The Gift - Turning Pages Ch. 03

When A arrived home, there was a parcel notification in his letter box. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had fifteen minutes to get down the road to collect whatever it was.

After signing for it and ripping open the courier bag, A turned the parcel over in his hands. It was wrapped with a plain brown paper that looked either hand made, or like the coarse paper that wrapped parcels from Russia when he ordered parts from warehouses there. He hadn't ordered any parts recently. So, hand made, then.

He drove back home with the parcel beside him on the passenger seat, and somehow it seemed comfortable there, as if it was in the right place. He pondered the strangeness of that thought, as if there was some animate thing beside him. Distracted, he had to slam the brakes for a light turned red, and the car's ABS shuddered the road into the steering wheel. He rubbed a hand, soothing away the vibration. The parcel had moved forward with its momentum, and he pushed it to the rear of the seat.

Arriving back home, A latched closed the front door, and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the house. Dusk was closing in, and the lowering sun cast a golden glow on the underside of leaves on the tree in the far corner of the garden. Small bugs scattered up and down through the air, dancing from the tree, tiny black specks shifting like smoke. Small birds flickered and plunged, feeding in a distant cacophony.

The glowering light heated the western window, and the wooden floor was still warm from the day's sun. A stripped off his shirt, rubbing both hands over tight nipples as he did so. Ah, that feels good, he thought, idly squeezing a nipple. It tightened, a rigid tip connecting straight down a nerve to his cock. It thickened, his cock thickened.

He went to his bedroom and stripped off all his clothes. It was still comfortably warm in the house, and as his was the only two storey house in the area, the added height gave him privacy, even as he walked naked between rooms. It was Friday, the end of a long week, and he was alone. He didn't mind that.

He liked the swing of his cock against his thigh as he walked, how it lengthened and thickened from unrestrained movement. He might throw on a pair of jeans later, and a shirt, once it started to cool, but for now he enjoyed his nakedness. His cock wasn't hard, but it was a pleasing weight.

The package. A filled a glass with a fine red wine, and took it to his chair in the sun. Placing the glass on the small table beside him, he took up the package and studied it. His initial, A, was written in deep red ink in a looping cursive, in a feminine hand, he thought. Curious, he raised the parcel and smelled it.

There was an orange, slightly sharp tang to the paper itself, as if it had soaked in the sun of an orchard and dried there. The ink itself had a faint, lingering metallic scent, like distant blood. A breathed in the subtle aromas, took another sip of the wine, and the scents blended. The after taste on his tongue brought back vague memories of different women at different times of their months - sweet fecund honey and darker blood, mingling together.

Had some genius parfumier been at work here, capturing the scent of women? A wondered if it was possible to capture the complex aromas of a woman's orgasm. His nipples tightened, a dull ache behind his chest. His arousal slowly awoke the nerves throughout his body, but they were as yet unconnected, his awareness slow. Outside, dusk plummeted, the sun's warmth still drowsy.

Whatever it was, however it was made, the outside of the thin parcel wrapped in plain paper was exotic and mysterious. Its unknown sender intrigued A. She - he was sure it must be a woman, if only from the looping hand - had left no trace of herself, unless the scent was her trace. Only his initial, A, on the front of the wrapping. He cast his mind back to the courier package, crumpled in the bin. He retrieved it, but found no extra clues there. It was a pre-paid pack, the only human intervention the self adhesive stripe with a postal registration number, and his name and address in the same looping hand. No sender details were given.

Strange. Who was this, who knew his name and address, but kept her silence? He carefully peeled back the first line of tape, trying not to tear the paper. Loosened from its tension, the paper curled back. A placed his fingers inside the lips of paper, pushing to the edges of the object within, and carefully took it out. With his free hand, he placed the discarded paper onto the table, where it curled together and was still.

The wrapped object was an album, perhaps eight inches by ten, covered in a soft, pale leather, a stitch bound spine on the left hand side. The covering was smooth and soft, warm like skin. A ran the tips of his fingers over the front cover in a caress and heard a whisper in response. Some soundless voice in the room, but it couldn't be, he was alone. He slid his fingers again, and again he heard the faint nothingness.

He remembered his strange thought in the car, as the parcel lay on the seat beside him like some animate thing, riding with him. He stroked the skin of the book, just his fore and middle fingers, like a man might stroke a woman's throat, or as a woman might stroke the edge of a man's jaw. Slowly, in wonder.

Against his thigh, his cock was fuller, longer, responding in its own way as a cock will. His blood was silently called by the whispering silence, and the movement within his veins followed with another pulse, another beat. A took a sip of the wine, and his taste buds uncovered berries, liquorice, musk on the back of his tongue. His taste was heightened. A licked his lips and wanted a woman to get into a car at her house, and drive.

He stood, and went to the kitchen to fill his glass, this time to the brim. Looking down, he saw the thick length of his cock against his leg and his arousal was such that the head of his cock was half showing from the foreskin. He was forever fascinated by the movement and shifting shape of his cock, growing from boy small in the cold to a rigid shaft against his gut when long hot. Narcissus needed still water, A just looked down.

He reached down with his left hand to feel his cock's heat, rubbing his thumb over the head. The shaft thickened some more, and his cock was hot against his thigh as he returned to the chair. The leather was warm from the low sun and his body. He angled the chair so the last minutes of the sunset glowed orange on his skin.

A sat, knowing he would need to move around the house in a short while to draw curtains and blinds against the night. He made himself wait before opening the gift. The chair was big, and he could half sit, half recline, with his left thigh drawn up. A small table was to his right, and he placed the wine glass upon it. The album lay beside the glass, content. It would open its pages soon.

A looked down to his thigh. His cock was curled in an arc, half circling the round fullness of his balls. He reached down with his right hand to cup them, and they filled his palm and curved fingers. His balls were cool to touch, and soft with his hair, which was not sparse, but not thick either. He looked down at his hand cradling himself, and noticed some grey hairs amongst the darker brown. No matter. He watched as his cock shifted and moved of its own accord, responding to the presence of his hand. A's senses heightened, and the scar on his knuckle showed white.

The sun's last rays vanished, and he watched the rich orange orb halve and then quarter against the distant horizon. A stood, and completed a circuit of the house to close himself in. He returned to the chair, the leather still warm, and made himself comfortable. He took up the book and turned to the first page.

On the left folio lay a polaroid photograph, framed in the centre of the page. It was of a woman, sitting on a simple wooden chair in a room, a room in an apartment perhaps, or a small house. Several framed prints hung on the wall in the background, a vase of flowers on the table beside her. She was dressed in everyday work clothes: a well tailored blouse and a grey skirt. Gazing straight at the camera, her back was straight and her head held high. A proud woman, thought A, staring down the camera and through the camera's lens, staring him down. Her black hair was pulled back tight, and A could see some wayward strands curving about her neck.

On the right page was a fragment of the image enlarged, just showing her neck and a simple pearl ear ring, and one enticing curl of hair, escaped. Someone had scanned the polaroid and zoomed large the fragment, thus drawing the viewer's attention to a detail. A wondered at the meaning behind the selection, and the silent commentary it provided.

A looked past the book at his coiled cock, and smiled at the juxtaposition of his naked self and this image of a dressed woman. He turned the page.

Again on the left was an original polaroid, the same woman, but this time her body was turned away and hidden, wrapped in a thick bath towel. She gazed over her shoulder at the camera, at the viewer, at him. Her look was flirtatious, come hither, and her hair was wet and long, a thick coil in a loop across her upper back with the end disappearing over her shoulder.

A studied the image, his cock filling and his balls rising. He idly caressed the cool weight of his balls, his palm light over the hair. His testes shifted and moved within their sacs, a curious uncontrolled motion. He glanced down at their movement, and it was slow and languid.

The close up, the cropped and chosen image blown large for his special scrutiny, was of the woman's slightly opened lips. A wry smile, almost opening to laughter but not quite, and her lips were full. He looked down to the plum coloured head of his cock, and imagined her lips opening there. Her smile would be an upwards glance to his eyes, before looking down and concentrating. He might hold the back of her head, but wouldn't need to guide her. The look in her eyes, as she glanced over her shoulder, was assured and certain, a woman with a will. He pulled the foreskin back from his filling head, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the velvet flesh.

A thought her lips would be soft. He touched his finger tip to the page to check, but it was only paper, lightly textured but not skin. He smiled, and curved his thumb over his own hot flesh, and the head of his cock was warm and soft to his touch. His cock was filling thick, a new hardness and a heat. A closed his eyes, and ran the tip of his forefinger down the whole length of his shaft, along the rippled seam of his cock until his fingertip reached the swell of his ball sack. His other three fingers curled around his flesh and he cupped himself in his hand. His balls shifted, and he felt their slow, subtle movement.

His eyes still closed, he held the image of the dark eyed, limpid woman in his mind's eye. She would be slow and serene, he thought, and would draw out every movement, every turn of her head. A's movement was slow as he turned the page with one hand, and circled the length of his cock with the other, a long slow movement back up and curled over the head of him. He pictured her smile, and wondered what her voice would sound like. Do you like my tongue, A?

The third opening, and fuck, his cock pulsed hard and was rigid, fully erect. For this photo, she had set the camera at the same height as her delta and stood with her hands on her hips and her feet apart, staring down the lens as if to challenge it. She was nude and magnificent, her sex central and her body tall. Her sexuality smouldered, the square image straight from the slit of a camera barely able to contain her heat. The page on the right, and it could be of nothing else, showed the thick dark fur above the gap between her legs, and the twin ridges of flesh between the gap of her legs.

A studied the image closely, stroking his cock slowly, enticing himself as the images of this woman enticed his eyes. Jesus, there was heat in her eyes, and A imagined himself hard against her, his long shaft hot against her belly, his hands on the tight cheeks of her ass. Fuck. He stroked himself some more. She was hot, and he was heating.

He turned the page, again. Two photographs. One with her breasts full and deep as she leaned forward, her chin resting on her joined hands.The second image was of her torso, sitting proud and straight, her breasts high in a half-cup bra, her nipples tight and hard.

A figured out the sequence of the photographs. Coming home from work, she was dressed in her everyday clothes, comfortable and practical. Her legs were long, and her grey skirt was tight, and she would turn some eyes as she passed by in the street. A imagined her behind a desk, her legs elegantly crossed, the hem of her skirt riding a little high, perhaps, as she reached for a phone. Her calves taut and well shaped in sensible heels, her one concession to her sexiness - red soles on her shoes. Or red toe nails. Black stockings. He wanted her to bend, and pull black stockings up her long legs, clipping the thin straps to a fine garter belt across her hips.

Then, arriving home, he imagined her stripping naked from her day clothes, and taking a long, relaxing shower. Hence the towel, and the magnificence of her tall, nude body, her long, wet hair. Then these later photographs showing her torso from the waist up, first bare breasts, then a bra. She was dressing herself, in finer clothes. He wondered what whim had come upon her, that she decided to take a sequence of polaroids. Such a deliberate choice to make images, spooling out of the camera and revealing themselves in the light, as she revealed herself in her room.

In his room, A's cock was rigid, long and hot in his hand, and he stroked. Looking down at himself, he saw his curled fingers around the shaft, his thumb a curled circle, sliding, sliding, every now and then moving up over the full red head. His breath quickened, and with his other hand he pinched and pulled the tight tips of his nipples, first one then the other, and they were both stiff, a small edge of pain. Nerves connected to the base of his cock, and his prick throbbed and bounced as his fingers tightened.

Flicking one nipple with a finger, he turned to the next page, eager to see the next image, but also now, starting to imagine her in his mind. As he stroked, his mind shifted into his own sensation, imagining her hand instead of his, her stroking palm, the wetness of her lips around his head. Her cool, elegant fingers curling around his balls, her exploratory squeeze. He stroked, deliberately slow, oh so slow.

In her room she stood, and a third image was processed, capturing her standing tall in white lingerie, her arms crossed, confidently. The creamy white cloth suited her skin. Between her legs, the soft gusset of her knickers was darker, a shadow of her wetness. The closer image was zoomed in tight on the cloth between her legs, wet cloth clinging to her cunt lips.

A wanted his cock head to nudge aside the flimsy garment and delicately spread open drops of her wetness and reveal plump, filling lips. The head of his cock was big and purple, and he pressed the heat of his shaft against his gut. He gripped his rock hard cock, and tasted a sweet bead of pre-come to his own lips, imagining hers in a silent O around his head, licking him, tasting that tiny drop. A stroked, and turned the page.

This image was of the woman in a long flowing red dress, swirled wide about her legs as if she had just spun on her feet. In this image she wore sheer white stockings (had he missed the photograph where she had rolled the delicate lingerie up her long legs, bending to clip them to her garter?); but without doubt the erotic centre of this picture was the cling of the red cloth to her erect nipples.

The close up on the second page was of a wonderful shallow cleavage, the size and weight of her breasts still firm and high. The diagonal of the red cloth arced over a breast, and the nub of her nipple was firm and hard. The image was so vivid, nearly three dimensional. A touched his finger to it, as if she was there in front of him, the page some magical portal behind which she stood. But no, the image was flat, the only texture the smoothness of the paper.

But the texture of his cock, that was real. As he had looked upon the images of the woman, undressing and dressing before his eyes, his mind was taken by the visual pleasure of the images, and his arousal followed. A found, when it came to images of women, that he preferred photography rather than video, silence rather than sound. Perhaps it was the books and magazines of his youth that left him with this preference, when he was alone at night, to make himself come from the closer study of images. Perhaps his was a cerebral eroticism, where his mind was aroused from within.

These images though, Christ, they hardened him. His head pushed back against the cushions of the chair, a restless thing that he always did as he stroked, as if his body was adjusting and aligning itself for tighter muscles later, when his spine would arch and his thighs would tighten, and a churn would start from deep within his gut. But not yet. A knew he was a long way from that point, but he was also at the place in his arousal where he wouldn't stop. He would come, later.

The inevitability of his masturbation was upon him, not quite to the point where he would cry out as if she was in the room, but nearly so. His movements were no longer all his own, there was an animal's instinctive memory working from deep within his mind now, some primal place that would move beyond the images and pictures put before him; into some deeper place that would drag visceral heat and wet cunt and thick, hot, hard cock. He would come, soon, later. Come.

Memories of all his woman, known and unknown, would climb and crawl to his bed, their primal cunts and their long breasts and their deep dark eyes. He would be drawn into the depths of their eyes, and it would be their commands that would control the speed and grip of his hand, not his. Come for me, A, come for me. Make me come, oh God, make me come.

His back arched, and his stroke was faster. The book fell to the floor, and its soft thump was like a footfall in the room. Behind his closed lids, his eyes flickered, and flashes of nervous blue and thick blood red coloured his mind. He was conscious of small whimpers being voiced in the room, yes, yes, more, oh fuck, yes, more, and they were his voice, his noises, his moans. Faster, his stroke was faster, and he pinched his nipples to hurt them, to twist tight, tiny pains behind his chest. He curled the palm of his hand over the head of his cock, to find that place of exquisite torture, stop, don't stop, until he shuddered and his body jerked.

Taking his hand from his cock, and pulling both nipples with fierce fingers, A cried out, yes, and felt his cock thicken and bounce against his gut. But without his hand pulling, the heat in his cock stopped, the deep churn in his spine stayed deep within him. But another place in his masturbation had been reached, another high place with the promise of more. He would come, and come hard, but not yet. There was more to be done.

The next image she had taken was of her confident walk as she stepped through her front door, looking back over her shoulder at the camera. The flash illuminated her first steps into the night. Stunningly dressed, he knew that men and women would look at her and want her, and would want to undress her. He had seen a series of photographs of her dressing and undressing, and most assuredly he wanted to undress her. And gaze upon her, across a room. She'd take him back to her place, open herself to him, and he'd fuck her. Yes.