graphic artist, Mallory Rock, who managed to transfer the vague ideas from deep inside my subconscious into a fantastic cover for ‘Broometime Serenade’, the second book in this series and my first release for Evolved Publishing. I couldn’t have been more pleased.
While waiting for the appointment of an editor to begin work on ‘Broometime Serenade’ I continued writing, the ideas still flowing in a constant stream, the words demanding release. I completed another manuscript and began working on the ninth novel in the series, where I discovered the lives of my two detectives beginning to take a series of unexpected turns. But you’ll have to wait for the release of those books to find out what direction those changes take.
Around this time, two events in my personal life caused significant upheaval. I moved house and my father passed away. While the first simply ate into my writing time and caused minor disruptions to my schedule, the second threw me into total disarray. Although my father’s death wasn’t totally unexpected, the loss of a loved one always causes one distress. Needless, to say, the writing dried up like a waterhole during a drought.
Not long after my father’s funeral, an editor was appointed to pull my writing into some sort of order, and Mishael Witty and I began working on making my writing tighter and more powerful. At this time, I was thankful for the opportunity to lose myself in the pages of my novel and push my grief to the back of my mind. In due course, the edits were completed and the novel was released in eBook and paperback form. A month before Christmas, I received my first box of books and was able to surround myself with the physical evidence of my achievements. Thus ended an eventful and satisfying year.
Thank you to all at Evolved Publishing.
Broometime Serenade
REFLECTIONS ON A LOSS
I awoke this morning at 8:30--late for me--drowsy and listless. I rolled out of bed, feeling as if I’ve lost something or missed an important engagement.
But what?
As I stumbled from my bedroom to the kitchen, boiled the kettle for my first cup of coffee and fired up my laptop, I pondered this question, unable to find an answer, yet unable to shake the feeling of something lost. I blinked, stared at the screensaver, blinked again, and a million images flashed across the screen of my mind.
Broome. Sunshine. Sand. Surf. Cicadas. Cable Beach. Camels. Palm trees. Boab Trees. Seashells Resort. Gantheaume Point. Anastasia’s Pool. Dinosaur footprints. Crocodiles. Streeter’s Jetty. Old Zoo Café. Matso’s.
On this day of the year--the second Sunday of January--for the past sixteen years, I’ve risen around 4:00 a.m., showered, dressed, gulped down a cup of coffee, stuffed suitcases in the car and hit the road. Today was the day I normally headed for Tullamarine Airport, boarded a plane around 8:30 and winged towards Broome.
But not this year.
This year, because of financial constraints, this wasn’t going to happen.
As I sat back, sipped my coffee, I pondered my options. Best case scenario: I can always re-read ‘Broometime Serenade’ and lose myself in its pages. Once again, I’ll be back in Broome, enjoying sun, surf and sand and the millions of other experiences, never really lost as long as I have my memories.
Cheers everyone.
Broometime Serenade
But what?
As I stumbled from my bedroom to the kitchen, boiled the kettle for my first cup of coffee and fired up my laptop, I pondered this question, unable to find an answer, yet unable to shake the feeling of something lost. I blinked, stared at the screensaver, blinked again, and a million images flashed across the screen of my mind.
Broome. Sunshine. Sand. Surf. Cicadas. Cable Beach. Camels. Palm trees. Boab Trees. Seashells Resort. Gantheaume Point. Anastasia’s Pool. Dinosaur footprints. Crocodiles. Streeter’s Jetty. Old Zoo Café. Matso’s.
On this day of the year--the second Sunday of January--for the past sixteen years, I’ve risen around 4:00 a.m., showered, dressed, gulped down a cup of coffee, stuffed suitcases in the car and hit the road. Today was the day I normally headed for Tullamarine Airport, boarded a plane around 8:30 and winged towards Broome.
But not this year.
This year, because of financial constraints, this wasn’t going to happen.
As I sat back, sipped my coffee, I pondered my options. Best case scenario: I can always re-read ‘Broometime Serenade’ and lose myself in its pages. Once again, I’ll be back in Broome, enjoying sun, surf and sand and the millions of other experiences, never really lost as long as I have my memories.
Cheers everyone.
Broometime Serenade
MORNINGS SUCK
I awoke to the sound of loud voices booming outside my bedroom window and rolled out of bed. Through blurry eyes, I checked my bedside clock. 3:00 a.m., an hour before the alarm was due to disturb me. Outside, the voices continued their ear-piercing calls back and forth, now joined by the slamming of doors and the uneven bleat of a diesel engine warming up. I sighed and attempted to shut out the sounds of the next-door neighbours loading up their four-wheel drive and doing their best to wake the neighbourhood as they departed for their annual holiday to the beach.
Sighing, knowing further sleep was impossible, I turned off the alarm and stumbled into the shower. Scrubbed clean and dressed, I made myself a cup of much-needed coffee. As I sipped the hot liquid, I stood at the window and watched the neighbours piling into their car and, with horn blaring, roar out of the quiet court as if it were the middle of the day. In the houses closest to theirs, lights were blazing. Shaking my head, I wondered yet again why some people had to do everything at the tops of their voices, especially when leaving in the early hours of the morning or arriving home in the dead of night?
Half an hour later, revived by my caffeine fix, I locked my house, tip-toed out into my carport, flung my luggage into the car and, without shouting at anyone, departed as quietly as possible for Tullamarine Airport, about two hours away. At that time of morning, traffic was thankfully light and, despite changed and confusing traffic conditions in the city, I didn’t get lost and made good time. With the car securely parked, airport passes issued and baggage checked, I made my way through the array of security checks implemented since September, 2001.
As usual, something on my person triggered the metal detector, and I was sent back to further disrobe. I’d already removed my watch, belt and the contents of my pockets--eliminating those things that had, in the past, sent the detector into a frenzy--and searched my person for some other offending item. I had nothing metal on me. But wait. A helpful official attracted my attention and pointed to my new boots. Of course, they had metal rings fixed to the sides. I removed the offending items, placed them on the conveyor entering the scanner and stepped through the metal detector again, holding my pants at the waist as they threatened to fall down to my knees.
This time, I made it through without setting off any alarms, and retrieved my boots and other belongings, but I’d caught the eye of a burly bloke holding a baton in one hand and a bulky box-shaped object in the other. He gestured in my direction with the wand and nodded. With my belt, mobile phone, coins, wallet, pen and keys in a plastic tray in one hand and my boots in the other, I waddled toward him, legs spread to prevent my pants slipping down my thighs.
Other people wandered past, but the official seemed only interested in me.
“Have you been near any explosives recently?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.” How would I know if I had?
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as instructed, and he waved the wand over my upper body and then along my arms. More people wandered past, most frowning and shooting furtive glances in my direction.
Do they think I’m a terrorist of some sort? “Out of all of these people, why did you select me?” I asked as he moved the wand up and down the outsides of my legs.
“Your behaviour was suspicious.” He passed the wand up and down the insides of my legs.
“Suspicious? How?” Christ! What if I’ve got some substance on my clothes that he thinks is explosive?
“You seemed to be trying to confuse the metal detector.” He removed the wand and checked a dial on its fat end.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
“Of course, sir.” He sounded disappointed.
I placed everything on the floor at my feet, selected my belt and began to thread it through the hooks on the waist of my pants.
“You can’t get dressed here, sir,” said another official who’d suddenly appeared at my side.
“Can I go?” I asked the official with the wand.
“Yes. You’re clear.” He still sounded disappointed.
I grabbed my belongings and retired as far from the electronic gadgetry as I could, fastened my belt, replaced my boots on my feet and returned the other belongings to my pockets. At this point I realised I’d forgotten my carry bag and looked around for it. I soon spotted it at the collection point at the end of the conveyor leading from the scanner, two other officials staring at it as if they suspected it was a bomb.
Hurrying forward, I excused myself, retrieved my bag and took my leave, glad to have successfully negotiated this facet of my journey. As I strode across the vast expanse of the terminal, I checked my watch. 6:35 a.m. Still two hours before my flight was due to leave. I had time to partake of a hearty, healthy breakfast, but after what I’d just endured, decided on a burger and black coffee from Hungry Jack’s, topped off with a couple of Crispy Crème doughnuts.
Hunger pangs subdued and feeling much more human, I headed to the departure lounge, where I could await my flight and catch up on some reading.
Broometime Serenade
Sighing, knowing further sleep was impossible, I turned off the alarm and stumbled into the shower. Scrubbed clean and dressed, I made myself a cup of much-needed coffee. As I sipped the hot liquid, I stood at the window and watched the neighbours piling into their car and, with horn blaring, roar out of the quiet court as if it were the middle of the day. In the houses closest to theirs, lights were blazing. Shaking my head, I wondered yet again why some people had to do everything at the tops of their voices, especially when leaving in the early hours of the morning or arriving home in the dead of night?
Half an hour later, revived by my caffeine fix, I locked my house, tip-toed out into my carport, flung my luggage into the car and, without shouting at anyone, departed as quietly as possible for Tullamarine Airport, about two hours away. At that time of morning, traffic was thankfully light and, despite changed and confusing traffic conditions in the city, I didn’t get lost and made good time. With the car securely parked, airport passes issued and baggage checked, I made my way through the array of security checks implemented since September, 2001.
As usual, something on my person triggered the metal detector, and I was sent back to further disrobe. I’d already removed my watch, belt and the contents of my pockets--eliminating those things that had, in the past, sent the detector into a frenzy--and searched my person for some other offending item. I had nothing metal on me. But wait. A helpful official attracted my attention and pointed to my new boots. Of course, they had metal rings fixed to the sides. I removed the offending items, placed them on the conveyor entering the scanner and stepped through the metal detector again, holding my pants at the waist as they threatened to fall down to my knees.
This time, I made it through without setting off any alarms, and retrieved my boots and other belongings, but I’d caught the eye of a burly bloke holding a baton in one hand and a bulky box-shaped object in the other. He gestured in my direction with the wand and nodded. With my belt, mobile phone, coins, wallet, pen and keys in a plastic tray in one hand and my boots in the other, I waddled toward him, legs spread to prevent my pants slipping down my thighs.
Other people wandered past, but the official seemed only interested in me.
“Have you been near any explosives recently?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.” How would I know if I had?
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as instructed, and he waved the wand over my upper body and then along my arms. More people wandered past, most frowning and shooting furtive glances in my direction.
Do they think I’m a terrorist of some sort? “Out of all of these people, why did you select me?” I asked as he moved the wand up and down the outsides of my legs.
“Your behaviour was suspicious.” He passed the wand up and down the insides of my legs.
“Suspicious? How?” Christ! What if I’ve got some substance on my clothes that he thinks is explosive?
“You seemed to be trying to confuse the metal detector.” He removed the wand and checked a dial on its fat end.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
“Of course, sir.” He sounded disappointed.
I placed everything on the floor at my feet, selected my belt and began to thread it through the hooks on the waist of my pants.
“You can’t get dressed here, sir,” said another official who’d suddenly appeared at my side.
“Can I go?” I asked the official with the wand.
“Yes. You’re clear.” He still sounded disappointed.
I grabbed my belongings and retired as far from the electronic gadgetry as I could, fastened my belt, replaced my boots on my feet and returned the other belongings to my pockets. At this point I realised I’d forgotten my carry bag and looked around for it. I soon spotted it at the collection point at the end of the conveyor leading from the scanner, two other officials staring at it as if they suspected it was a bomb.
Hurrying forward, I excused myself, retrieved my bag and took my leave, glad to have successfully negotiated this facet of my journey. As I strode across the vast expanse of the terminal, I checked my watch. 6:35 a.m. Still two hours before my flight was due to leave. I had time to partake of a hearty, healthy breakfast, but after what I’d just endured, decided on a burger and black coffee from Hungry Jack’s, topped off with a couple of Crispy Crème doughnuts.
Hunger pangs subdued and feeling much more human, I headed to the departure lounge, where I could await my flight and catch up on some reading.
Broometime Serenade
DEPARTURE LOUNGE MAYHEM
I reached the departure lounge, thirsty and out of breath. Out-of-the-way destinations are always located at the furthermost end of the terminal, requiring a long hike along a seemingly endless corridor with machines selling drinks at outrageous prices. And remember, I’d been on the go since 3:00 a.m. Glad to take the weight off my feet, I found a seat as far away from everyone else as possible and glanced at my watch. 7:00 a.m. An hour to kill before my flight boarded. Already the place was filling up with other early risers headed for the same destination as me. I couldn’t blame them for that--Broome’s a fantastic place--but I was never really comfortable mingling with people I didn’t know, especially this early in the morning.
I sighed, extracted my reading glasses from my pocket and my eBook reader from my bag and tried to shut out the antics of my fellow travellers by immersing myself in a novel. That lasted a whole minute. Before I’d completed the first paragraph, I was pulled from my make-believe world by a horrendous howling that threatened to split my eardrums. I looked up, expecting to see a sabre-tooth cat charging in my direction. But no. A young mother had entered the lounge, her mewling baby slung across her chest. The infant seemed to be in mortal agony, or it was teething, or it wanted its breakfast.
Feed it! Calm it! Cover its mouth with your hand and smother it! I waited for her to attend to the child’s needs. But no. Instead of finding a quiet, out-of-the-way spot and hushing its wailing, she took up a potion three seats away, turned up the volume on her iPod, seemingly hell bent on inflicting her infant’s ill temper on all those around her.
What is it with parents today? I sighed again, turned sideways in the hope of lessening the impact on my ears, and returned my attention to my reading.
Suddenly, I was bustled from behind, my reader spilling from my hands. As I bent to retrieve it, annoyance making my top lip curl, a young girl climbed over the back of the seat beside me, bumped my arm again and dashed across the room. A boy of similar age followed close behind. I snarled and turned my head. None of the adults seated behind me seemed interested in the antics of these young hooligans, let alone in reigning in their outrageous behaviour. I clenched my teeth and let my mind drift, pretending I wasn’t here. I recalled another time, a time when things hadn’t gone according to plan and I’d arrived at the airport a mere twenty-five minutes before my plane was due to depart. Perhaps if I’d left home a little later this morning, I’d have been spared this bedlam.
On that morning, I’d departed for the airport with time to spare. Not a lot, not as much as I’d allowed this morning, but enough that, barring accidents, I’d arrive in time to check my suitcase and print out my boarding passes before departure. I cruised along the freeway, keeping to the speed limit, intent on not getting caught by a speed camera and donating several hundred dollars to the Police Benevolent Fund or adding to the demerit points I’d earned last year. My mind was filled with images of swaying palm trees and gentle surf breaking on gleaming white beaches, only partly focussed on driving. At that time of morning, with traffic light, it was easy to navigate on auto-pilot.
Suddenly, I spotted a landmark, a tall building I’d used in the past to mark the spot where I took the exit ramp and joined the freeway that would take me to the airport. I glanced left, expecting to see the slip lane I’d used for the last five years. As I became more aware of my surroundings, I realised that everything had changed. Instead of a curving off-ramp, I found myself in the midst of road construction. Huge blocks of concrete prevented me from turning left, and an array of signs extolled the virtues of this new network of roads. I slowed, shook my head, and tried to get my bearings. Horns honked as cars came from behind me, swept into the next lane, overtook me with upraised fingers which suggested they were unpleased with my change of plans.
I looked right and left. I looked ahead. No exit sign. Surely it should be right here. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and cursed. Some distance behind me, a line of cars were veering left. The exit had been relocated, and I’d missed the signs. I cursed, accelerated and began searching for the next exit. To my chagrin that, too, was hidden amidst a clutter of new roadwork signs and, by the time I’d spotted it, I’d overshot the turnoff again.
Needless to say, by the time I’d found another route to the airport, traffic had multiplied, slowed to well below the speed limit and, when I arrived at the check-in counter out of breath with my suitcase in tow, I was greeted with a condescending smile and told the check-in time for my flight had expired. Muttering to myself, I arranged a seat on the next available flight to Western Australia. Sadly there wasn’t a direct flight to Broome for another week so, instead of the anticipated four hour trip, the journey took up most of the day. With a lay-over of almost five hours while I awaited a connecting flight, I was tired, frazzled and in a bad temper by the time I reached my destination.
No, arriving later wasn’t the answer to my problems.
I jerked upright, pulled from my reverie by the sound of an animated argument. A couple had taken up the seats directly opposite me and were berating one another at the tops of their voices. Apparently she’d forgotten to pack something of his, and he wasn’t happy about it. She was sick and tired of his boorish behaviour and, if he didn’t treat her better, she’d sue for divorce. Back and forth the insults flew without a clear winner in sight. I tried shutting their vitriol out, but I might as well have attempted to stop a charging lion with nothing but my bare hands.
I groaned, closed my eyes and waited for the announcement calling us to board our aircraft.
Broometime Serenade
I sighed, extracted my reading glasses from my pocket and my eBook reader from my bag and tried to shut out the antics of my fellow travellers by immersing myself in a novel. That lasted a whole minute. Before I’d completed the first paragraph, I was pulled from my make-believe world by a horrendous howling that threatened to split my eardrums. I looked up, expecting to see a sabre-tooth cat charging in my direction. But no. A young mother had entered the lounge, her mewling baby slung across her chest. The infant seemed to be in mortal agony, or it was teething, or it wanted its breakfast.
Feed it! Calm it! Cover its mouth with your hand and smother it! I waited for her to attend to the child’s needs. But no. Instead of finding a quiet, out-of-the-way spot and hushing its wailing, she took up a potion three seats away, turned up the volume on her iPod, seemingly hell bent on inflicting her infant’s ill temper on all those around her.
What is it with parents today? I sighed again, turned sideways in the hope of lessening the impact on my ears, and returned my attention to my reading.
Suddenly, I was bustled from behind, my reader spilling from my hands. As I bent to retrieve it, annoyance making my top lip curl, a young girl climbed over the back of the seat beside me, bumped my arm again and dashed across the room. A boy of similar age followed close behind. I snarled and turned my head. None of the adults seated behind me seemed interested in the antics of these young hooligans, let alone in reigning in their outrageous behaviour. I clenched my teeth and let my mind drift, pretending I wasn’t here. I recalled another time, a time when things hadn’t gone according to plan and I’d arrived at the airport a mere twenty-five minutes before my plane was due to depart. Perhaps if I’d left home a little later this morning, I’d have been spared this bedlam.
On that morning, I’d departed for the airport with time to spare. Not a lot, not as much as I’d allowed this morning, but enough that, barring accidents, I’d arrive in time to check my suitcase and print out my boarding passes before departure. I cruised along the freeway, keeping to the speed limit, intent on not getting caught by a speed camera and donating several hundred dollars to the Police Benevolent Fund or adding to the demerit points I’d earned last year. My mind was filled with images of swaying palm trees and gentle surf breaking on gleaming white beaches, only partly focussed on driving. At that time of morning, with traffic light, it was easy to navigate on auto-pilot.
Suddenly, I spotted a landmark, a tall building I’d used in the past to mark the spot where I took the exit ramp and joined the freeway that would take me to the airport. I glanced left, expecting to see the slip lane I’d used for the last five years. As I became more aware of my surroundings, I realised that everything had changed. Instead of a curving off-ramp, I found myself in the midst of road construction. Huge blocks of concrete prevented me from turning left, and an array of signs extolled the virtues of this new network of roads. I slowed, shook my head, and tried to get my bearings. Horns honked as cars came from behind me, swept into the next lane, overtook me with upraised fingers which suggested they were unpleased with my change of plans.
I looked right and left. I looked ahead. No exit sign. Surely it should be right here. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and cursed. Some distance behind me, a line of cars were veering left. The exit had been relocated, and I’d missed the signs. I cursed, accelerated and began searching for the next exit. To my chagrin that, too, was hidden amidst a clutter of new roadwork signs and, by the time I’d spotted it, I’d overshot the turnoff again.
Needless to say, by the time I’d found another route to the airport, traffic had multiplied, slowed to well below the speed limit and, when I arrived at the check-in counter out of breath with my suitcase in tow, I was greeted with a condescending smile and told the check-in time for my flight had expired. Muttering to myself, I arranged a seat on the next available flight to Western Australia. Sadly there wasn’t a direct flight to Broome for another week so, instead of the anticipated four hour trip, the journey took up most of the day. With a lay-over of almost five hours while I awaited a connecting flight, I was tired, frazzled and in a bad temper by the time I reached my destination.
No, arriving later wasn’t the answer to my problems.
I jerked upright, pulled from my reverie by the sound of an animated argument. A couple had taken up the seats directly opposite me and were berating one another at the tops of their voices. Apparently she’d forgotten to pack something of his, and he wasn’t happy about it. She was sick and tired of his boorish behaviour and, if he didn’t treat her better, she’d sue for divorce. Back and forth the insults flew without a clear winner in sight. I tried shutting their vitriol out, but I might as well have attempted to stop a charging lion with nothing but my bare hands.
I groaned, closed my eyes and waited for the announcement calling us to board our aircraft.
Broometime Serenade
MY WICKED, WANTON LIFE
PART I
I was daydreaming. Well, not exactly daydreaming because it wasn’t daytime, but rather late at night. The point is my mind wasn’t on my driving. I was dreaming about having sex with a hot little number who’d recently been transferred to the school where I worked. She was young, had a great body, was wearing a short, tight yellow dress that accentuated every curve and, if I wasn’t reading the signs all wrong, she’d been flirting with me most of the evening. I think she was as anxious to get into my pants as I was to get into hers.
Although I was in a relationship, it wasn’t a long-term thing, more of a convenience, a way to ensure regular mind-blowing sex without having to go through all that dating rigmarole. At least, that’s the way I saw it. I’m not too sure about my partner. Anyway, I had just dreamed I'd pulled off this new staff member’s panties and buried my face in her muff when the unthinkable happened.
Abruptly the road ran out, and my Torana nosedived into a ditch. Before I realised where I was, it was flipping end over end. This can’t be happening! I’m too young to die! There was no time for any other thoughts. Next second, my head smacked against something hard and everything grew fuzzy.
I was five years old again. I was riding my trike outside the house owned by my grandparents, pretending I was in the race of my life. “Brmm! Brmm!” I tugged on the handlebars, pulling my trusty vehicle into a tight turn. Around and around the pussy willow tree I sped, each lap tighter than the one before. “Brmm! Brmm!”
Suddenly the trike tipped sideways and together we fell towards the ground. Only inside my mind I was tumbling on a racetrack, spectators and other vehicles spinning in crazy circles around me. Faster and faster I spun, everything around me becoming more and more blurry. Then a whirlwind enveloped me, lifting me and pulling me deeper and deeper into its centre. I was lost, trapped in a world of grey-and-white shadowy figures.
I screamed and opened my eyes. I was confused. I blinked and stared through glass. I was upside down. Although I was in a car, it wasn’t on a racetrack. I was on a country road, and I’d missed the intersection in the fog. There was no sign of other cars, spectators or a whirlwind. The year was 1974, not 1948.
A nightmare! A silly bloody nightmare! I shook my head, trying desperately to clear my muddled mind. While the car was settling, I’d lost conscious, and a childhood dream had resurfaced. Why that memory? No idea.
My head hurt, and I could smell the strong stench of beer. I’d purchased a dozen bottles of Foster’s Lager before setting out for home. During the crash they must have spilled from the carton, smashed somewhere in the back of the car and doused me in their contents. I smelled like a brewery and hadn’t touched a drop.
I groaned, felt for the clasp to unclip my seatbelt, pushed it and toppled onto the inside roof of the car. Bugger! I’d forgotten about gravity and landed on my head. I winced with pain, scrambled onto my hands and knees and searched for an exit. Thankfully the door opened. I pushed it as far as it would go and crawled from inside my upside-down vehicle.
As I sat there in the damp grass with the fog swirling around me the way it does in scary Hollywood movies, I listened to the motor cooling. There was no other sound. It was as if I was all alone in the world. At that moment, I could have believed it.
I reached up and touched my head again. It felt sticky. I brought my hand away and looked at it. In the dark I could barely make it out, but I could see a darker patch coating the ends of my fingers. Blood! Although I couldn’t see it, I could imagine the colour. It would be red. Bright red. It would be a shade of red that, when it gushed from the wounds of others, always made me feel queasy. My head was bleeding, and I had no way of staunching it.
I sat there, holding my head, wondering how I was going to get home. Perhaps the hot little number I’d been hitting on at work will drive past and pick me up. I seemed to recall she lived somewhere out this way. She could offer me a ride, take me to her place, and we could fuck until the sun comes up.
If you enjoyed this, you should check out my latest novel.
Broometime Serenade
I was daydreaming. Well, not exactly daydreaming because it wasn’t daytime, but rather late at night. The point is my mind wasn’t on my driving. I was dreaming about having sex with a hot little number who’d recently been transferred to the school where I worked. She was young, had a great body, was wearing a short, tight yellow dress that accentuated every curve and, if I wasn’t reading the signs all wrong, she’d been flirting with me most of the evening. I think she was as anxious to get into my pants as I was to get into hers.
Although I was in a relationship, it wasn’t a long-term thing, more of a convenience, a way to ensure regular mind-blowing sex without having to go through all that dating rigmarole. At least, that’s the way I saw it. I’m not too sure about my partner. Anyway, I had just dreamed I'd pulled off this new staff member’s panties and buried my face in her muff when the unthinkable happened.
Abruptly the road ran out, and my Torana nosedived into a ditch. Before I realised where I was, it was flipping end over end. This can’t be happening! I’m too young to die! There was no time for any other thoughts. Next second, my head smacked against something hard and everything grew fuzzy.
I was five years old again. I was riding my trike outside the house owned by my grandparents, pretending I was in the race of my life. “Brmm! Brmm!” I tugged on the handlebars, pulling my trusty vehicle into a tight turn. Around and around the pussy willow tree I sped, each lap tighter than the one before. “Brmm! Brmm!”
Suddenly the trike tipped sideways and together we fell towards the ground. Only inside my mind I was tumbling on a racetrack, spectators and other vehicles spinning in crazy circles around me. Faster and faster I spun, everything around me becoming more and more blurry. Then a whirlwind enveloped me, lifting me and pulling me deeper and deeper into its centre. I was lost, trapped in a world of grey-and-white shadowy figures.
I screamed and opened my eyes. I was confused. I blinked and stared through glass. I was upside down. Although I was in a car, it wasn’t on a racetrack. I was on a country road, and I’d missed the intersection in the fog. There was no sign of other cars, spectators or a whirlwind. The year was 1974, not 1948.
A nightmare! A silly bloody nightmare! I shook my head, trying desperately to clear my muddled mind. While the car was settling, I’d lost conscious, and a childhood dream had resurfaced. Why that memory? No idea.
My head hurt, and I could smell the strong stench of beer. I’d purchased a dozen bottles of Foster’s Lager before setting out for home. During the crash they must have spilled from the carton, smashed somewhere in the back of the car and doused me in their contents. I smelled like a brewery and hadn’t touched a drop.
I groaned, felt for the clasp to unclip my seatbelt, pushed it and toppled onto the inside roof of the car. Bugger! I’d forgotten about gravity and landed on my head. I winced with pain, scrambled onto my hands and knees and searched for an exit. Thankfully the door opened. I pushed it as far as it would go and crawled from inside my upside-down vehicle.
As I sat there in the damp grass with the fog swirling around me the way it does in scary Hollywood movies, I listened to the motor cooling. There was no other sound. It was as if I was all alone in the world. At that moment, I could have believed it.
I reached up and touched my head again. It felt sticky. I brought my hand away and looked at it. In the dark I could barely make it out, but I could see a darker patch coating the ends of my fingers. Blood! Although I couldn’t see it, I could imagine the colour. It would be red. Bright red. It would be a shade of red that, when it gushed from the wounds of others, always made me feel queasy. My head was bleeding, and I had no way of staunching it.
I sat there, holding my head, wondering how I was going to get home. Perhaps the hot little number I’d been hitting on at work will drive past and pick me up. I seemed to recall she lived somewhere out this way. She could offer me a ride, take me to her place, and we could fuck until the sun comes up.
If you enjoyed this, you should check out my latest novel.
Broometime Serenade
MY WICKED, WANTON LIFE
PART II
Headlights splashed over me, and I shielded my eyes, trying to see what was coming, but the swirling fog dispersed the light, making it impossible to distinguish details. I staggered to my feet just as a dark shape emerged from the mist, looking like a stagecoach pulled by six black horses. I recoiled in disbelief and rubbed my eyes.
What the fuck? Is this another nightmare, or have I been transported back to another time? The leading horses whinnied and reared, pawing the air and blowing steam from their nostrils. I took a step back and rubbed my eyes again. When I looked again, I saw I’d been mistaken. There was no stagecoach. There were no horses. It was just a car. Someone had come along the road, seen I’d had an accident and pulled up to offer assistance. The car sat there, its engine idling, mist swirling around its headlights.
What’s wrong with me? First I revert to my childhood and then I start seeing things. Must be a result of the accident. I touched the spot on my head where it hurt. Again, it came away sticky. In the glare of the headlights I could see that the entire palm was smeared with gore. I glanced down at my shirt. All down one side it had changed from white to red. Christ, that’s a lot of blood. Am I dying?
Suddenly, the passenger side door swung open and pulled me from my morbid thoughts. “Hop in,” said a female voice. “You look like you could use some help.”
Without a backward glance at my upended car, I stepped onto the edge of the road and slid into the seat. “Thank you,” I said as I pulled the door closed. “I’m sorry but I must look a mess.”
“You look fine,” said the driver as the car eased forward.
I turned and looked at her, her face illuminated by the dashboard lights. She had finely chiselled features and full lips that were stained a vivid red. She turned her head, looked at me and winked. I gasped, my heart fluttered in my chest as if it wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and my head felt woozy. Then the whole world teetered. I seemed to be slipping into my old nightmare again.
This time, however, it wasn’t a childhood memory that surfaced. I was an adult. I was lying on a bed with satin sheets. I was naked, and the beautiful woman who’d just come to my assistance was making love to me. I gasped with surprise and delight. She had my cock in her red, sensuous mouth, her long, auburn hair falling forward and caressing my thighs. I threw my head back in ecstasy as she drew my member in and out with slow, sensuous strokes. I closed my eyes as her fingers slowly slid up my chest towards my face.
She touched my cheek, and I jumped as if I’d been stung by a bee. I opened my eyes and stared at darkness. I was no longer in bed. I wasn’t naked. I was back in the car, fully clothed, seated beside a Good Samaritan who’d come to my assistance in the dead of night. The episode in bed had been nothing more than a dream. That was fine, but it failed to explain why my penis was erect and thrusting against the front of my pants. What the fuck’s happening to me. I glanced sideways. At least the woman beside me is real.
“Let me take you to my place,” she said, her red lips curved upwards in a smile. “I’m a nurse, and I have everything there to take care of your injury.”
Enjoy this? Then you're sure to love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
Headlights splashed over me, and I shielded my eyes, trying to see what was coming, but the swirling fog dispersed the light, making it impossible to distinguish details. I staggered to my feet just as a dark shape emerged from the mist, looking like a stagecoach pulled by six black horses. I recoiled in disbelief and rubbed my eyes.
What the fuck? Is this another nightmare, or have I been transported back to another time? The leading horses whinnied and reared, pawing the air and blowing steam from their nostrils. I took a step back and rubbed my eyes again. When I looked again, I saw I’d been mistaken. There was no stagecoach. There were no horses. It was just a car. Someone had come along the road, seen I’d had an accident and pulled up to offer assistance. The car sat there, its engine idling, mist swirling around its headlights.
What’s wrong with me? First I revert to my childhood and then I start seeing things. Must be a result of the accident. I touched the spot on my head where it hurt. Again, it came away sticky. In the glare of the headlights I could see that the entire palm was smeared with gore. I glanced down at my shirt. All down one side it had changed from white to red. Christ, that’s a lot of blood. Am I dying?
Suddenly, the passenger side door swung open and pulled me from my morbid thoughts. “Hop in,” said a female voice. “You look like you could use some help.”
Without a backward glance at my upended car, I stepped onto the edge of the road and slid into the seat. “Thank you,” I said as I pulled the door closed. “I’m sorry but I must look a mess.”
“You look fine,” said the driver as the car eased forward.
I turned and looked at her, her face illuminated by the dashboard lights. She had finely chiselled features and full lips that were stained a vivid red. She turned her head, looked at me and winked. I gasped, my heart fluttered in my chest as if it wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and my head felt woozy. Then the whole world teetered. I seemed to be slipping into my old nightmare again.
This time, however, it wasn’t a childhood memory that surfaced. I was an adult. I was lying on a bed with satin sheets. I was naked, and the beautiful woman who’d just come to my assistance was making love to me. I gasped with surprise and delight. She had my cock in her red, sensuous mouth, her long, auburn hair falling forward and caressing my thighs. I threw my head back in ecstasy as she drew my member in and out with slow, sensuous strokes. I closed my eyes as her fingers slowly slid up my chest towards my face.
She touched my cheek, and I jumped as if I’d been stung by a bee. I opened my eyes and stared at darkness. I was no longer in bed. I wasn’t naked. I was back in the car, fully clothed, seated beside a Good Samaritan who’d come to my assistance in the dead of night. The episode in bed had been nothing more than a dream. That was fine, but it failed to explain why my penis was erect and thrusting against the front of my pants. What the fuck’s happening to me. I glanced sideways. At least the woman beside me is real.
“Let me take you to my place,” she said, her red lips curved upwards in a smile. “I’m a nurse, and I have everything there to take care of your injury.”
Enjoy this? Then you're sure to love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
MY WICKED, WANTON LIFE
PART III
We drove in silence for several minutes, my hands in my lap, hiding my erection. I’d never felt so uncomfortable in my life. I was in a car with a strange woman, and I’d just been fantasising about having sex with her. I stared out the side window, unable to look at my companion in case she read my expression and guessed what I’d been thinking. The mist slapped against the sides of the car like ghostly washing. It seemed like we’d left the road and were driving through someone’s back yard. I shook my head. What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“Fiona,” she abruptly said.
I started, pulled from my reverie. “What?”
“My name’s Fiona. What’s yours?”
I glanced in her direction, but she was staring straight ahead. Thank goodness. I don’t need another of those weird flashes. Both her hands were on the steering wheel, but I could feel them stroking my cock. “Dane.” Although my brain was still mush, I somehow managed to remember my name.
“Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was soft and lilting, without accent. She sounded a little like Elle McPherson.
“Likewise.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
We sped along a series of roads, twisting and turning so often I was soon confused. The fog had grown thicker--if that was possible--obscuring the landscape through which we zipped. I had no idea where we were, no idea in which direction we were headed. Our speed hadn’t diminished. If anything the car was going faster than before. How can she see in this soup? How does she know where she’s going? I grabbed the panic bar, momentarily expecting to plough into some obstacle concealed in the mist.
“What were you doing on these roads at this time of night?”
“Returning home from a staff function. Everything ran later than it should have so that, by the time I set out for home, it was late. And then, just to make life more difficult, this awful fog rolled in. I just didn’t see the intersection until I was through it.”
“Shit happens. So, I take it you live out this way?”
“Yes. Renting a house on one of the farms.”
“What do you do when you’re not rolling your car?”
“School teacher.” I raised my hand to the side of my head. It was still tender, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Fortunately my hard-on had subsided somewhat, so I no longer needed to cover my groin. Thank the gods of Olympus for small mercies.
“Married?”
“No, but I’m in a relationship.”
“Same here.”
“How come I haven’t seen you in town?”
“I rarely go into town?”
“Oh?”
“Too many weirdos for my liking.”
“Oh!” I chuckled, but it was a weak effort. I’d started to feel weary. I shook my head in an effort not to fall asleep.
“Sex good?”
I jerked upright, not sure whether I’d nodded off or not, not sure whether I’d heard her correctly. “Pardon?”
“Is sex with your partner good?” She glanced my way and winked.
Suddenly I was no longer sitting in the car. I was naked, on my hands and knees with my face buried in a woman’s hot, moist bush. I raised my head and stared at the naked body displayed before me--up over the flat belly, past twin peaks topped with mesa-like nipples, to the face of the woman who, moments before had been sitting next to me in her car. The delightful aroma of pussy was strong in my nostrils. What have I done to deserve this? I lowered my head and began exploring with my tongue.
“We’re there,” she said, and I jerked upright.
Confused, I turned my head and stared at my surroundings. The car had stopped, but there was nothing outside the windows other than fog. Only the heady aroma of pussy remained. It seemed to be all around me. No way! “Where?” I asked and licked my lips nervously. As strange as it seems, they tasted as if moments before they’d been servicing a woman’s vagina. This can’t be happening.
“My place, silly.” She nodded towards the windscreen. “Where did you think we were going?”
Enjoy this? You'll love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
We drove in silence for several minutes, my hands in my lap, hiding my erection. I’d never felt so uncomfortable in my life. I was in a car with a strange woman, and I’d just been fantasising about having sex with her. I stared out the side window, unable to look at my companion in case she read my expression and guessed what I’d been thinking. The mist slapped against the sides of the car like ghostly washing. It seemed like we’d left the road and were driving through someone’s back yard. I shook my head. What the fuck’s wrong with me?
“Fiona,” she abruptly said.
I started, pulled from my reverie. “What?”
“My name’s Fiona. What’s yours?”
I glanced in her direction, but she was staring straight ahead. Thank goodness. I don’t need another of those weird flashes. Both her hands were on the steering wheel, but I could feel them stroking my cock. “Dane.” Although my brain was still mush, I somehow managed to remember my name.
“Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was soft and lilting, without accent. She sounded a little like Elle McPherson.
“Likewise.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
We sped along a series of roads, twisting and turning so often I was soon confused. The fog had grown thicker--if that was possible--obscuring the landscape through which we zipped. I had no idea where we were, no idea in which direction we were headed. Our speed hadn’t diminished. If anything the car was going faster than before. How can she see in this soup? How does she know where she’s going? I grabbed the panic bar, momentarily expecting to plough into some obstacle concealed in the mist.
“What were you doing on these roads at this time of night?”
“Returning home from a staff function. Everything ran later than it should have so that, by the time I set out for home, it was late. And then, just to make life more difficult, this awful fog rolled in. I just didn’t see the intersection until I was through it.”
“Shit happens. So, I take it you live out this way?”
“Yes. Renting a house on one of the farms.”
“What do you do when you’re not rolling your car?”
“School teacher.” I raised my hand to the side of my head. It was still tender, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Fortunately my hard-on had subsided somewhat, so I no longer needed to cover my groin. Thank the gods of Olympus for small mercies.
“Married?”
“No, but I’m in a relationship.”
“Same here.”
“How come I haven’t seen you in town?”
“I rarely go into town?”
“Oh?”
“Too many weirdos for my liking.”
“Oh!” I chuckled, but it was a weak effort. I’d started to feel weary. I shook my head in an effort not to fall asleep.
“Sex good?”
I jerked upright, not sure whether I’d nodded off or not, not sure whether I’d heard her correctly. “Pardon?”
“Is sex with your partner good?” She glanced my way and winked.
Suddenly I was no longer sitting in the car. I was naked, on my hands and knees with my face buried in a woman’s hot, moist bush. I raised my head and stared at the naked body displayed before me--up over the flat belly, past twin peaks topped with mesa-like nipples, to the face of the woman who, moments before had been sitting next to me in her car. The delightful aroma of pussy was strong in my nostrils. What have I done to deserve this? I lowered my head and began exploring with my tongue.
“We’re there,” she said, and I jerked upright.
Confused, I turned my head and stared at my surroundings. The car had stopped, but there was nothing outside the windows other than fog. Only the heady aroma of pussy remained. It seemed to be all around me. No way! “Where?” I asked and licked my lips nervously. As strange as it seems, they tasted as if moments before they’d been servicing a woman’s vagina. This can’t be happening.
“My place, silly.” She nodded towards the windscreen. “Where did you think we were going?”
Enjoy this? You'll love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
MY WICKED, WANTON LIFE
PART IV
This time when I looked through the windscreen there was no mist. It had miraculously cleared as if it had been swept away by a strong wind. Yet everything seemed eerily still. A building loomed before us, displayed in the harsh glare of the headlights. It was a two-storey affair, dark and foreboding. It reminded me of something from ‘The Adams Family’. Not a light showed in any of the windows. The curtains were drab and drawn back from glass that merely reflected the car’s lights. A long, dilapidated veranda on which sat several canvas chairs without seats, a table with deep gouges in its edges and several shrivelled pot plants added to its derelict look.
“This...?” My voice sounded a little strange even to my ears. I turned my head, coughed and tried again. “This is your place?”
“Of course.” Fiona killed the lights and the engine, opened the door and slid out into the night. “Coming?”
I unlatched my door and exited the car. The air was cold, but there was no wind. “I didn’t know there were any houses as old as this out here.”
“Really? You should be more observant.”
A light came on at the edge of the veranda. One of those automatic security jobs that rich people used, I guessed. It bathed her in its soft glow and, for the first time I got to see what she was wearing.
Her skirt was blood red and rode up her thighs higher than anything I’d ever seen, even in this age of miniskirts. I was surprised it didn’t reveal her knickers. Her legs were slim and tapered and seemed to go on forever. “Lucky legs,” my father would have said. “Lucky they don’t snap off and slide up her bum.” A funny bloke, my old man, he took pride in the fact that he didn’t swear. He was full of witticisms, though, having one for almost every situation. I dragged my eyes from Fiona’s lower extremities and focussed on her blouse. It was short-sleeved, the most delicate blue imaginable, and the front was unbuttoned almost to her navel. Before I could topple headlong into the canyon that was her cleavage, she’d turned towards the veranda.
“Follow me,” she called back over her shoulder.
I stumbled after her, feeling a little like I’d been shanghaied into an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone’, but I could no more walk away than I could pilot a rocket to the moon. Fiona led me up a series of rickety steps, through a paint-flaked door attached by broken hinges and into a darkened room. I heard her clap her hands and an overhead light illuminated our surroundings. I gasped in awe. Forget the crappy state of the exterior. Inside, the place was decorated like something out of ‘Better Homes & Gardens’.
The carpet was pure white and covered the entirety of the floor. It felt soft and deep underfoot, a bit like walking on thick grass. A sofa sculpted in the shape of a mermaid occupied the centre of the room, its surface reflecting the light from a chandelier that glittered as if constructed of diamonds. Could that sofa be made of solid gold, or is it merely covered with gold leaf? Either way, it looks over-the-top, ostentatious, immensely expensive. In front of the sofa was an oval-shaped glass table, the top supported by a large black panther. Carved from marble? Who knew? One wall was dominated by an enormous open fireplace, the others by shelves containing thousands of old books. The curtains, which from the outside had looked drab and colourless, were a deep shade of red, interlaced with gold flecks and swirls. Behind the sofa was a curved staircase leading up to the second storey. I fantasised what her bedroom might look like, all bed, muted lighting and satin sheets.
“Close your mouth and take off your shirt.”
Again, the sound of Fiona’s voice jerked me back to reality. I guess I’d been gob-smacked by the splendour of her house. “My shirt? Why?”
“So I can rinse the bloodstains out.”
“Thanks, but no. It’ll be fine until I get home.”
“Don’t be silly.” She stepped closer and began undoing the buttons. Her presence brought with it an aroma that made my nostrils twitch. It was flowery and strong, but not something I recognised.
“What is that perfume you’re wearing?”
“It’s called ‘Charlie’. Do you like it?” Her hands had slid inside my shirt, and her fingers traced circles around my nipples. The feeling was sensual beyond belief, like she’d invaded my mind and begun pressing all my sensory neurones as once. I knew I should stop her, but somehow that no longer seemed important.
“It’s delightful.” I stood with my hands by my sides, letting her have her way. As she slid the garment off my shoulders and down my body, she peered into my eyes, leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips. My penis grew hard, and my mind exploded like a fireworks display on bonfire night.
Suddenly, I was in some sort of dungeon. I was naked and handcuffed to a wall, my arms and legs spread so that they formed the shape of an X. I glanced down. My cock was standing to attention, a drop of moisture glistening on its tip. There was no immediate sign of Fiona. What the fuck’s happening here?
Enjoy this? You'll love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
This time when I looked through the windscreen there was no mist. It had miraculously cleared as if it had been swept away by a strong wind. Yet everything seemed eerily still. A building loomed before us, displayed in the harsh glare of the headlights. It was a two-storey affair, dark and foreboding. It reminded me of something from ‘The Adams Family’. Not a light showed in any of the windows. The curtains were drab and drawn back from glass that merely reflected the car’s lights. A long, dilapidated veranda on which sat several canvas chairs without seats, a table with deep gouges in its edges and several shrivelled pot plants added to its derelict look.
“This...?” My voice sounded a little strange even to my ears. I turned my head, coughed and tried again. “This is your place?”
“Of course.” Fiona killed the lights and the engine, opened the door and slid out into the night. “Coming?”
I unlatched my door and exited the car. The air was cold, but there was no wind. “I didn’t know there were any houses as old as this out here.”
“Really? You should be more observant.”
A light came on at the edge of the veranda. One of those automatic security jobs that rich people used, I guessed. It bathed her in its soft glow and, for the first time I got to see what she was wearing.
Her skirt was blood red and rode up her thighs higher than anything I’d ever seen, even in this age of miniskirts. I was surprised it didn’t reveal her knickers. Her legs were slim and tapered and seemed to go on forever. “Lucky legs,” my father would have said. “Lucky they don’t snap off and slide up her bum.” A funny bloke, my old man, he took pride in the fact that he didn’t swear. He was full of witticisms, though, having one for almost every situation. I dragged my eyes from Fiona’s lower extremities and focussed on her blouse. It was short-sleeved, the most delicate blue imaginable, and the front was unbuttoned almost to her navel. Before I could topple headlong into the canyon that was her cleavage, she’d turned towards the veranda.
“Follow me,” she called back over her shoulder.
I stumbled after her, feeling a little like I’d been shanghaied into an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone’, but I could no more walk away than I could pilot a rocket to the moon. Fiona led me up a series of rickety steps, through a paint-flaked door attached by broken hinges and into a darkened room. I heard her clap her hands and an overhead light illuminated our surroundings. I gasped in awe. Forget the crappy state of the exterior. Inside, the place was decorated like something out of ‘Better Homes & Gardens’.
The carpet was pure white and covered the entirety of the floor. It felt soft and deep underfoot, a bit like walking on thick grass. A sofa sculpted in the shape of a mermaid occupied the centre of the room, its surface reflecting the light from a chandelier that glittered as if constructed of diamonds. Could that sofa be made of solid gold, or is it merely covered with gold leaf? Either way, it looks over-the-top, ostentatious, immensely expensive. In front of the sofa was an oval-shaped glass table, the top supported by a large black panther. Carved from marble? Who knew? One wall was dominated by an enormous open fireplace, the others by shelves containing thousands of old books. The curtains, which from the outside had looked drab and colourless, were a deep shade of red, interlaced with gold flecks and swirls. Behind the sofa was a curved staircase leading up to the second storey. I fantasised what her bedroom might look like, all bed, muted lighting and satin sheets.
“Close your mouth and take off your shirt.”
Again, the sound of Fiona’s voice jerked me back to reality. I guess I’d been gob-smacked by the splendour of her house. “My shirt? Why?”
“So I can rinse the bloodstains out.”
“Thanks, but no. It’ll be fine until I get home.”
“Don’t be silly.” She stepped closer and began undoing the buttons. Her presence brought with it an aroma that made my nostrils twitch. It was flowery and strong, but not something I recognised.
“What is that perfume you’re wearing?”
“It’s called ‘Charlie’. Do you like it?” Her hands had slid inside my shirt, and her fingers traced circles around my nipples. The feeling was sensual beyond belief, like she’d invaded my mind and begun pressing all my sensory neurones as once. I knew I should stop her, but somehow that no longer seemed important.
“It’s delightful.” I stood with my hands by my sides, letting her have her way. As she slid the garment off my shoulders and down my body, she peered into my eyes, leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips. My penis grew hard, and my mind exploded like a fireworks display on bonfire night.
Suddenly, I was in some sort of dungeon. I was naked and handcuffed to a wall, my arms and legs spread so that they formed the shape of an X. I glanced down. My cock was standing to attention, a drop of moisture glistening on its tip. There was no immediate sign of Fiona. What the fuck’s happening here?
Enjoy this? You'll love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
MY WICKED, WANTON LIFE
PART V
As if I’d conjured her up simply by thinking about her, Fiona stepped from the shadows. She was naked except for red shoes with the tallest, skinniest heels I’d ever seen. Her hands were on her hips, her legs slightly apart, her entire body displayed before me. My mouth was dry, and I licked my lips to moisten them. She copied my actions, her red tongue sliding across her thick, red lips. There was a wicked gleam in her big brown eyes, and her auburn hair gleamed with life and vitality. I ached to be free so that I could explore her body for real, rather than simply fantasise about it.
“How did I get here?” I tugged against the bonds securing me to the wall, but the bindings on my wrists and ankles refused to budge. “Why am I restrained like this?”
“So that I can get to know you better.” Her smile was big and broad, her mouth open wide enough to display perfect white teeth. She stepped forward, reached out and grasped my cock. Her fingers were soft and warm, her strokes tender, designed to enhance my arousal, to bring me to the point of release, only to ease off and let me regroup. I moaned and lapped up the attention. After several minutes, her actions grew more vigorous, pulling and tugging on my member so roughly I thought she meant to tear it off at the roots.
I arched my back and gritted my teeth, my nervous system caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. I’d had many hand jobs in the past--my current partner was particularly adroit at bringing me to a peak in this manner--but no one had shown this level of expertise. “Why are you doing this?” My breath rasped in my throat, and I struggled to breathe.
“Because I want you. I have since the moment I saw you sitting by the side of the road.” She continued tugging on my member with one hand while the other cupped my testicles. Ever so gently she squeezed them.
Oh, fuck! I sucked in a lungful of air. The feeling was beyond belief. Part of me wanted to blow my load. Another part didn’t want her ministrations to end--ever. “You didn’t have to bind me,” I managed to mutter.
“Oh, but it’s much more fun this way, don’t you think?” She stopped pumping my erection, raised my balls and traced a long, red fingernail down the length of my scrotum.
I took a deep breath and clenched my arse cheeks when the nail hovered around my anus. I guessed her intent and wasn’t sure I wanted her to continue. On the other hand, I was in no position to refuse. No one had ever done that to me before, so I held my breath and waited for her to take away my anal virginity with a finger fuck. After teasing me for several minutes, she finally licked her finger and inserted it into my arsehole. Even though I’d been expecting this, I almost jumped out of my skin. Again, I strained against my bonds, my cock growing more rigid each time her finger thrust inside me. It was strange sensation, a violation, but mind-blowing all the same.
Before I had time to regain my breath, she dropped to her knees. I watched, knowing instinctively what was coming next. She intended to suck me off. Oh please, yes! As if sensing my desire, she took a different approach. She extended her tongue and stroked it up and down my penis, paying particular attention to the head. All the while her eyes held mine. I wanted to touch her, caress her body, kiss her all over and ram my cock inside her, but the bindings holding me in place prevented all but minimal movement. I tossed my head from side to side and hoped I wasn’t losing my mind.
Just as I thought I could stand no more, she opened her mouth and filled it with my engorged organ. My mind exploded in another fireworks display, a cascade of exploding starbursts, spinning Catherine Wheels and sputtering sparklers. Those perfect teeth scraped against the sides of my cock, driving me close to the edge. I thrust with my hips and closed my eyes, happy to accommodate her in any way I could. Again and again and again I rammed her mouth, each time plunging deeper. She never gagged. She never pulled away. When I grew too tired to continue, she grabbed my arse and manipulated my actions with her hands.
Eventually, I came in her mouth, my entire body shuddering from head to toe. There were more fireworks, and sweat dripped from my upper body and onto her head. Had I not been manacled to the wall, I would have collapsed to the floor. I closed my eyes and sighed.
When I opened them again, I was standing, breathing heavily, on my back porch. Sweat ran down my face as if I’d just run a marathon in thirty degree heat.
Enjoy this? You'll love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
As if I’d conjured her up simply by thinking about her, Fiona stepped from the shadows. She was naked except for red shoes with the tallest, skinniest heels I’d ever seen. Her hands were on her hips, her legs slightly apart, her entire body displayed before me. My mouth was dry, and I licked my lips to moisten them. She copied my actions, her red tongue sliding across her thick, red lips. There was a wicked gleam in her big brown eyes, and her auburn hair gleamed with life and vitality. I ached to be free so that I could explore her body for real, rather than simply fantasise about it.
“How did I get here?” I tugged against the bonds securing me to the wall, but the bindings on my wrists and ankles refused to budge. “Why am I restrained like this?”
“So that I can get to know you better.” Her smile was big and broad, her mouth open wide enough to display perfect white teeth. She stepped forward, reached out and grasped my cock. Her fingers were soft and warm, her strokes tender, designed to enhance my arousal, to bring me to the point of release, only to ease off and let me regroup. I moaned and lapped up the attention. After several minutes, her actions grew more vigorous, pulling and tugging on my member so roughly I thought she meant to tear it off at the roots.
I arched my back and gritted my teeth, my nervous system caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. I’d had many hand jobs in the past--my current partner was particularly adroit at bringing me to a peak in this manner--but no one had shown this level of expertise. “Why are you doing this?” My breath rasped in my throat, and I struggled to breathe.
“Because I want you. I have since the moment I saw you sitting by the side of the road.” She continued tugging on my member with one hand while the other cupped my testicles. Ever so gently she squeezed them.
Oh, fuck! I sucked in a lungful of air. The feeling was beyond belief. Part of me wanted to blow my load. Another part didn’t want her ministrations to end--ever. “You didn’t have to bind me,” I managed to mutter.
“Oh, but it’s much more fun this way, don’t you think?” She stopped pumping my erection, raised my balls and traced a long, red fingernail down the length of my scrotum.
I took a deep breath and clenched my arse cheeks when the nail hovered around my anus. I guessed her intent and wasn’t sure I wanted her to continue. On the other hand, I was in no position to refuse. No one had ever done that to me before, so I held my breath and waited for her to take away my anal virginity with a finger fuck. After teasing me for several minutes, she finally licked her finger and inserted it into my arsehole. Even though I’d been expecting this, I almost jumped out of my skin. Again, I strained against my bonds, my cock growing more rigid each time her finger thrust inside me. It was strange sensation, a violation, but mind-blowing all the same.
Before I had time to regain my breath, she dropped to her knees. I watched, knowing instinctively what was coming next. She intended to suck me off. Oh please, yes! As if sensing my desire, she took a different approach. She extended her tongue and stroked it up and down my penis, paying particular attention to the head. All the while her eyes held mine. I wanted to touch her, caress her body, kiss her all over and ram my cock inside her, but the bindings holding me in place prevented all but minimal movement. I tossed my head from side to side and hoped I wasn’t losing my mind.
Just as I thought I could stand no more, she opened her mouth and filled it with my engorged organ. My mind exploded in another fireworks display, a cascade of exploding starbursts, spinning Catherine Wheels and sputtering sparklers. Those perfect teeth scraped against the sides of my cock, driving me close to the edge. I thrust with my hips and closed my eyes, happy to accommodate her in any way I could. Again and again and again I rammed her mouth, each time plunging deeper. She never gagged. She never pulled away. When I grew too tired to continue, she grabbed my arse and manipulated my actions with her hands.
Eventually, I came in her mouth, my entire body shuddering from head to toe. There were more fireworks, and sweat dripped from my upper body and onto her head. Had I not been manacled to the wall, I would have collapsed to the floor. I closed my eyes and sighed.
When I opened them again, I was standing, breathing heavily, on my back porch. Sweat ran down my face as if I’d just run a marathon in thirty degree heat.
Enjoy this? You'll love my new novel.
Broometime Serenade
