Chapter
One
I'm not sure where or when
my imagination turned kinky. I was a studious girl, and my parents pushed me to
get top marks through school. I wasn't exactly the most popular girl, being
kind of nerdy, and skinny, and wearing glasses. My hair was kind of muddy
brown, too. Because of this I had little time for the fixations of other young
girls; makeup, hair styling, fashion, and boys.
Well, boys had little
interest in me either so...
I spent a lot of time
reading, a ton of time reading. It was my favorite hobby, my favorite
entertainment. I found television to be stupid and mindless, and really enjoyed
a good book. I also found a lot of fascinating stuff on the internet. And that,
of course, was where I began to explore my tentative interest in sexuality.
As I got older, my body
remained slender, but filled out somewhat. I never became a barbie
doll, but my skin cleared up, my hair shifted into a darker chestnut brown, and
my breasts developed. They weren't large, but they were high and firm and very
round on my slender body. I had narrow hips, and long legs, and was still, to
be honest, a nerd.
I was still spending a lot
of time studying, working my way up to great marks so as to get into a good
university. I was pleased enough with my body to put a little more time into
nice clothes, though nothing really girlie, and I replaced my ugly glasses with
more fashionable, frameless ones.
But my interest in sex had
taken a turn for the dark side while I explored the internet. I became
fascinated with bondage and submission. It was, at first, the pictures I saw,
mostly drawings. They were so erotic, so exotic. The women s bodies were so
tightly, tautly drawn. They looked incredibly erotic in their helplessness, and
so I began to imagine myself like that, helplessly, tightly and erotically tied
or shackled, a prisoner to some cruel man.
It was my big fantasy, and
as I read stories, watched videos, saw pictures, I created mental images of
myself that I yearned to bring to life, but never did. I was always aware of my
personal dignity, of my reputation, and even when dating, was not about to
expose myself (so to speak) as a pervert who wanted to be tied up.
Even in university, I fell
in with a group of studious young people who were more into good marks than
partying, and their respect was important to me. Oh, I dated, and yes, I had
sex, and the sex was enjoyable, but it wasn't at all kinky or perverted. I was
too inhibited, and none of the men I had sex with not that there were a lot
of them suggested it on their own. I certainly wasn't going to suggest it!
But those kinds of
fantasies remained in my head, and were brought out every time I masturbated,
which wasn't nearly often enough, to be honest! My sexuality had become
stimulated and yet now that I was living in a room with other girls, it was
harder to stimulate my body in the same way! I had to take my opportunities
where I could..
Which was, in a way, why I
daringly masturbated during a family visit to my uncle Dave's house.
Uncle Dave was one of those
relatives that you're always a bit leery of. From the time I was a young
teenager I always felt there was something strange and dark about him. But his
house was always the most fascinating place to go. It was a huge old house,
like an eighteenth century urban mansion, with all manner of oddly shaped
rooms, halls and stairways that delighted the young mind.
He was always very polite,
very, very civilized in the way he spoke, the way he acted, the way he dressed.
But there was something about the way he looked at you, something about his
eyes that said he was seeing something you perhaps didn't want him to be
envisioning. I'm not sure at what age I started to get the idea Uncle Dave was
a pervert. It wasn't like there was any big, defining moment where he groped me
or exposed himself to me or anything of that nature.
Uncle Dave was far too
civilized for that sort of thing, too restrained, too delicate in a way, in his
habits and appearances. You couldn't imagine him losing control to the extent
he would start drooling and groping pretty girls. He always wore a suit, even
when it was obvious that he had not been out of doors that day and didn't
intend to. Again, the idea of Uncle Dave greeting us in a t-shirt and jeans
just was so silly as to be unimaginable.
But when I was a young
teenager I started getting leery of him, and thinking him creepy. I still
accompanied my father in visits to his house because our family was close. I
mean, they believed in all the uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews and
cousins seeing each other on a regular basis on being a family, you know.
There was no way I was going to be able to protest that I didn't want to see
Uncle Dave without being able to give a legitimate reason and I couldn't do
that.
Besides, I didn't really mind.
His house was so exotic and impressive. It was one of those huge, rambling
piles of stone the rich once built on the edges of small cities which, as the
cities grew around them, came to be just about downtown. Most were demolished,
while some were divided up into a half dozen or more apartments. But not Uncle
Dave/s It had a large library which was far more beautiful than the one at
school, for one thing. And I was a big bookworm. I'd take the first opportunity
to part with them and go to the library, with its huge, built-in shelves
stretching up to the shadowy ceiling twenty five feet overhead, its antique
lamps spouting from the walls, its feeling, its smell of ancient treasures.
As I got older, though, and
more confident in myself, that feeling that he was somehow creepy
acted almost as a sort of
incitement to tease him, to provoke him though without, of course, doing it
in an obvious way which would draw a reprimand. I don't mean to say I was
trying to seduce him by any means. It was more of a teasing thing, in part
because I thought he was a bit of a creep or pervert, and in part because I
felt completely safe in doing so. I mean, he might be weird but he was still my
uncle, right?
I would do things like drop
something and then bend over with my butt to him, or kind of yawn and stretch
and arch my back so my chest would stick out at him. And, of course, he would
pretend to take no notice such things, though I was pretty sure he did. This
kind of excited me, in a way. Teenage girls liked the idea that they were able
to arouse grown men, even if they had no intention whatsoever of actually doing
anything with those men.
I didn't see that much of
Uncle Dave when I went off to university. But every summer and Christmas, when
I returned home, we would travel from my family's home about an hour south of
the city into town to visit him all alone in that monstrously big house.
It was only three stories
plus an attic, but it was incredibly high for all of that, very bulky. It had
what seemed like dozens of rooms, not counting the attic, which I had never
seen. It also had a swimming pool in the basement which was sort of odd. The floor and walls were covered in
tiny, inch wide tiles in different shades of blue, most of them dark. The pool
itself was so dark blue as to be almost black. It was a square hole in the
floor about fifty feet long and half that wide. There was a short, but wide
chandelier over the center of it, the roof in this basement being quite a bit
higher than in most.
During one of those visits, I'm not sure what
exactly possessed me, other than a feeling of daring, but I went wandering
while my parents chatted with him after having stayed a dutiful time and
found my way down in the basement. It was the Christmas holidays, and things
were freezing and icy cold outside. Yet the basement, once I pushed back the
doors with their stained glass windows was warm and humid, and the chandelier
gave the room an eerie sort of feeling of age and sophistication.
I closed the doors, turned
the old brass key in the lock, stripped, bound my hair up in a bun, and
carefully slipped into the water. I swam carefully, doing the breast stroke,
across the water, and felt deliciously sensual as the water caressed my bare
skin. My nipples prickled and tingled, becoming instantly erect, and I felt
that familiar moist throbbing heat between the legs.
I swam back again, and
climbed out, water trickling down my body. One entire wall was taken up by a
kind of patterned mirror. That is, it was mirrored tiles with a kind of overlay
of flowers across them. I padded naked across the tiled floor in front of it
and into the side room where there was a shower for washing off the chlorinated
water, and towels.
The towels were thick and
soft and sat on a warming rack. I pulled one off and wrapped it around myself,
feeling the luxurious softness as I rubbed lightly against my skin, against my
breasts, and my eyes fell on the side of the warming rack.
The warming rack was black,
made up of thin, horizontal metal tubes which criss-crossed
between the two thick vertical supports. The vertical supports ended in narrow,
rounded caps of carved metal, and of course, the whole thing was warm though
not hot to the touch. More relevant was that I was feeling daring, feeling
sensual, and feeling aroused. And the vertical tubes, the caps, well, they were
just about the perfect height and thickness given I liked to be thickly
penetrated for a little quick and daring masturbation.
Sounds insane, I know. But
I can masturbate in less than sixty seconds when I'm in the mood. With me,
there is big masturbation, and little masturbation. The big masturbation
requires deep penetration by something thick, and time to work myself up.
Little masturbation can happen anywhere
and very quickly. I can rub
myself, gently, fully clothed against a
chair I'm sitting on and come within a minute sometimes. And since that's little
masturbation, I can even do it in a room full of people and hide the orgasm.
The orgasm I get from big
masturbation can't be hidden, as it's overwhelming and I can get very
expressive. But I had some privacy, and anyway, I figured that this would be a
sort of in between' masturbation. I grasped the topmost horizontal bar, rose
onto my toes, and eased my pussy slowly down onto the top of the vertical
support post, gasping excitedly as the top pushed up against my pussy lips and
spread them apart.
I felt the hard warmth of
that thing slide up into the mouth of my sex, and groaned aloud as it slowly
forced me open. I was quite wet inside, wetter than I had expected, and gloried
in the thickness of the pipe as it slowly pushed up into my belly. I sank down,
gasping softly as it slid up inside me, further and further, so so hard so
thick. It ached, but in a delicious way which quickly seized my consciousness
and drew me deeper into the heat.
I adored the feel of that
hard, warm thing up inside me, groaning and gasping as I started to raise and
lower myself. But always, I slid lower, wanting, needing, craving the deepest
possible penetration. I was able to slide down even further, and then further,
even though the aching deep inside me grew worse. And then I reached the goal I
had been aiming at. My pussy came down so far that the top of my pussy ground
against the topmost horizontal bar, kind of jamming there up against my clit.
It ached, too, in an
entirely different way, a way which set my mind flaming. I stood there, legs
apart, grinding my clit against that bar, grinding and twisting my body around
the vertical post, breathless with excitement as my hands alternately groped my
breasts, and gripped the top bar to pull myself against it.
I forced myself to pull
back, to rise up on my toes, feeling that now-slick round metal tube easing
down out of my belly as far as I could, drawing my legs together, rising onto
my toes. Then I sank down in one incredible, glorious impaling motion, slowly
sliding down as little sunbursts like mini-orgasms flooded through my system.
By the time I got so deep my clit was jammed against the top bar I was ready to
explode. I grasped the bar and ground myself furiously against it, feeling that
immoveable hardness deep in my belly.
The orgasm was not small.
It seized control of me, and my fingers whitened around the top bar as I ground
myself feverishly against it, head back, eyes closed, grunting and crying out
again and again as the orgasm tore through my mind and body like a flash flood.