Morton's Island Ch. 01

Her thighs parted further, drawing his hand higher and higher.

It was inevitable. With a thrill that cast everything that had gone before in pale shadow, Morton's forefinger grazed the underside of Elektra's pussy lips. They were moist.

A shudder went through her body.

"Oooh!"

Morton removed his finger hastily.

"No! No! Please....I love being teased."

Gradually the focus of his activity shifted from Elektra's nipples to her pussy lips. He stroked their tips, up and down, then, as she moaned softly and opened her thighs yet wider, began to spread them out and massage their inner walls gently.

"Ooh! Oooh! That's good. You're good. You've done this before, haven't you. OhYes! Keep on doing that."

Whether she was serious or not, Morton could not tell. He knew only that something that had long laid dormant within him was welling up quite alarmingly.

On stage the scene changed. The Slaves' nipples now stood out, dark brown and hard, at the center of small, soft white breasts. The Mistresses used the chains to drive the Slaves to their knees. To Morton's astonishment, the Mistresses spread their legs wide apart, the Slaves' heads were raised, their tongues came out ---- began to lick between their Mistresses' legs!

Oh my dearie goodness me!

"Do that for me," his ears picked up. "I sooooo love being tongued."

When he looked, the skirt was gone, Elektra had hooked her left leg over the back of the sofa. The right leg trailed, knee raised. His eyes feasted on the bright pink rose.

Carefully, Morton edged himself into position. The sight of her, the aroma of her drove him wild. Resisting an impulse to bury his entire face in her, he began to explore those gorgeous petals with the tip of his tongue.

"Oh! That is good. That is sooooo good."

Elektra's groin assisted.

"Up and down," she'd say, then, "Round and round...."

Moisture emanated from somewhere and entered Morton's mouth.

"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop!"

She began to moan, then to groan, the motion of her loins became more pronounced, wilder, then wild.

"Up, up, up...Now. My clit. Ooooooooh! Aaaaaaah! More, more, press, press, press, press.......... Aaaaaaaaaarrrrgggggggghhhhhhh!"

Her thighs closed around Morton's head like a clamp, holding him tight, his mouth buried in her.

For a long moment, they writhed together, so joined. Then release. Elektra fell back on the sofa, her legs loosening their grip. Morton withdrew, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slouched back on the sofa.

Something had happened that was so far outside his experience it was surreal. He could not believe it. It had not happened. It could not possibly have happened. And anyway, what had happened?

His hand found the bottle. He poured, and slurped down the finest cognac money can buy as though it were soda pop.

Down on the stage Slaves were still licking at Mistresses' pussies, urged on by impatient hands to ever more vigorous action.

Through the surreal medley of confused feelings that tortured his brain, Morton Henry heard her voice.

"Morton, you surprise. That... was just superb. You've done that before, haven't you."

Of course, Morton had not. He did not know what to say. His brain was telling him something, but what this was registered only when the import of Elektra's utterance struck home.

"Now it's my turn to do something extra nice for you," she said, in a seductive tone which seemed to carry also the hint of challenge.

Who knows what other parts of his anatomy were telling him. Morton's brain had decided that it had taken as much as it could take. It was exhausted, with utter bewilderment at this new canvass that suddenly, with no warning, had unfolded before it. The lobes of his brain where emotion is registered and enjoyed were underused. This night, they had already been strained beyond capacity.

Unsteadily, Morton struggled to his feet.

"What?" Elektra said, looking up.

"Please don't take this personally..." Morton began. At least his frontal cortex was functioning.

"What?"

"You are a fantastic woman. It's not you, it's me...."

"But... but? We're just getting started!"

Morton's ear was deaf. He lumbered up the slope of the booth, threw open the door, exited, closed it behind him and leaned on it, breathing deeply. His only thought was to get out of there, out of this Club, where hidden pleasures, treasures, had driven him almost to madness.

But yet, there was his host. He could not leave without an adieu. It would not be polite.

Stumbling along the corridor to the next room, Morton knocked gently on the door. No response. He knocked again. Still no response. He tried the handle and the door gave way. About to give vent to an utterance, what met his eyes arrested all thoughts of speech. There were three persons in the booth. None had noticed the opening of the door or Morton's presence. One naked girl stood on the sofa, her groin placed strategically over the Count's mouth. Whatever he was doing for her, she appeared to be in seventh heaven. Her eyes were closed and her hands pressed her breasts against her ribcage. She moaned softly. The second naked girl knelt on the sofa. Morton could see only the curve of her rump --- and a slender back that rose and fell, rose and fell ........

Morton retreated as silently and with as much dignity as he could command. Looking about him as though escaping from a crime scene, he made his way on tip-toe along the corridor, down the stairs and out the door. He did not wait to collect his coat.

Chapter 2

Emily -- her trade name, of course -- had not expected to be amongst the chosen. The ad sounded odd, and the brief phone conversation even odder. But for that money, it was worth a risk. Anyway, what could happen to her at one of the most venerable and reputable hotels in all of London? Especially when the party occupied not a mere room, but one of the top-floor suites. No Tom, Dick or Harry, then. Whoever this person was, he had format.

Apprised of the name, the clerk behaved deferentially toward her. Another good sign. Of course, he would probably anyway. Emily was a female of stunning looks and regal bearing. She ascended in the lift to the top floor, sought the door marked 'Marlborough Suite', and knocked firmly......

What had happened? When Count Esterhazy took Morton to Club Venus he set in motion a sequence of events he could scarcely have foreseen. Had he done so, he would immediately have acceded to Morton's request, sequestered him in an office with a fast, secure internet link and left him in peace. Or, better yet, he would have conveyed Morton personally in his own private jet back to London. But clairvoyant the Count was not, and no other could reasonably have been expected to predict the consequences of his actions.

Esterhazy had been told of course that Morton had left the Club that night very early in the proceedings, and in a state of considerable agitation and disarray. Elektra could shed no light on this. They were doing great, she said, until he suddenly up and left. No, she couldn't understand it. No reflection on her, she'd said, indignantly. The guy was nuts.

But even this could scarcely have warned Esterhazy that the very eventuality Morton's admission to Club Venus was supposed to pre-empt came almost immediately to pass. Esterhazy watched in bewilderment as Morton's entire holdings in the Eastern European market were sold. Cleverly, of course, so other investors would realize and react only too late. When they did react -- when the stock began to plummet -- Morton was out, his funds sequestered elsewhere.

Esterhazy could not know that Morton had likewise withdrawn his financial support from all other markets and the Count would have been utterly mystified had he been told why Morton chose at that point in his life to consolidate his assets in readily convertible bonds, keeping a rather large chunk as ready cash in hand.

Russell himself was given no reason for the termination of their long 'collaboration', as Morton had referred to it. But he complained not. The severance amount was so generous, he would never need to work again. The flat in south London was vacated, Russell re-located to a Villa overlooking Lake Geneva.

And Morton? He simply disappeared.

It is commonly believed that the worldwide recession of 2008 was caused by irresponsible behavior on the part of banks and other financial institutions. How could anyone know the real reason --- the sudden withdrawal of Morton's holdings in companies around the world, and the 'knock-on' selling this occasioned? No-one knew who Morton was. And who would believe a single individual could hold so much power? None of the eminent economists and analysts who struggled to make sense of the catastrophe that had struck the financial community across the globe gave it a single thought.

Maybe if Morton had noticed, he would have cared. But he was himself unaware that a sudden change in the nature of his 'art' would reduce the great financial houses of the world to mayhem. One could not blame Morton, and in fact, if any one person was to blame it was the good Count.

Esterhazy's introduction of Morton to Club Venus brought about an epiphany. In particular, Morton's encounter with the delectable Elektra awoke in him forces of such immense power and intensity, they could not be ignored. And since Morton did not do anything by halves, he had taken a decision.

"Gentleman of means seeks counsel."

He'd worried for days over the wording. Not too overt, not too flabby. Open to interpretation. But some there would be who would interpret correctly. Emily was one. Of course, she was not to know that she was one of ten Morton had chosen from a long list. Seven had come and gone. The position of 'counselor' was still open.......

The door to the Marlborough Suite eased ajar and Emily found herself confronted by a man dressed in a bathrobe. It was a large, exceedingly elegant bathrobe on which was embossed the Marlborough Crest itself. But, when all was said and done, it was a bathrobe. The man inside it was of medium height, eye to eye with Emily, thanks to her heels. He was neither handsome nor ugly, his hair, neither long nor short, was red, his figure, insofar as one could detect, was neither stout nor skinny. His feet were bare, neither large nor small. In short, an unassuming figure. One who in a crowd would be utterly invisible.

Emily thought for a fleeting moment that this may be not the gentleman she had agreed to meet, but his 'man'. This thought evaporated when a hand was extended in her direction.

"Emily, I presume," Morton said, then, baldly, "Morton."

A few moments later, they were seated across from each other in a drawing room the like of which exists, very probably, only in the exclusive hotels of pre-World War I Europe. The furnishings were a tad on the shabby side, which is unsurprising. Their hey-day lay at least a century in the past.

"May I offer you a drink, perhaps?" Morton had asked, politely, standing beside a well stocked cabinet.

Emily opted for mineral water.

Morton poured himself a healthy portion of cognac. It had become his drink, and nothing other than 'Louis XIII' would do.

"Now Emily," Morton began, "I want you to know first that I am a very direct person. So you must be also. I do not want platitudes and I assure you I can detect insincerity at five hundred paces. So please be honest with me."

Emily nodded. In her shoulder bag was an envelope that, at Morton's invitation, she had taken from the table beside her chair. This, presumably, was her 'consultation fee'. She had half a mind to say,

'I don't actually like men who are direct, so I think, if you don't mind, I'll leave right now',

and head for the door with her loot.

But this she did not. She was not sure why. Perhaps because she was conscientious. She had guessed, as it turned out correctly, what was meant by 'counsel', and believed that a contract entered into should be fulfilled. So instead of leaving, she said, in keeping with his admonition to be direct,

"Please tell me what you expect from me."

Her voice was neither deep nor shrill. In fact, it was rather pleasant, and modestly laced with an accent she had acquired at finishing school and had never managed to shake off.

"It's quite simple, really," Morton replied. "To set you in the picture, I'm 39 years old, I've led a reclusive life and have only recently become aware of certain of life's pleasures. I wish now to devote myself entirely to the pursuit of these pleasures. I do mean entirely," Morton added, with emphasis.

'Weirdo', Emily was thinking, but she held her peace.

"Now here's where I run into a small problem. First, I have no experience. Second, though I have conducted very thorough researches over the internet, I am convinced that I will not be able to achieve my goals without, as it were, hands on assistance from one who is sympathetic to my situation and conversant with the pleasures I wish to pursue."

'Definitely, real weird,' Emily was thinking. But she held her peace.

"Now, as I said, when I pursue a goal my devotion to this is total. I am either totally immersed in something, or not immersed at all, if you understand. So I seek someone --- of the female persuasion, naturally --- who will assist me in the total immersion of my being in the pleasures I wish to pursue."

Morton paused and gazed at Emily quizzically. Clearly, he was expecting an utterance. Clearing her throat, she said,

"I presume you are referring to ... er... sexual pleasures?"

"Exactly," Morton replied. "For the foreseeable future, I wish to exploit to the full my potential for enjoying the pleasures of sex."

Emily thought for a moment before saying,

"I presume you're referring to what people call 'casual sex'?"

Morton's answer took her by surprise. She thought everyone knew what was meant by 'casual sex'. 'No strings attached' etc. It had never occurred to her that the term could be interpreted differently.

"Oh No!" Morton said, with emphasis. "Certainly not. Constant, not casual. I do not do things casually."

"Constant?" Emily was confused.

"Indeed! Constant. I shall eat, sleep but otherwise spend all my time enjoying the pleasures that over all these years I have not enjoyed."

"You mean, sort of 'catch up'?" Emily said, tentatively.

"If you want to put it that way," Morton replied. "I do not really think that way because I have enjoyed very much the life I have lived to date. I do not regret it and I do not feel I have been in any sense deprived. As fortune would have it, the pleasures of sex have recently been revealed to me and I have made the decision that the next segment of my life will be devoted solely to exploiting these pleasures to the fullest extent I am able. It's as simple as that."

Since Emily could think of nothing to say, she said nothing. Eyeing her, Morton said,

"Now the question for you is this. Do you think you are the right person to help me achieve my fullest potential? If you do not, then we can part amicably right now. If you do, then we can proceed."

Emily gulped internally. 'Weirdo' just did not cut it.

"It's not quite clear to me," she said at length, "what my role would be."

"To make it simple," Morton replied, "your role is supervision --- of my personal development. I have certain goals and you will help me attain them."

"Goals?"

"Yes."

"What goals?"

"Goals that foster my development as a sexual being. I'll be blunt with you. At this point in time I cannot pursue my aims because of certain shall we say anatomical deficiencies."

'OhMiGod', Emily said to herself. But she hung in there.

"Could you be more explicit?"

"Certainly. However, if we are to proceed beyond this point, I have a request."

"Please," Emily said.

"As you've noted, I am wearing a bathrobe. You may have surmised that this is all I am wearing, and if so you would be right. If we are to proceed, it should be on a level of equality."

"You mean...?"

"Yes," Morton said. "I will remove my bathrobe, and you...."

"I see what you mean," Emily said. Then,

"Do you want me to strip here, in front of you? Or is it ok..."

"As you please. This is a large suite. Here, or wherever. If this makes you uncomfortable, you are under no obligation. You are, of course, free to leave whenever you wish."

Emily gave the matter a few seconds' thought. Many were the men who had seen her naked. What difference did one more make, even if he was an obvious lunatic? Only once, however, had she actually stripped overtly in front of a man. That was in her final year at finishing school. A bet. There was a boys' boarding school nearby and it became known amongst the girls at her school that the seniors had become tired of pursuing local girls and wanted a bit of class. A stripping contest had been proposed. Strictly secret. Ten guys, each with a vote. Five girls had entered. Emily had won.

She had not really understood the reason, which was very probably her own innocence versus her competitors' experience. Whereas the other girls engaged in exaggerated gyrations and swirled their garments about their heads, throwing them into the rows of youths, she had simply stood straight up and slowly, very slowly removed her clothes. One by one. Just as she might have done when alone, but with much greater deliberation. When the other girls were naked she was still easing off her stockings, unrolling them carefully and stowing them neatly on a chair behind her before proceeding.

This she now repeated in front of Morton. There was not much to take off. Her dress she unzipped and allowed to slide off her shoulders onto the floor. Stepping aside, she scooped up the garment with one arm, folded it neatly and placed it on the table by her chair. Next were her strap-ons, which came off as easily as they slid on. Placing a foot on the chair she'd vacated, she rolled down one stocking, stepped out of it, then unrolled and folded it. The second stocking followed in symmetrical fashion. Casually, she unhooked her bra, slid this half-off and stood for a moment looking at it, something she did subconsciously, but which of course created a heightened sense of anticipation in whoever was looking on. Resting the rim of her bra on her nipples for several seconds, she allowed it to slip down, revealing breasts that were neither small nor large, but were firm, succulent, vibrant, supremely natural. The act of stripping aroused her, so her nipples had stiffened as she progressed and the areola's surrounding them had grown puffy. As the bra slid down her arms, her fingers brushed briefly across her nipples, drawing attention to them and to the suppleness of her breasts as they swung slightly to one side, then the other, before they settled.

The briefest of panties slid down her legs. She stepped out of them, folded them and completed the pile on the table. She stood upright, hands by her sides, her mound of Venus, naked of hair and lightly oiled so it gleamed in the muted light in the room, slightly to the fore. Then, the final act, she pulled loose the tie that kept her hair up. Shaking her head slightly, she allowed her hair to fall down her back, a long cascade of blonde. Her feet were slim with long, lightly painted toe-nails, her legs were slender, thighs muscled in the right places, her pelvis protruded just enough to draw attention to a slender waist and flat stomach, her breasts swung firm, her shoulders were wide -- and everything was milk white.

Naked before him, Emily eyed Morton seductively. Unsurprisingly, she expected praise, at least a sign of appreciation. She was not a vain woman but she knew she had a body 'to die for'. Morton's reaction was unsettling. He studied her carefully, up and down, down and up, making no attempt at disguise. He had discarded his bathrobe, revealing a figure that was at best in need of toning up, and a penis that showed little sign of life. Making eye contact, finally, he said,