OTHER VOICES - Hayley

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OTHER VOICES is intended to be a companion series to the ongoing and ever-evolving FREYJA CLUB stories that chronicle the journey of one intrepid voyager to not only savor the hedonic pleasures of this remarkable club but learn how it has successfully operated for over ninety years in total anonymity.

Along the way, he encounters people who, like him, have embraced the lifestyle of the club, but who -sometimes- reveal a piece of this tantalizing puzzle. But beware. The clues are sometimes not only elusive but occasionally, just lures that lead down paths to nowhere.

I hope you're enjoying reading these stories as much as I am in writing them, so without further ado, let me introduce you to....Hayley!

*****

I remember the summer I discovered Victorian underground erotic fiction... It was a wet one!

I considered myself to be a woman since had lost my virginity, but had not yet found a lover who touched me, awaking my flesh and desires, as effectively as I could do it for myself. I suspect I wasn't alone in this. Many girls have boyfriends who're so eager to get off that they shoot their load so quickly, that their partner has barely got into second gear by the time they're finished.

On the upside, I was anxious to try again soon, still tingling from what their earlier, clumsy caresses and thrusts had awakened, but not yet satisfied.

I'd been reading books with dirty bits in them, seeking spicy interludes within the body of the story. Yet I found the approach to sex in historical novels more appealing than contemporary books. My fantasies were fueled by images of powerful men using my body for our mutual pleasure, even though my 'pleasure' was hidden, a secret, not to be shared, lest I be thought a slut. Of course, I was, but in the 1960s, women's lib had not yet evolved to the point where I could openly admit that fact.

I was living with my father in Amsterdam when I discovered a copy of 'The Pearl,' hidden under his bed. My eye was drawn to the plain white cover, depicting a woman wearing black stockings and a bright corset like a showgirl in a Western. Her look was coquettish, gently entreating, her neck was swan-like beneath piled-up hair. I was intrigued: the stories within were taken from an underground magazine, forbidden in their time, for their racy content.

I shut myself in my bedroom and began to devour the stories. Their language was old-fashioned but quaint. I liked to read quim for pussy and spend for cum. Many of the girls were portrayed as very innocent, referring to a man's cock as his 'affair', being filled with wonder at the priapic firmness of it, and how it swelled. Often, these women were described as "fallen," meaning that they were from the lower classes of society and worked as maids, seamstresses, or prostitutes. But when I compared their rich experiences to the lives of their proper "betters," I was struck by the real freedom they had to savor their 'femaleness,' which was denied to their higher-class sisters.

As I read I became aroused, reading erotica has always been my gateway to pleasure. I knew how to touch myself, and the stories I was devouring got me wet. I spent many afternoons alone with my book in one hand and the other between my legs. I stroked and played with my sweet cunny lips until I spent copiously.

When I finished reading Volume One, I found Volume Two. Sometimes the stories were too coy, and I had to restrain myself from laughing at the formality of the gentlemen before they fucked these women senseless. But even the silly ones made my flesh tingle, making my pussy silky with juices, whereon I stroked myself to a thrilling climax.

I was addicted to the erotica I'd discovered, which made my boyfriend's overtures seem crass and clumsy in comparison. It's easy to see how romantic novels cause damage, raising the bar too high for an average guy to hurdle. The boys in my life had no idea how my desires had been shaped by the flowery overtures gentlemen made in the period of erotica I was consuming.

I didn't have the tools to communicate the mismatch to them, apart from buying myself a black and red corset and stockings, which nearly knocked one guy's socks off when I wore them.

However, the fantasies I was entertaining also added sparkle to my sex life, and the masturbation in which I was indulging was healthy too. The more I did it, the more I wanted to do it. What was going on in my head while I was shagging myself would fan the flames. I'd get little visuals of a maid creeping into another maid's bed to sigh and frig her friend to sleep, these enhanced my pleasure.

Today, I still have those books, stored in a special cabinet, alongside many others I've collected as I discovered other niches that float my boat. I'm still grateful for the pleasure they've given me, inspiring my sex life and my writing content.

I don't know how old I was when I first learned about sex... oh, not that there were two, but the physical act. Boys had penises that were inserted into girls' bodies to make babies. I used my finger and... (laugh) crayons to try to understand, then I began to have the dreams...

In my dreams, a young man would come to me and push his penis into... my cunt... but I knew I was dreaming in the dream, so I couldn't move or do anything... I was helpless. As I grew older... and wiser... (laugh), I recognized that I was dreaming about a rape fantasy... but it was a dream that I longed to have.

A couple of years later, I began to fantasize about it when I was wide awake. I would imagine a faceless man would tie me to my bed so that I was totally in his power and he would take his beautiful cock and fuck me or put it in my mouth. This was even before I learned about blowjobs.

Sometimes, I would strip naked and spread myself. I would imagine my wrists and ankles were tied and one night I balled up my soiled panties and put them in my mouth. I got so wet that later, I had my first 'honest to god' orgasm when I rubbed myself off.

I never really knew my mother, she was an alcoholic that had run off with some guy and I was raised by my Dad, and a seemingly never-ending series of nannies and his girlfriend de jour. He worked for a big defense contractor- you'd recognize the name- and we moved a lot. I attended so many different schools that I lost count and as a result, I never developed any long-lasting friendships growing up. My friends ended up being the books I read, and that love of reading ultimately directed my career.

In my last year of high school, I discovered that my erratic periods were the result of deformed fallopian tubes. In a nutshell, my eggs weren't developing and those that did were sterile. I would never be a natural mother. This news upset me at first, since I, like all girls, was raised with the expectation that a family with a caring husband and children was in our future. But as I came to terms with the reality of the diagnosis, I felt an unexpected burden lift from my shoulders.

By the time my Dad shipped me off to Yale, I had been a consumer of the fruits of the tree of sexual delights for over three years and I anticipated that as I grew into womanhood that I would sample more. My Dad was still posted in Europe and even though he had never been an impediment to my former sexual explorations and promiscuity, the fact that he was now an ocean away fueled my desire to discover even more ways to satisfy my desires.

For one, I realized that I was attracted to older men. I had run the gamut with boys my age and found the appeal of finding someone who knew what they were doing with that wonderful instrument between their legs to become an obsession. I had always been fascinated by the male penis. In Victorian erotica it was usually referred to as a 'shaft' or a 'spear,' and I found those descriptions to arouse my female imagination much more than 'cock' or 'dick.' But, by whatever name, I wanted to hold one in my hands or feel it penetrate my body in any of the three places that nature had created for that express purpose. By the time I got to Yale, I had experienced the feeling of a man's hardness in my pussy and my mouth, but not yet in my ass, and I'd never had more than one at a time. That needed to change.

Of course, I decided to study English, with an intention to gravitate toward Literature of the Victorian Period. Despite being uprooted from one school after another, I was a good student and excelled academically wherever I happened to land, and physically, I looked the part. My oval face, small nose, and full lips spoke to the Greek heritage of my mother, but the blonde hair and pale complexion were traits that I inherited from my Germanic father. My body had grown into womanhood with enthusiasm because both my bosom and my hips had rounded into a figure that could be described as "classical." If I chose, as I sometimes did, I could project an alluring appeal, but usually, it was all covered with conservative clothes and larger-than-normal black-rimmed glasses that gave me a decidedly scholarly look.

I dipped my toe into the pool of debauchery at Yale with a T.A. that I had in one of my classes. Brian was maybe twenty-seven, tall, with blue eyes and a nice beard. It was halfway through my first semester when he very unprofessionally hit on me one night when he walked into the bar where I was with my new dorm mate Cara. One drink led to another until all the drinks combined to lead us to his bedroom.

The moment we got through his backdoor and into the den we were all over one another. As the door shut, we started kissing furiously. Brian's kisses were hot and sweet. He pressed his lips, slightly parted, over mine. Soon, I backed away and began tearing off my jacket and so did Brian. I then turned to pull his shirt from his trousers and he pulled my blouse from my skirt. His right hand went up the front of my blouse and cupped my breast through the bra. I reached down and started unbuttoning my blouse as quickly as I could. He started unbuttoning his shirt. I managed to get my blouse off, but only after Brian had torn off his shirt and grabbed my waist with both hands, guiding me to the arm of the sofa where he sat me down.

His hands moved swiftly around to unfasten the bra and release my breasts. Where the bra went, I don't know. Blouse? Who cared? I just knew that his mouth soon found my nipples, moving back and forth between left and right. My hands, both of them, wandered to Brian's crotch. I started to unzip his trousers, but I wasn't quick enough for him. He moved his hands down and released his penis from its confines.

Good lord! Big brains. Big penis. That one I hadn't heard. I thought it was big feet. Big nose. Something else? In truth, Brian probably wasn't much above average. Just a bit. But I didn't seek out hugely endowed men because I was very small. Hmmm. How shall I say? Not my body, but my vagina. More than one boy had gotten off way before he intended because I was tighter than he expected. Genetics. I got back to business, the business of pleasure. He certainly wanted to begin pounding me then and there. He had pulled, jerkily, my skirt up around my waist. The panties, limp from my juices, he managed to pull down around my ankles in a New York minute, but it wasn't what I wanted.

As I maneuvered myself out of the panties around my ankles, I ushered Brian around to the front of the sofa. I pushed him down to a sitting position. I squatted at his feet and removed the shoes. Forget the socks. I grabbed the cuffs of his trousers and began to tug. He assisted by lifting his buttocks and I grabbed the waistband and pushed the trousers down. I got them off, threw them somewhere over my shoulder, and moved to my knees. Ah, there it was. His shaft. Calling and standing up and hailing me like a frenzied tourist searching for a taxi at a foreign airport. Here's your cab, honey. Get in, get in. I couldn't decide whether to waste the time to remove the skirt or simply let it ride up around my waist. Aw, let it ride.

I leaned down, in a hurry to take Brian's cock into my mouth. I wanted him to glisten with my saliva. He tensed up. Not a bad tension. An expectant one. I continued to fellate him, moving up and down, circling my tongue around. Brian's left arm went around my back and the right hand's index finger went to my vagina. He didn't insert it, but slid it up to my clitoris and began to trace small circles with his finger. The feeling was incredible. The electricity ran from between my legs up to my brain. My whole body was aching for coitus. I was dripping with moisture, ready to take him into my body. I gently released Brian's penis from my mouth and returned to my squatting position, the movement pulled his finger from my clit which was a downer, but I was headed towards greater heights. I stood and straddled Brian's knees, one leg on either side of his. Brian was quick to grasp the opportunity as he guided himself into me. In my position, I realized that I was more in control of the process than he, so I went slowly. I wanted to enjoy the penetration. I didn't rush it, and he seemed to understand what I was doing. Good boy. Soon though, I slid down his shaft to the point where it seemed there was no more to take and the ride began.

I looked squarely into Brian's eyes. He looked into mine. Perched atop his hardness, I began to make pouncing, bouncing moves up and down his cock. His eyes widened and he suddenly gasped as he experienced the wet warmth of my clutching pussy. The tightness and my movements were beginning to register. Soon, Brian's hands grabbed me around the waist and he began to control the speed and depth of the thrusts. He slowed the pace and shortened the strokes and I smiled, appreciating the guidance. I was too aroused and left to my own devices, I would have probably triggered his release too soon.

It sounded stupid and perhaps trite, but my insides were on fire. It was something about his unabashed gaze which excited me more than I'd ever experienced. I confirmed in my mind that men were different than boys, and as Brian assumed command, I became more aware of my female self and slipped comfortably into the sexually submissive role that nature has subtly programmed into our psyche. While my verbal signals were confined to mews of pleasure and gasps as I clenched down on his flesh, my mind was silently screaming, "Take me...fuck me...do whatever you want to me!"

We settled into a syncopated rhythm. The Chili Peppers' "Can't Stop the spirit when it needs you," running through my mind. Each thrust was like a pleasurable cattle prod ramming my innermost being. I was unsure how long these ecstatic movements lasted. I was - simply put- not cognizant. Brian's eyes continued to be locked on mine. I saw him, but I wasn't fully focused. The position we were in lent itself to great pleasure for me. I hoped he was feeling even a fraction of what I felt.

Vaguely, I noticed that Brian's hands had left my hips. Ah. Was he feeling what I felt? Without his restraint, I fell to my own frenzied rhythm. I leaned forward, my hands on the back of the sofa on either side of his now-reclined head. My chest neared his, nipple grazing nipple. I began to grind in circles. Brian thrust his body upward. He joined the triumphant dance as if we had been partners for life.

I was unprepared for his climax. No, I knew Brian was about to explode. I simply was not prepared for the ferocity of it. He began to buck up and down, his moans becoming louder and louder. His orgasm was apparently going to last forever. Oh, God. This was beyond description. Never in my life had I experienced an orgasm other than clitoral, but there was no doubt that I was experiencing something that I had not felt before. Brian's cock was searing my vaginal walls, I was filled, expanded, super-sensitive. Was I screaming? Yes, I believe I was, at least silently.

As I felt his passion release inside me, my mind began to wander. Why couldn't I pay attention? Why was James Joyce filling my head, Metapsychosis? Oh, God. Ulysses? Now? Was my life flashing before my eyes? Shit. I was dying. That was it. Fuckin' dying. But then I wasn't. I was feeling Brian's arms enfold me, feeling warm cum fill me, feeling my pumping lungs slow down. I didn't know if I was crying or laughing. Maybe both.

Brian's hands grasped the sides of my face and pulled my head up off his chest. We stared at one another. He was crying/laughing, too. I had been unaware of sweating, but we were both drenched. We looked at one another, but no words passed, but our eyes alone filled the gap. Shortly, I slumped forward, too spent to hold myself up and Brian pulled me down to the couch. I was on top of him, snuggling into his still hot and sweaty chest. My hair was matted to my cheeks, but I couldn't bear to move away from him. He held me so tightly. There was no need to hold me so hard. I was going nowhere. I had never felt so inclined to just stay in one place.

My thoughts jumbled in my mind trying to make sense of what I'd just experienced. I knew that I hadn't achieved an orgasm, but it didn't seem to matter. I had been filled by Brian, and I now had his cum in my pussy and somehow that was all that was important.

The pleasure had been exquisite and I thought back to all my previous experiences with not only boys, but my own fingers, and found nothing to compare to my current state of total sexual completeness.

Though he had certainly not raped me like the men in my dreams, he had taken me. My female submission had overwhelmed and surprised me, and I knew that I had discovered something important. Something that as I grew older and more aware, came to define my conception of myself as a woman.

Brian and I were an "item" for a while, but soon we both moved on, in his case literally, as he accepted a position at another university and left before I even completed my first semester. For me, the rest of my time at Yale was spent in studies and further debauchery. Cara introduced me to woman/woman love and I jumped in with enthusiasm, however, I knew from the start that it was just a pleasant diversion. I longed for the feeling of male flesh thrusting between my legs and there's never been a dildo that can replicate that feeling, so I never abandoned my fascination with men. Over the next three years, I fucked, sucked, and finally experienced a threesome and the deflowering of my anal virginity and while Brian had been the first, he was by no means the best that I tasted in those years. By the time I approached graduation and was facing the decision of what I should now do with my life, I felt that I had indeed grown into the woman I wanted to be. Little did I know what surprises life still had in store.

I knew that to do what I really wanted to do, I needed to pursue a doctorate, but my Dad had been clear. He would pay for my B.A. but beyond that, I was on my own. I was in the process of seriously considering taking an offer from some high school in Vermont to teach English when I got the call from Cambridge. I had been selected for a Gates Scholarship which was a full ride plus a living cost stipend. I was ecstatic. Not only was I going to one of the most prestigious colleges on the planet, but the one located in the very heart of my greatest interest.

I went back and lived with my Dad for a few months until I was scheduled to enroll for the fall semester. He was now posted to Brussels and was on girlfriend number ninety-five. I crashed for a week but then spent my time just touring around Belgium and France until I left for Cambridge.

Initially, Cambridge turned out to be both a wonder and a disappointment. I was thrilled with the professors that I learned would be my mentors and counselors, and I found the course work to be interesting and stimulating, but I was less impressed with the men I needed to share my bed. For some reason, I seemed to attract the effeminate, limp-wristed types that were a far cry from the confident masculine men I had come to need. Then I met Keith.