Supernatural Ch. 03byTonyDowse©
This account concerns George, an altogether reasonable man. Reasonably attractive to women, with a reasonably well-paid job in a reasonably profitable, medium sized company. Having been both married and divorced he had spent the previous few years enjoying, to greater and lesser extents, the company and the sharing of beds with upwards of half a dozen similarly inclined young women. He explained that in the months immediately before his recounting this story to me he had been seeing just one of them, a woman by the name of Jean.
It seems that the relationship had proved to be rather different to the previous, mutually playful liaisons, and George had sensed the potential for it to develop into something deeper. At first that idea had made him somewhat nervous, the last thing he needed was another failed marriage, but then he realised that the idea of hopefully spending whatever there was left of his life with her actually had a great deal going for it.
She was intelligent, attractive, with a great sense of humour. Their political and ethical leanings were just a little out of sync, enough to provide ongoing challenging discussions, without being so far apart they inevitably turned into rows. Her work was as equally challenging and demanding as his, but as they had proved on a couple of occasions they were both able to arrange things so they could occasionally enjoy a long weekend together. And, like him, she owned her own apartment, and its value was within a just a few thousand of what he expected he would get for his.
Although the first flush of pure, unadulterated passion had cooled down just a little, George admitted that their sex-life was, by any normal standard, fantastic - but, he had recently detected what he thought might in time turn out to be a problem. On several occasions he'd found that their love-making seemed to be verging on the brink of turning into something of a wrestling match. His experience with women had given him a confidence as to his techniques and far from ever getting any hints of any one of them being disappointed or dissatisfied he had on several occasions received grateful praise. So when Jean began less than subtly resisting one or other of his approaches and gave the impression she wished to take over the lead role he found that having his masculinity threatened in that way had been rather unnerving.
George was confused, and not a little despondent, neither understanding what had been going on on those occasions, nor knowing how to bring the matter into their general conversation so that whatever was behind Jean's actions could be discussed and resolved.
And it was with those things still loudly playing on his mind that George set out one Saturday afternoon to find an appropriate present for her upcoming birthday. Although he didn't know exactly what he wanted he thought he knew the kind of thing she would like. Her apartment was decorated with many unusual objects that reflected her eclectic tastes and George felt sure he would be able to find something along those lines in one of the many antique bric-a-brac shops that seemed to have spawned by the dozen in recent years.
But a few hours later, having browsed through at least half a dozen shops, and seen several hundred objects, he wasn't feeling quite as confident. Most of the things he'd seen had been either; too big, too grotesque, too expensive, or simply inappropriate for Jean's taste.
His wanderings had taken him into a part of the city he hardly knew and as by then he was feeling in need of either a large cup of hot, strong coffee, or a stiff drink, he was actually looking for somewhere that offered either, when he stumbled across one more shop. Its small display window was actually facing onto what appeared to be nothing more than a heavily littered service lane, and its entry door was angled so sharply that in hindsight George was amazed that he'd even noticed it. 'Last one, then a drink, then home.' he said to himself as he tried the door, and was actually surprised to feel it opening.
Inside it looked like any other of the shops he'd already visited, larger than he'd expected it to be, but its space just as cluttered with furniture and objects, most of which looked remarkably like many of the things he'd already seen. At first he'd thought there was nobody in attendance, that he'd caught the proprietor at an awkward moment and made a point of making a little more noise than he otherwise might have done. But after a few minutes browsing and intermittent coughing he noticed a movement in the far back corner of the shop, and when he turned to look in that direction, found himself face to face with what he described as - 'The most ethereally beautiful woman I've ever seen!'
When he described her George drifted off into almost flowerily poetic language from which I had to distil what I thought were the essential components, and as best as I could tell from his description of her looks and dress she didn't fit neatly into any particular ethnic grouping or nationality. She was tall, with jet black hair that was smoothed up and over the crown of her head, then held tight before being allowed to splay across the top of her back. Her face had a pale coffee coloured complexion and was dominated by a pair of large, luminously dark black eyes, above which were narrow and almost dramatically arched eyebrows and below a somewhat prominent nose that was nevertheless both straight and slender.
She was wearing a virtually all-enveloping gown of what appeared to be heavily embroidered, ochre coloured silk, with complex patterning that had been picked out in brilliant shades of green and turquoise.
Perhaps the strangest part of his description was that George said that although the gown covered her from neck to ankle and gave not the slightest hint of whatever shapely curves there might be beneath it, he still somehow knew they would be mouth-wateringly breathtaking.
'Good afternoon, may I offer you refreshment, perhaps a coffee?' she said in a warm, lightly accented voice.
'Oh, well thank-you, a coffee would be a life saver.' George stammered in reply.
'Please continue browsing while I make it, I will only be a few minutes.' The women said before disappearing through some curtains at the rear of the shop.
Apart from anything else, having been offered what he'd already decided he needed George could hardly turn around and leave, but even if he hadn't been offered anything he knew he'd have stayed on in that shop, if only for another chance to take a second look at that phenomenal beauty. So, trying to push to the back of his mind both the image of her face and the impression he'd received of the body beneath it and concentrate on the reason for his being there, George slowly moved around amongst the pieces on display.
He still hadn't seen anything that caught his attention when a few minutes later the woman returned with a tray carrying two small cups and a large, silver coffee-pot. 'Come sit down.' she said, indicating a small, ornately decorated table at the rear of the shop.
Having sat opposite her George tentatively sipped the steaming black coffee, it was thick and strong and almost stickily sweet, but the flavour was unlike any coffee he'd previously tasted. 'Turkish?' he asked politely.
'No, Persian, but there are similarities with many coffees now coming from that region. Do you like it?'
'Oh yes, very much. And it's just what I needed. Thank you again.' George replied before draining his cup and gratefully accepting her offer of more.
'So, may I ask just exactly what are you seeking?' the woman asked in a low, softly lilting voice.
'I wish I knew, it's a present for a lady friend, for her birthday.' George answered.
Then, he said, she gave him a long, searching look, her coal-black eyes holding his in an unblinking gaze for what seemed like a momentary eternity. Finally she said. 'Aah - perhaps this might help us find something appropriate.' and reached behind herself for a deeply polished walnut wood box that had been on the shelf of one of the many cabinets against the back wall.
Having unfastened the lid and folded down the side nearest to her she carefully lifted out what appeared to be a large, ostrich sized egg that rested on a stand made from the same timber as the box that had held it. But unlike the normal opaquely crazed surface that such an egg would have this one had an almost opalescent appearance and as he focussed on it more closely George thought he could even see tiny iridescent flashes of colour being reflected up through it.
'Let us see what this will tell us, but first, a little more coffee?'
George gratefully accepted another refill of the deliciously strong brew, then the woman cleared everything but his cup and the odd looking egg off the table-top. 'Now, just place your fingertips lightly against it.' she said as she reached for his hand and guided it towards the egg.
George said he had no idea why he did as she asked; in his still logical brain he already knew he'd been suckered, the woman's hospitality had been merely softening him up for this stage of the scam that she no doubt hoped would end up with him leaving with some vastly over-priced piece of junk. But although that thought was there in his mind there also seemed to be another level of it at work, a level where what she said made some sort of sense, made some normally unused connections in much older and deeper parts of his brain.
He remembered her eyes; sensing they were staring even more deeply into his, remembered feeling the amazingly soft warmth of her hand as she touched his fingers, then the cool, yet somehow burning surface of the egg, and the sudden brightening of the flashes of colour he could see inside it - then everything went, as he described it, 'a little fuzzy.'
He said he felt as though the woman was somehow 'reading' him; reading his thoughts, his memories, even what it was that moved and motivated him.
Then, some time later he realised that the furniture and bric-a-brac that had previously surrounded him had vanished, in fact the entire shop had. He found himself standing in the centre of what at first glance seemed to be some sort of bath-house; mosaic tiled walls and floor, a domed ceiling above and ahead of him an apparently marble archway beyond which he could see nothing but heavy shadow. And adding to the impression the place was bath-house was the fact that he was standing there quite unashamedly naked.
The only reassuring aspect of the inexplicable scenario was that the beautiful woman from the shop was still with him. But even she had changed, at least what she was wearing had; gone was the heavily embroidered silk gown, in its place was a much simpler white cotton one which, although far from transparent, gave him an even stronger impression of the shape of the unbelievably desirable body beneath it. He was about to ask what on earth was happening but she lifted her hand and lightly pressed her finger to his lips, at the same time urging him gently backwards with her other hand until he felt himself pushing against something softly unyielding.
'Be patient, all will become clear.' she said before turning and taking a box from a recess in the wall beside him. Setting it down on the floor at his feet he watched as she opened it and took out what looked like nothing more than a pair of lightly padded manacles. 'Patience and trust.' she said as took his wrist and slipped one end of one of the manacles around it, then did the same with the other wrist.
Bemused helplessness seemed to have taken over all his normal resistance and he felt her lifting each compliantly unyielding arm in turn and fixing the manacles to something in the wall behind him, then kneeling to do the same thing with his ankles, spreading his legs well apart before also securing them to the wall. 'Now we can begin.' she said as she edged herself closer and slid her hands slowly up the inside of his legs.
Although the feel of her fingers was caressingly soft his body's initial reaction was one of apprehensive trepidation and he felt his still flaccid penis shrink defensively smaller. But when gentle finger-tips began stroking and fondling both it and his limply hanging balls his reactions shifted into a more normal sexual response and he felt additional blood flowing to meet the demands of his quickly rising erection. He looked down to find her darkly luminous eyes looking up at him. 'Impressive!' she said, glancing down at his still rising member. 'You can be justifiably proud of the way you have been endowed, and I'm sure your woman appreciates it too. So perhaps it's just a question of your attitude as to what you do with it.' she added after a momentary pause.
Even if he had had known just how to verbally respond to the criticism that the assertion implied, both the skilfully insistent way she was arousing him and the hopeful anticipation of what unknowable delights she might still have to give him had made him so breathlessly excited he was quite unable to speak. So he ignored what she'd said and simply gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sensations coursing through his body.
But then before doing any more to him she reached to one side and he saw she was holding what appeared to be a narrow length of silk. Quickly creating a loop in one end she slid that forward over his cock, slipping it under and around both it and his balls, tightening it and then firmly winding the rest of the silk around and around the base of the shaft before finally securing it.
Having checked the tightness of the binding the woman continued doing what she had been before, she was obviously in no hurry, and from the smiling upward glances she occasionally gave him, seemed to be deriving some personal pleasure from what she was doing for him. Her soft hands and gently insistent fingers continued caressing and stimulating him until she was finally satisfied that he was fully engorged, then, curling the fingers of one hand under the tightening sac of his balls, she used the other to press his stiffly rearing cock downwards, and, having moistened her lips, she leaned forward and, exquisitely slowly, took him deep into her mouth.
It felt as though each and every one of the nerve endings down the length of his rigidly swollen cock were firing simultaneously, blanking out any other sensations in his brain and, as every single muscle in his body tightened in response his eyes clamped shut.
Even though he knew it was impossible, because he could still feel the exquisite sensations her mouth and tongue continued giving his straining cock, it seemed that he could still hear the woman's voice speaking to him. He could tell from her tone that what she had to say to him was important, something he needed to learn, so although he continued to be wracked by the exquisite pleasures she was giving him, he did his best to concentrate on her words.
'In the time and place I come from the society was very different from yours; there it was the women who held most of the decision-making power. All people respected the ancient wisdom that had accrued to women and recognised that although their fertility was the essence of its source that had been augmented and greatly expanded by what they had learned down through ages as those responsible for bringing up the children.
Through their role as carers and nurturers of the coming generations the women had long previously learned both the need for, and the rewards to be gained from both sharing and giving. And many customs involved the exchange of gifts; perhaps of special delicacies or small objects that had been lovingly crafted. These attitudes pervaded all the village's activities, including the individuals' private lives. So the initiation of sexual activity and what actually went on between them was just as much the woman's role as it was the man's.
But of course the power of the phallus was as equally well understood as the woman's fertility and in the village's worshipful rituals it often took its rightful, central place. In fact it was the custom, at the mid-winter solstice, to allow the young maidens to select a youth who, during the coming year, would represent the embodiment of the phallic deity. Once chosen he was bathed, oiled and feasted, before being carried to the hut that was the symbolic abode of the phallus god. Then for the first three months his only role was to deflower each of the maidens whose blood had begun to flow, each of whom was allotted a certain number of days during which her function was to seek to ensure she became impregnated with his seed.
When that time was over the bearer of the phallus could roam about the village and choose from all the other females who were still of child-bearing age. Then, a month before the next mid-winter ritual another great feast was given, after which the youth was confined to the hut and from then on was provided with nothing but a little water and for the next two or three weeks the mature women used all their wily skills to arouse and empty his phallus as frequently as possible. All knew he would die before it was time to select the next youth and great honour was bestowed on the woman who was able to stimulate his final ejaculation.
The death and re-birth of a god is a common enough aspect of numerous faiths, what made ours different was that the god was not only both chosen, and ultimately killed by the women, but that both things were done with love, at least physical love. Of course to enable the women to literally fuck a healthily strong youth to his death meant that they had to have acquired rather extraordinarily skilful arts of love-making. And I suspect that the men of the village were smart enough to accept that having one of their young men dying each year was actually a small price to pay for a life-time of being a recipient of the benefits of such skills.
In your world things have been reversed, men have the power and in many places women have to struggle to even have their voices heard. I make no judgements as to the rights or wrongs of that situation but I do assert this much - that in many ways many, many men have lost as much as they have gained, and very, very few have even dreamed of the blissful joys they have missed as a result of that exchange.'
All that time the woman's hands and mouth had been treating his cock to the most amazing stimulation, and without even looking he could feel that the combination of that, plus the tight binding around the base of it must have made the rest of it almost grotesquely bloated. But just then he felt her mouth slipping back off it and even before he had time to give a cry of protest, she was rising, pressing the soft curve of her belly against him. Then he felt them both falling, slowly, backwards, whatever he was fastened to was carefully lowering them into a horizontal position.
Once flat the woman made love to him, and although his manacles meant he was totally helpless to respond the way he usually would have the way she did what she did to him and the intensity of the sensations he experienced made all the delights that he had felt earlier seem like no more than faintly tickling pleasure. Her voice was silent during the whole of that time and the only sounds he heard were his own gasping grunts as the ecstatic thrills continued to surge through him. And only when she was certain that his system could take absolutely no more, she reached down, flicked loose the silk binding and allowed his by then much needed release.
But, in the last moments before she did so he heard her voice just once again, saying - 'Perhaps now you have learned that before what you give can be truly appreciated you yourself must have learned to accept the gifts that another would give you.'