Toy Soldier Pt. 01

She has a pleasant face, kind, the face of a doting grandmother, which she is to three children whose faces are in frames on the wall and in photographs that positively cover the fridge.

Her husband is as handsome as she is pretty. He comes into the room in tight, black boxer underwear, approaches her as she sits back expectantly. He does it, she doesn't help: he simultaneously pushes down the top of his underwear while extracting his penis, not small, not big. He readies himself and then pees, not a heavy flow, a proper amount, aimed at her breasts and belly, he unceremoniously pees, taking some relief in it, then he shakes it, puts it away and leaves as soundlessly as he arrived.

She catches it with the towel, chasing tiny streams here and there, between her breasts and between her legs, not in a panicked way, just casually knowing that what escapes will land in the towels beneath.

It is the scent that is the biggest trigger, the feeling of it too, but scent is paramount.

She was 18 when they got her behind the school, three of them ... she knew them only by sight. She nodded as she walked by them in the small clearing on the shortcut to the bus stop. One of them grabbed her from behind and before she knew what was happening pulled her t-shirt over her head, another had her by the hips and was pulling off her shorts and underwear while another was getting frustrated with the bra clasp and just muscled it apart.

She was overpowered for the first time in her life; she was going to be raped, she knew it but couldn't figure how to do anything about it. She couldn't yell, there was a hand over her mouth, she couldn't kick, they were too close, and too close for her fists, too. And then she was on her back, one of them at her head, his hand still on her mouth, one of them taking down his pants while kicking her legs apart.

That's when she felt it, the hot stream on her stomach, she didn't know what it was until she could smell it. Then the laughter, then there were four of them standing over her, all with their pants down, all laughing, all aiming at her groin, her small breasts and her face, at once four streams drilling her face and body, soaking into her hair, seeping into her eyes and mouth so she choked.

And then it was over and the laughter faded away with them. She dressed as best she could and ran.

What else could he do? Ben Bishop, in the same year as her but different class. He wasn't a big guy, he had no chance of taking them on so he did the next best thing, he deflected, appealed to their baser instincts, a more perfect way to show their power, their destain — their pack instinct to demean.

She never smelled urine without being transported back to that night, back to when she was lying on the ground with four laughing boys with their cocks in their hands spraying and drilling her.

What if Ben Bishop hadn't stumbled on them? She has thought about that a lot, shamefully because she almost ... almost wished he hadn't, almost ... almost wished that the one got between her legs, then the other, then the other, their cum on her legs, hips, breasts, belly and filling her. She imagined it often, the overpowering, the abuse, the cum everywhere ... if Ben Bishop hadn't come along she would have had the experience, known the feeling and she wouldn't have to work her imagination so hard, wouldn't have needed this reenactment, the smell, the feeling of the hot urine against her skin, being back on the ground, their cocks in their hands like drawn six guns.

She mopped the piss up and sighed. The orgasms are getting smaller as time passes.

This time it was a drink I didn't want after work but I had no way of refusing. I never see the woman without thinking of the night stick I had her endure so I always see her with a touch of pity, made worse by the obvious fact that she is struggling, not to say something, that didn't seem like much of an issue, but there is something inside her needing to come out ... and wasn't.

What must people think looking at us? What could we possibly have in common? How could we meet? In what possible circumstances could our paths cross, never mind end in a bar together? And why do we never speak?

She must want something. What could it possibly be? Company? Is she that lonely? What skills did I have that she may want? What influence did I have? What contacts? What did she know about me anyway? The writer in me played with making something sexual about it, but I couldn't make that work.

Jeff Marple is probably not yet 30 and, but for me, the least attractive person in the office ... actually, more so than me — I'm not unattractive, I'm not even over-weight I just have a big ass and hips and big breasts to match so I look more over weight than I actually am, or so I tell myself. I think Jeff fancies me which, though flattering, repels me: I would never want anyone who would want me.

Jeff is only ever close enough to give me distant glances, he has no reason to be at my desk and unlike Tosha, never makes up a reason so I've never really talked to him and because he's never the subject of gossip, I know nothing about him, I admit that — it makes it easy to write about him: he is just a body and that's all I need, an embodiment that can be a figment of my imagination.

Jeff is maybe 6'4" with a 30" waist, tall and skinny with, I imagine, a cock that has been endowed to him proportionately, which is to say it is exceptionally long and thin.

Mary Eve Gillardi suspected as much and made plans to find out, which wasn't hard because she lives in the same apartment complex, on the same floor, two doors down so she just followed him out of the elevator to his door one day and invited herself in. Jeff made an impromptu dinner from what food he had in his fridge and, it being Friday night, she went to her place for a bottle of wine and a quick shower and a change of underwear and was back before Jeff had the food on the table.

Small talk over the stir fry at the table continued on the couch where she had set her plan in motion by first sitting on the lay-z-boy with her skirt high enough for him to glimpse the bright orange she had changed into. When his wine needed topping she moved over beside him.

Putty. She took his hand and intimately rubbed the back of it, then placing it with her's on her lap, she leaned into him and kissed his shoulder, actually nuzzled her face into it like she planned to do elsewhere as soon as she drained him of all resistance.

Panties, hand on her crotch and the shoulder kiss, not quite enough to tame him entirely but enough for her to clearly see the magnitude of his erection which gave her second thoughts until he shifted and she could tell it wasn't proportionately thick.

She suspects she has a cock obsession but isn't sure, she doesn't have a whole lot of experience with them. A roommate she once had was utterly convinced she did. "No girl spends that much time with them," was her disdainful comment after the two guys who came back with them from the pub one night finally zipped up and fucked off ... and she was left to deal with her embarrassment.

The roommate had been right Mary Eve eventually concluded. Thoughts of the guy's chubby penis pressed all over her body had dominated her thoughts obsessively, flashing through her mind's eye constantly, the feel of it growing and shrinking in her mouth fascinating her, as did the eruptions, aimed first at her breasts and then daringly at her face while she had up-close eye contact with the thing in action and the experience that cum can sting if you get it in the wrong place.

The dildo she subsequently bought promised a life-like feel but it didn't come close and she gave it to her roommate who was not nearly so discerning "as long as it goes in deep." The right-size cucumber was better, although not a lot so a deep frustration set in and took hold making her days long and her nights interminable. She got bitchy, the roommate didn't appreciate it; she left and with her went the only source of deflecting fun she had in her day.

So, when you're skinny with a long horsey face and hair that insisted to more swirl than curl, you wait in the lobby for the tall thin dude from two doors down and go up with him and invite yourself in.

The hand on her lap had been on her skirt when she put it there but the skirt had risen and even though the hand hadn't it was now partially resting on bare skin, hot bare skin.

Few men can resist a sure thing. She was thinking Jeff might be one of them but sighed in relief when she turned on him and his hand curled inward and she could rejoice that his long slim fingers were as willing as her lips which found his as her fingers traced the full length of the erection through his pants.

'Don't screw this up,' screamed in her head. She backed off, calmed herself down, thought of the long game, tomorrow, the next day, the day after ... her future didn't have to be cock-less, all she had to do was ...

She let him grope, helped him with her shirt and bra, endured the sandpapering and the slobbering and with an excitement that could easily end in orgasm ... if she let it, she managed his pants then slipped down on her knees so she could experience it's uncovering as she delicately extricated it from his underwear.

It went off the moment she kissed it, went off with a gusher that meant to her that he had been storing the stuff up for months. He was going for a towel but she couldn't let him; she held him fast and it was in her mouth, growing as he moaned so it was easy to push him down, put a pillow under her knees, get comfortable and enjoy, lightly touching her light yellow panties, the best she had, as she let the maleness transport her into another dimension.

Saturday morning sun shone through the window refracting off the saliva on his clearly throbbing member ... why do they call it a member, she thought as she pressed it to her cheek, feeling it's surreal magic light up her whole body ... which she hid, as best she could, in the crumpled sheets that now, embarrassingly, stank of her. His fingers had been on one of her breasts ever since he got the bra off, a near endless affair that only succeeded when she dealt with the clasp herself.

They had always embarrassed her, udders she thought of them and duggs reminiscent of those pictures of ancient Africa women with breasts looking more like bibs, shrivelled, shrunken, flat against the body with stiff nipples divining the earth's core. But he, remarkably, liked them or seemed to, they were in his mouth a lot, he liked to suck and bite and pinch them with his lips so she knew they would be badly bruised.

He didn't feel the same way about her pussy, she gave him a few easy chances but no go until she put on her panties and the yellow colour was like a red flag to a bull and he soaked them with his drool.

So, Saturday morning, sun shining on their flesh, the sheets a swaddling stench of feminine desire as his glorious cock grew and contracted pressed always against her face which meant he had to almost curl in half to maintain oral contact on her duggs which wouldn't quite fit in his mouth no matter how hard he tried.

She went home just before noon, went in, turned on the bath and was about to step in when she turned off the water, grabbed her terrycloth robe, all function, no form, and hammered on his door. She got in and never left.

Murph, I didn't know his last name, I don't think anyone did, he delivers the mail like it's a challenge but always with a warm smile and innocent grace so that when he gets it wrong, and he often does, you feel like covering for him, everybody did.

He seemed especially nice to me, he lingers briefly at my desk like he wants to say something personal to me but never does, he just smiles and asks, 'How's your day going,' before moving on.

Murph is a reminder of how much of a crap shoot our genetic soup really is. On the one hand he is good-natured beyond reason, on the other his reasoning can only be described as good-natured. I felt sorry for him and envied him at the same time. He could take care of himself but only a self completely uncomplicated by any complexity.

All that said I looked forward to his arrival every morning and afternoon, looked forward to his gentle smile and his always unanswered question.

And then one day he did something conspicuously un-Murph-like. He handed me a little toy soldier about 1.5" tall. "Do you know where I could get clothes to fit him?" He wasn't just asking me, I knew he had asked at the desks before mine.

I held the surprisingly heavy little figure in my hand, it was painted with a blue and white military uniform, it had a rifle in its hand. "What sort of clothing were you thinking about?"

"What they would wear when trains first went across the country."

I pulled a ruler from my desk, measured the figure and told him I'd look into it. The smile made my offer seem like a gift. He told me to keep the little leadened guy if it would help.

I like little challenges like this, doing something I've never done before — I have no expectations I can ever get it right but it's fun to try new things when it doesn't matter if I succeed or not.

But, strangely, I wanted to with this. I wanted the smile ... I'd get it no matter what, I knew that but if I got it right I could expect to be dazzled by it.

No one sells clothing for little lead soldiers, I knew that but making a little period costume should amount to little more than a few snips and a little thread ... and that would have been it if I didn't get so hooked on the task, wanting to get all the details of the buckskin clad train robber just right, down to the powder horn the dude had around his shoulder.

Hours it took me but fun hours, delightful hours, I won't say I was good at it but I like detail and I loved the challenge ... and I imagined the smile, that drove me on.

I was as excited as a school girl. The little train robber was standing on the corner of my desk, as menacing a bandalerro as I could imagine ... I even painted on a Zappata moustache.

That's how it started.

I went that day after work to his place, a rooming house not far from work. It was a pleasant enough room, quite bright but small with only a bed, small table, comfortable chair, mirror, closet and a toilet down the hall ... and train tracks lacing the floor so I had to step carefully to get anywhere.

I got the story in simple halting phrases. Each year he made a model train scene, he spent the entire year making it and gave it to a charity at Christmas. He would do it in the small sections allowed by his room then assemble all the sections together in the eventual space provided. I got the explanation through a smile as if he was giving me good news which turned out to be not the case. If I could do one I could do ...

He showed me the crude sketch of the completed project: a fairly unimpressive nothingness of track peppered throughout by little stick figures, dozens of them all needing to be dressed. That's when he pulled out the box from beneath his bed, soldiers, a good sized box filled with them, all carrying rifles, except one which he held out to me. The rifle had been filed away so, with the right clothing and the right paint, the soldier could be a farmer or even a woman.

It was his warmth, his need, his puppy-like expectations, that's why I agreed, tentatively, to take a couple of the rifle-bearers and turn them into the train spectators I couldn't yet imagine. But no, he insisted, I must have the box, quite a heavy box, a box too heavy for me ... he would carry it to my place. What choice did I have?

We didn't speak on the bus, not once as I felt the box fuse him to his seat. It was as if he needed to concentrate to get the box from point A to point B. Or it could have been that he was imagining my creations that would populated his landscape, men in work clothes or women in pinafores, umbrellas, like rifles, at the ready.

He stopped stupefied when I turned on the lights to the room. The blackness blazed into brilliance, the furniture, the curtains, the art but he didn't see those he saw only a space where he envisioned all the sections of his creation fastened together in an unending circuit of choo-chooing trains, I knew this the moment I looked at him.

Why do we do what we do when we know we don't want to do it but we do it anyway? He didn't ask, didn't even hint, he didn't have to, his glow said it all.

He was back that night, twice with boxes and four times the next day, and four times the day after, each time with a little more esoteric paraphernalia and track, lots and lots of track that weaved through the room, sometimes to skirt the furniture, some times in open space where the furniture had been removed to pile up in corners.

Did I exist in that apartment? Not to him. The apartment to him was that room. I gave him a key, he came and went as he pleased, spending all his time on his knees, doing whatever would make the scene in his mind's eye come to life. It was on his knees where he would greet me when I came in ... pleasant enough but a little like I was an intruding stranger. It was on his knees where he would accept his dinner ... as if it was his due, nibbling at it occasionally as it grew cold.

He was on his knees when I touched his back, strong, healthy, masculine. I just touched it before I ran my hand down it from shoulder to bum, the first man I had ever touched. He grinned at me but was anything but distracted. Nor was he distracted when I knelt down beside him, when I gently ran my hand up under his shirt.

He is a handsome boy-man so delightfully chock-filled with innocence I had banished all intruding thoughts. One day, two days, three, OK, but he was there every day and I couldn't help but think of him as I stitched together tiny costumes that would all fit one figure. What if? Is it wrong? Can he? Does he want to? That last question was why I did it, I didn't know and I wanted to find out.

He was on all fours when I brought my hand around his body and touched his almost hairless chest, his nipples, then slowly down sitting sideways so I could touch him comfortably.

What was I thinking? I closely read my thoughts because there was nothing to read from him, nothing. I would stop the moment he suggested any objection, stop immediately and never touch him again. I said it and I meant it.

How was I feeling? Randy, and I don't get randy, don't allow myself to let go of myself, there has never been a reason to. But I had one now, an opportunity I couldn't ignore.

I took my time with his belt, as much waiting for him to react as I was waiting for myself to feel the full force of lust, a force that started weakly with curiosity but built quickly with every moment there on the floor.

If the belt and button were daring, the zipper was like slowly opening a curtain to full action. I could feel him as my fingers went down, conspicuous but soft. The excitement in my chest spread with the first touch between my legs, the first truly sexual jolt I have ever had. It was localized at first, like a stab of pain is but it lingered and spread and motivated.

I was wearing slacks that had their own belt and button and zipper which I slowly dealt with as I wrestled with the wrongness and rightness of my intentions. The one quickly over-road the other when I slipped my fingers under my panties and felt my wetness, a kind of permission. This has happened between man and women since the beginning of time, it was happening now, you don't stop yourself.

My fingers went under his underwear and the moment I touch his hot, almost burning flesh, it began to grow as the warmth flooded through me. He may be disinterested but his sex wasn't and mine wasn't either, mine felt like the boiling of magma before the eruption.