Toy Soldier Pt. 01

I consider myself a writer, not a very good one, I haven't the experience or the imagination to be a good one but I get around that by having props, actual people to write about — people who individually trigger my imagination and, most importantly, provide me with the characters I need for my stories.

That's why I have the job I do, an easy job, one that requires no real skills except being organized and diligent. My job places me among a team of people, 21 in all, 21 people I watch coming and going and working and horsing around. They all find their way into my thoughts and from there onto my pages.

I've been in this office for three years, far longer than my other three jobs, similar but the people were not nearly as interesting as these ones so I had to leave for this greener pasture.

I was never missed from my old jobs and I won't be when I leave here, although I have no immediate plans for that. I am quiet and retiring, a little frumpish and decidedly homely. I would be taken for granted if people were aware of me at all ... they aren't because I don't want them to be. I want to be left alone with my thoughts, many of which are about them, either in the contemplation of sex or in the throes of it. I write erotica, it keeps me sane. And interested. And, frankly, it's fun.

I write about lives other than my own, other worlds than my own, other possibilities than my own, it's a way for me to step outside my cloistered self and into all kinds of impossible situations that come alive in my stories — in effect, my characters take me with them.

I have written maybe 50 stories, they're in my computer like corpses in a funeral home, lives that were once vital to me, consuming me and consuming hours of my time, but lives that are now moribund, only to be occasionally revisited ... like looking through an old photo album.

Well, not entirely true. Some of my characters resurrect themselves from time to time, rise from the grave to entertain me once again.

Like Harold. He is off in the distance to my right, past the cluster of cubicles over by the window. He's in a cubicle too so I can't see him but I know what he's thinking, contemplating, I can see this with my mind's eye.

Harold, I know, got married last year, I wrote about his wedding and his honeymoon. He had a wonderful time. But the marriage can't last, at least according to the story I'm now writing about him.

The penis that now lies long and slightly twisting left between his legs was little used for fun before he met Brett in a pub on a Friday night about 18 months ago, 6 months before their wedding. She was there with others, all with no possibilities. He was a few tables away, about as far away from Brett as he is from me in the office. Brett is bold and audacious and out-spoken, a real turn-off to men because she is intimidating, if not just plain scary.

In my stories a lot of my introductions are complex and subtle, this one wasn't. When people in the pub had had enough to drink and were wandering off she wandered over and sat down beside him.

"I was looking around this place trying to find the one guy I'd like to get to know. You're it." Is he married, did he have a steady girlfriend — let him explain himself. She was looking for that flattered look she knew how to wrench from the unsuspecting and when she got it she knew it would only take one more drink for her to find a way to connect. The weather, bad, the basketball team, good, that'll do. She lived nearby, a short walk during which Harold tried to tone down his excitement while Brett worked on her approach ... full-slut, she decided, the guy seemed to need that.

She turned on me the moment the door closed, her lips on mine, her open mouth on mine, her tongue searching, her hand between my legs squeezing my erection. It was going to happen, I thought it might, it felt like it might and, as if to remove all doubt, she pulled her skirt up above her hips then went down on her knees, her fingers flying over my pants which were soon down to one ankle and she was smiling up at me as she pulled my underwear down.

She kissed it, gave it a little suck, her hot mouth wet, her tongue gliding down the full length and then her fingers were on it, caressing. "It's beautiful," she said, almost lovingly pressing it to her cheek. "Perfect." She rubbed it against her nose now, her eyes, her forehead, her cheek, many times against her cheek communing with its maleness, its power. Then she sucked it gently, knew my legs were weak, knew I was putty, knew to take me over to the couch.

Her skirt was still up around her waist, she was wearing peach coloured panties beneath pantyhose which she immediately started removing. "I hate these things, don't you, they're nice to wear but I think they look awful with this view."

The view now was her struggling to take them off which she accomplished quickly and sat back pulling her skirt further up, opening her legs, her fingers caressing. "I love this, don't you, the slope of the pussy, it's so different with every woman." Her fingers wisped the slope as if emphasizing her love for it then she turn and her lips were back on mine and my fingers were being guided to the slope and I arrived in Seventh Heaven: her breath, her tongue, her spit, her mound on my finger tips — warm, her hair beneath the nylon discernible ... and always the purring moans.

Suddenly she sat back away from me on the couch, her legs wide open between us so I had to lean forward to cup her pussy with my full hand while her hand covered mine pressing as she lewdly scrunched down now undoing the buttons on her blouse. I strained downwards so my fingers could travel all over her underwear, her fingers encouraging with reassuring strokes as her blouse opened and I could see the white cups clinging to her heavy breasts. That's what did it, I pulled away, extricating myself from the corner of the couch and I was down on the floor on my knees, my face pressed to where my fingers had been, her fingers running through my hair, her sounds joyous.

My discharge was wet and gooey on the side of the couch ... and unexpected, it was fine one moment, throbbing, straining, seeking, then shooting the next as I was pressing my face hard into her and licking and sucking at the fabric getting increasingly wet with my drool, the scent and taste starting to build.

It might have been over if she didn't have her hands on my head, her fingers in my hair pressing me hard into her. Instead, I recovered, instantly and she spilled off the couch and it became a wrestling match, that's what it felt like, her now on the floor pulling me around as I pulled at her, climbing over her biting and sucking as I stripped off her panties as she pulled off my pants.

I could see it now, the wide swath of pubic hair stretching across her lower belly, black and kinky and not quite hiding two pink labia that spilled from her in odd angles. Mystery. All those nights alone wondering if I would ever get this chance, if there was a woman out there who would unwrap this gift for me, a gift I have imagined receiving so many times ... but only in my imagination.

Half the world had these and now it was there ... inches away, waiting, wanting.

"Oh, yes," she cried as my face went to it, my tongue leading the charge through the forest to the gates which opened wide wet and stinging as I went in and in and in, my lips following my tongue, my face stopping at the gates or I would have climbed inside her searching for what? For the depth of my lust, the depths of my desire to immerse myself in the foreign femininity that for the first time ever seemed to want from me precisely what I wanted from it.

My cock was in her mouth, wet and warm and demanding as she sucked ferociously wanting from me what I wanted from her. And there soon became a symbiosis of sorts as I fought off another orgasm: her sounds, my sounds; her hands squeezing my cheeks, my hands running up her hips squeezing her cheeks; her finger nudging down, mine nudging down ... and then in when her's went in and I squirmed when she did; I went deeper when she did and I cried out when she did so gripped as I was ... as she was by the orgasm.

And then it was over and I lay panting my face in a wet stinking crotch waiting to be told what to do.

Nothing. Rest. Nibble. Wiggle the finger. Feel the recovery. She sucked on my foreskin, I went for her labia, she licked, I licked, she fucked with her fingers, I fucked with my fingers and then it was out and my finger was wrenched from her as she sat up, turned around, put me in her as she fell on top of me, her mouth on mine.

She laughed and stroked and kissed when it was over. A bath? No not yet. The breasts pressed playfully to my face, salty and warm, the fat oozing against me, the nipple tough and sharp, stabbing at my tongue, her joy voluble in her excited sounds as she teased me with her nipple, her hand pressing it all over my face, stabbing my eyes, cheek, nose and then she was over me dangling them, slapping me, her laugher as infectious as her sex appeal.

A bath? No not yet, her mouth on my cock again as she forced her hairy wet, smelly pussy back to where it had started.

In fact, I haven't finished Harold and Brett's story, I stopped there and wrote out just a few notes for when I would pick it up again later. Brett would maintained her full-slut mode for the six months it took to get Harold down the aisle then, after a night he would never forget, she started to back off like her duty had been done, her pussy-whipping complete ... which would explain why his head is always down at his desk, and why he works late. That's the way I was seeing it, anyway.

This happens often. I stop one story to write another — I stopped Harold to deflect to Tosha because ... well, there is never just one reason I change targets but many, some of them are positive — someone attracts me, an idea flits into my brain; some are negative — I didn't know where I was going with the story or I did and I didn't want to go there.

This time I stopped for Tosha.

Tosha is head strong and pushy, we all knew that but she could get away with it because she is gorgeous and unusually lithe, panther lithe, although a little lighter than panther black, but just as feral, oozing danger that makes men forget their vows.

Tosha would be a mystery if she wasn't so profoundly distinctive. She has the build and beauty that unerringly leads up the primrose path of everlasting happiness. But there is something missing with her, at least to my eye. She has a balefulness that belies her beauty and points to inequities that impeded her natural progress. What inequities? That is the question.

I've admitted I'm not a great writer and here is one of the reasons. Having lived little, I have little imagination. The trajectory of the beautiful woman can only be altered by the intervention of a man.

I was trying to ignore the menacing cock that always preceding him into the bedroom. The kitchen was another turn-off place, the thing stabbed my ass at the stove and the sink, stabbed again my crack even though I've taken to wearing baggy track pants with my baggy t-shirts. It would be OK if it just took a minute or five. But it didn't, it was always a workout as if he wanted me rubbed raw when he arrived.

I never liked the thing, it didn't help that he referred to it as his weapon. It was long and thick, like a cop's night stick, appropriately, because he is a cop although off the beat now, out of the blue and into well-tailored suits that, along with his other vain excesses, was keeping us poor.

He called me his panther in public, thought that carried all kinds of sexual innuendos, innuendos he was constantly reaching for but seldom connecting with — eyes would roll, winces were as common as the pitying looks I got.

It was exciting at first, being a man's toy, being truly wanted, possessed, owned. I needed that because in my life before him I was merely borrowed, sometimes rented, the panther being more a black cat bringing only bad luck. He was a way out and up, all I had to do was endure it, the night stick which became unendurable once I realized it was attached to a boy who would never become a man, reasonable, responsible, rational. Instead, I got an adolescent with a weapon he didn't know how to use but used it wherever he could, and however. I didn't mind taking my clothes off in front of others, always cops and their molls, I was always better built than them, always commanded all the eyes ... and their wonder that I could take it all so agreeably, it had something to do with my blackness, I know they all thought that.

I lasted a year including the five weeks of separate bedrooms while he pretended to find another place to live.

It was in my bed alone that I found the relief I've always sought. Just a week away from the night stick I was already healing, the throbbing was all but gone, the bruises on my breasts, a curious greenish-yellow you could easily see through the sheer bras he made me wear, with the panties, expensive, unaffordable luxuries that were pointless — once viewed, quickly off. I gently touched myself imagining that the hair he made me trim had fully returned and I was as un-manicured there as I was on my fingers, nails nervously bitten to the quick.

(I accidentally met her in the washroom, I must have missed her going in because I only go when I'm sure I'd be alone. I couldn't use a stall while she was there so I washed my hands with her to kill time until she left.

I could feel her looking at me in the mirror. "We will have a drink after work ... I know you never go but we will today, I need to be with someone."

"I'm afraid I ..."

"I'll meet you out front.")

When I got back to my desk I quickly wrote a little more of her story ...

How many night sticks have been in here, I asked myself as I lay on the bed and touched myself gently. I've never counted, don't care to remember, a lot, I'd guess 30, not one of them anything other than an attack, not violent but aggressive in the utter joylessness.

I will paint, take it up again, oils as well as water colours, I was getting better, feeling more confident when he came to me so many months ago ... and I was feeling his erection against my ass when I threw down my last brush.

I couldn't coax any wetness with my finger, knew I couldn't but I will, in time, give me time. Time for what? More work? I've got to get out of there, drop him, drop it. But not now, one thing at a time ... but no more night sticks, I will be my own master, not a single career lady any more with fancy underwear, I'll be more bohemian, but not collegial, even more stand-offish than usual, a spectator, some would call me a voyeur. Let them. I don't care.

I ran my hand down both hips under thick pyjamas in case he came. 28, healthy, mind and body, just tired, weary and wary of another week, I just need to be free ... like that woman in the office, the homely one, the one who never says anything, Miriam, how does she do it? How does she captain her own ship, take life on her own terms — no night sticks for her, maybe a loving husband who provides the calmness and confidence for her to stroll at the sound of her own drummer. I could be like that, I'd like to be like that. Maybe I could talk to her.

We did meet after work, we did have a drink but she didn't talk, she just sat across from me looking stunning, not at all bothered by the silence which I used to add to the outline of my story about her, particularly taking in the details of her face and skin which seemed to glow.

Light peeked into my room as the door opened. It appeared, the night stick, he followed it in. "Tosha."

"No. I'll scream."

"No." He knew me, knew where to find them on the floor, got them, brought them to his nose as his hand travelled the length, slowly, speeding up as the scent got to him, took over, brought him to the point where he aimed at the panties in his hand, grunted then wiped himself with them before throwing them back on the floor.

"Be out of here tomorrow, go stay with Brad or whoever."

Brad grinned at me while carrying out a chair as I was going in. "The first day of the rest of your life, eh? You have my number." I turned away from the place and headed quickly up the street to a coffeeshop. Gone. I couldn't contain my excitement. Gone. Gone. Gone, out of my life forever.

So was most of the furniture including my bed and most of my underwear and bras and the vibrator I had brought with me to the relationship ... which he used on himself.

A locksmith had changed the lock, added a deadbolt and just left when I stepped into the bath with a glass, a bottle of white and the welcoming flicker of eight candles. The first day of the rest of my life, indeed, and an entirely new life, one not yet taking shape but one with a much clearer outline.

She came and got me again, for lunch which I always bring and eat at my desk. Not today she said. I followed her, dutifully, as she expected. She led me to a place three blocks away from the office, the longest I can remember walking in a long time. We have nothing in common but her new desire to find quietude, which I doubted would last — her entire body shouted energy. Maybe I am a prop to her like everyone in the office is a prop to me. I am someone who exemplifies what she seeks, that's what she said when she briefly spoke.

"Where do you live?"

It startled me when she broke the silence. I responded only vaguely.

"You live alone."

I nodded.

"You don't have a cat."

I nodded no.

"I want to be like you, I want to find the confidence to be like you."

It must have been my look because she quickly explained herself.

"I want to paint, think, explore my thoughts and feelings, get to know myself. I want to be quiet like you. I want to think what you think."

I listened, it was why I was here, to listen ... quietly, like she said but maybe there is something more to it, maybe I have a way of being quiet that appeals to her, she certainly seems to be studying me.

Anyway, she didn't speak at all again, she gave no indication she wanted to and I didn't feel the need. Curiously, it wasn't all that awkward, it should have been but it wasn't.

Tosha is an enigma, I find I can't write about enigmas, I need the certainty of my imagination untainted by any familiarity. So I dropped my story about her, planning to pick it up when she stopped calling on me.

Margot Mallory is, I'd guess, pretty close to 50. She has a skin condition on her left hand, you can't see it unless you're up close which I was once. That's her only flaw. She is who I'd be if I had a choice, I don't mean just from the people in the office, I mean people anywhere. She is pleasantly pretty, naturally thin, always happy, radiatingly gregarious in her own way — people naturally turn to her and she is always ready with her overt friendliness and good humour.

Make something of that, I snickered to myself as I flip to a new page in my exercise book.

Her husband is a nice guy who, when she shows him the door, he meekly passes through it with his bag.

This time it's a young blond guy outside waiting for the baleful husband to drive away. The handsome dude, about 25, opens the closed door, walks in quietly, finds her in the kitchen making tea, sneaks up behind her, takes her roughly from behind, bracing for the struggle he knows he'll get. It begins immediately, a struggle that turns into a fight, fists, nails, knees which he parries while forcing her to the floor tearing at her clothes — it had to be real was her only instructions.

The slap he delivered was real as was the knee driven hard between her legs. She fought back punching up and kicking wildly, connecting sometimes angering him. But he is big and strong and overpowering, she is no match, her fists useless and his slaps hurt.