Toy Soldier Pt. 01

My knees were wide apart, my legs crossed in front of me, I felt crude and lewd and deliciously sexual with a loud squishing sound as my finders explored a self I really didn't know ... as I explored him, my fingers wrapped around the full length of him as he spread his legs to make it easier for me and the boy became a man.

I pulled his pants and underwear down to make it easier then I stroked. It was like milking a cow, that's the image I had, milking a cow while I dug into myself. I stroked, he grunted and groaned and in a moment went with it with a rhythmic fucking motion until his track was covered in a spewing glacier of milk-white snow, an amount that would have derailed even the sturdiest of engines.

I put him back, zipped him back up ... he was positioning trees around a station when I left ... with my conscience.

The feeling of his penis stiff in my hand was still in my fingers when I lay in my bed and pushed down my open pants and underwear and took my time.

These things escalate, I knew it. He didn't, he had to be brought along, slowly. I was constantly reading him — if this was bad for him I would have stopped, of course I would, but it didn't seem to be, it didn't seem to be good, either. He didn't wait for it, he didn't expect it or even acknowledge it but my whole body did.

When his penis was in my hand I thought back to Mary Eve Gillardi and realized I was a latent version of her, cock is to me what I made it for her ... it was only a matter of time before I had it against my cheek, poking at my eyes, rubbing at my forehead, discharging on my bra, my face, my clothes, the sight of his cum on my clothes made my long bouts afterwards gloriously mental as well as wonderfully physical.

It was always the same, even exactly the same. Knees, a caress of the back, down beside him, opening him, extracting him and then it evolved from a few short pumps, to him on his back then to me on my back, bringing him to me and slowly sucking as I felt myself, getting myself ready for later when I would touch and study his cum while reliving the memory and the short thrusts before his arrival then the cheerful smile as I carefully put him away.

The air of determined industry in the place slowly changed to an air of goodwill and good cheer. But, of course, you want more. Making room among the tracks was one thing ...

I guided him into my bedroom, hand in hand, with complete resolve that if I saw even a hint of reluctance I would stop, immediately. But I knew there would be no such hint, he wanted to please, in this as in everything else I asked of him, the offered space along with my growing army of fully clothed transmogrified lead soldiers had guaranteed his fidelity. Plus, he genuinely liked me, or so he made it feel.

He watched me take my clothes off and when I nodded he started in with his. He wasn't much interested in the body I was slowly revealing, nowhere near as interested in mine as I was in his. He is a handsome boy of around 30, plus or minus five year, strong and wonderfully proportioned with no fat and a nice size penis which appeared entirely disinterested in my huge breasts and big ass, even when I knelt on the bed, even when I nodded for him to do the same. But it came alive in my hand, even if he didn't which made it tough to look at him, my guilt, so I lay him down, positioned him on his side and then lay down in a similar position, reaching back, getting hold of him and pulling so he came with me, up against me and I could fit him in.

It would have been a lot nicer if I thought he wanted to be there, and if he knew what he was supposed to do when he was, so I let him go by moving away, then I moved back in hoping he'd figure it out. He did, eventually — I repeated the manoeuvre three times to coach him. The fucking part was easier, I thrust back at him, he thrust at me and we were good to go ... for about two minutes when I was getting his familiar groans punctuated by his trademark grunt.

"Ok, thank you," was enough to get him quickly dressing so he could get back to his tracks and I could deal with myself tantalizingly, I discovered, teased by the cum flowing out of me.

Is this legal? Is this fair? Is this moral? I wrestled with that. Bottom line: are there two consenting adults here? I didn't know, I wasn't forcing him but he wasn't exactly volunteering either. And anyway, was I getting anything out of it? Yes, definitely, the cock in my hand even more than in me, the feeling of it growing in my palm, pulsating, desiring and in my own mind, insisting.

In time I found that if I undertook prerequisite foreplay with my vibrator, I could call him in and he would come with his moans and his grunt and I could time it fairly close.

There was peace in the land as it formed around meandering track with attentive people watching, expecting, some waving as I learned to graph on lead extremities.

But was it right? I had to live with that. With just a hint from him I could have banished my guilt and would have, it was perfect for me, a roommate, almost, a partner, almost, a new hobby, almost — it was more a mania: I had converted one of the bedrooms into a workplace with every tool known to man to facilitate my work including a brightly lit magnifier for all the detail work, now including painted faces, and little motors that allowed me to disarm the soldiers and little blow torches that allowed me to add arms and expression. I got good at it, you do after 50 of them.

I would be having lunch again with Tosha today, I learned that at 9 o'clock on a Friday morning. And I learned at 12:47 that I would be cooking her dinner.

"Where do you live again?" She had broken the usual long silence at lunch.

"East side."

"Where exactly?" I've noticed she can't hide her impatience.

I gave her the street, not the number.

"I want to see it."

"It's being renovated," I lied, "the place is a mess. Maybe when I get it done."

"Tonight. I'll go back with you after work. We can pick up some food on the way."

"WTF!" She actually used the initials then tried to take it all in, the brightness, the art, the opulent floor-to-ceiling drapes, the heavy over-stuffed furniture stacked along the walls — and the train tracks criss-crossing everywhere as if assembled randomly.

I left her there gawking and headed towards the dining room which I had made into my living room and then the kitchen where I put down the bags of food we had bought.

I was taking the food out when she reached around me for the bottle of wine, I could feel her against me, it felt intimate — I had my own WTF moment. "This first, let's relax and you can explain all this to me."

Not much to explain. It was my parent's place, mine after they died in the plane crash. I haven't done anything with it except to shrink it down to my size by living in about an eighth of it.

She demanded a tour and took her glass and the wine bottle with her as if she would need the sustenance. We ended up in the solarium which is unfurnished except for a chaise long in the centre under the oculus.

She hadn't said a word, nary a comment in any of the rooms, neglect by me but well cared for by the hired help.

She sat on the chaise, stretched out her long, thin, elegant length then reached out a long thin elegant arm with long thin elegant fingers taking my arm and gently but firmly guiding me down so I way lying awkwardly beside her and she had turned in to me, her long thin elegant fingers on my breast.

I don't think this way, or haven't. If I ever did picture myself here it would never have been with her. But is this what she had been hinting at in all our somber rendezvous? The need seemed to be coming out now from the tips of her fingers at first, and then with her lips which pressed against everything they could reach, not passionate kisses, not even insistent kisses, more lip touches than anything as if she was trying to get her lips to decode a mystery.

When her fingers left my breast and fumbled with my shirt before heading up inside I looked at her, probably stupidly. "Just relax," she said, "I want to do this."

I did relax, surprised I could, surprised I could just lie there inertly as Murph had kneeled inertly as a woman had her way with me. Her way was to roughly push up my bra, squeeze my flesh, then push up my bra and shirt further until my breasts were fully exposed and then her cheek was lying on one while she sucked on the other, purring all the time.

It was lovely, really, peaceful and warm and ... lovely, the feeling, the intimacy and the wrongness of it, a wrongness I would capture in my writing the moment she left. Her need was evidently oral, she spent a long time sucking one breast then changed sides and when she did her hand went down to my pants, dextrously dealing with a button and zipper then I could feel her fingers lightly travel my panties until a finger found me and I could hear my own intake of breath.

When I parted my legs she got comfortable and her fingers forced open the elastic and I could feel her fingers raking through my hair.

"You are wet."

I wanted to grab her hair, pull her in, attack her with my lips but I did none of that, I just opened wider and hoped she wouldn't tire easily.

Her hand was caressing my ass as I cooked, rubbing it then going up under my shirt as she leaned against me. Two lonely women making do made some sense but not when one is gorgeous and black and the other isn't and is white. Words couldn't explain this which is just as well because there weren't any, not even a 'good supper.'

It was the couch in my living room this time and then with my bra over my breasts again we were undressing for bed, a soundless event that I found far more confusing than exciting.

Why she needed her fingers in me, I have no idea, and why her lips had to be fused to me, my nipples, my breasts, my shoulders, my arms ... and now my belly, now ... it was expected of me, it was there in front of my face, it smelled of desire, I have written about it but never accurately, it was never like this, there on offer, radiating heat and smell and sex. I went instinctively, without thought except about the night stick so I went softly, gently, separating her to see a glistening pink complexity which my lips kissed and my tongue licked and I lapped at her juices, flowing juices that spoke to me about need and want and desire.

The morning was different. Her need was more muscular, her humping at my leg woke me up and then her Brillo pad was scouring my pussy.

I only fully saw her in the bath. She was facing me, her foot between my legs, her toe in me, she glared at me as she wiggled it in, daring me to object. "I need someone to look after me."

"Whose doing that now?"

"No one. No one ever has. I paint, I'm a painter. I would move my things into the room upstairs, the light is perfect. I would quit my job if you have the money." She wiggled her toe, it felt wonderful.

"Why me?"

"The temperament. The look ... big breasts. You aren't going to say no. That was before I saw this," she waved her hand. "We can go and get my things this afternoon."

"I don't have a car."

"Taxis, not a problem."

She smiled, perfect, even, brilliantly white teeth in a black face arranged to appear as cute as it is pretty. I wondered, "You could pass for 20, how old are you?"

"30. Time to get serious, time to start building a future."

"Here?"

"With you, yes."

She made it sound almost plausible. I removed her foot from between my legs and settled down a little further trying to assert an authority I knew I didn't have. "You've been bossing people around all your life with your beauty, you think you can come here and do it with me."

"I've got the package, it's the contents that needs work, that's where you come in."

"I'm barely getting by with my own ... content. What makes you think I can help you with your's?"

She turned as she pitched toward, turning, forcing her back against me, her head on my chest, her feet up on the tub's rim. There was no place left for my hands but around her waist. "I know, that's why it's going to work ... we can help each other."

"How?"

"You're calm and quiet and peaceful, I need that and I need your big ass and tits and I won't have any competition, I need that too ... I get jealous, in return you get a beautiful woman who wants your calm and quiet and your big tits and ass."

I can find courage when I need it and this took courage, I could easily see the woman moving in, taking over, ordering me about, offering me her body in return, I could easily see it and thought I wanted it ... but didn't know for sure.

"I have one life, I have to lead it to find happiness." It was my pronouncement, my laying down the law.

"Have you so far?" She tried to look back at me but couldn't twist enough.

"I have kept myself contained, I don't like to make rash decisions."

"And this would be a rash decision?"

"A beautiful woman is seducing me, not the best time for decisions."

She turned over, lying on me, her face on my breast, half in and half out of the water. "I am a one woman woman. We will move me in this afternoon."

I thought of Murph, there on all fours looking down on his tracks as I invaded his vulnerability. What goes around comes around. I was no less powerless. I held my breast to make it easier for her at the nipple.

We were in the train room on our way to get her things when she stopped and looked around. "What is this?.

I told her about the Christmas project and that I was making the clothes for the little figures. She appeared confused at first and then disinterested and was at the door about to leave when she turned, looking at the track still with confusion. "Is this the way you're going to give it away? The train, the track, the buildings and people?"

I thought so.

She smiled, she didn't smile very often, she should, it dazzles. "Tell the guy he has an artist on board, an artist who specializes in perspective."

Wendy Griffiths has been gifted neither with beauty nor with good humour, maybe one resulted from the other. She did get the body though or maybe she just manufactured it: she goes to the gym instead of eating lunch and goes to the gym instead of going home after work. She isn't quite a body builder but it's close. Someone said she goes into fitness competitions on her holidays which I could easily imagine.

And I easily imagined her on her back with any of the guys in the gym, they would all be so into it they couldn't help but be into each other. That's why I couldn't quite make it work; it was kind of a non-story to have one ultra-fit body rubbing up against another ultra-fit body. So what? So the guy I imagined her with was just a little bit fat, the kind of guy who was proud of it, who would grip his flabby belly, jiggle it and laugh knowing he would annoy the hell out of the fitness queen, annoy her because he was ignoring her example, didn't care about her example, wasn't impressed by her example, was actually mocking her example.

So what was the attraction? That, precisely that, the mockery: she knew she was way way too serious about this, way too obsessed so he, him, was her way of dealing with that ... while increasing her tempo.

Nothing was going to make her attractive but she could easily appear desirable, the panty line could do that for sure, as did the right bra, not the ones that pushed her up but the ones that contained her sag — that sag accentuated the only fat on her body.

He liked to tease her as she dressed, often while sitting on the bed eating a pop tart which she had expressly forbidden but not enough for her to do the shopping, he did that ... and the cooking ... and the cleaning and pretty much everything else around the house as she trained to beat Luisa Hannity, not that she ever had. He teased her about her vanity all the time, he had none; her sense of style, tight, tighter, tightest; her propensity for black colours, they made her look slimmer, fitter.

He is as handsome as he is good natured. His parents had objected to the marriage, his sister forbade it but he went ahead with it anyway. Why?

She looked at the neat row of Indians she had affected from the lead soldiers, some with spears, some with bows, all looking like the pictures she had neatly piled on the edge of the table. Why would two people like that be attracted to each other, never mind stay together?

He liked her will, her discipline, he had neither. He liked her determination, he had little of that, too. And he liked that she left him alone and was available to him only at certain times ... between work and workouts.

Courting had been an awkward time: two people with literally nothing in common should have a hard time connecting but that wasn't the case. Although she didn't have much of a sense of humour she did appreciate self-derision and he was a master at that with each of his self-effacements implicitly implying her superiority, something unattractive people often have a hard time finding. So getting together was hap-hazard but without competition so after a year they had tied the knot and moved into a very nice condo her parents had bought for them ... with probable relief.

Her jars of supplements fought for space with the diet that made him as chubby as she is svelte. It was a battle of snide comments at first, embarrassing their family and friends until they learned to tone it down and then to drop it entirely. Neither was going to change. Neither actually much cared. But they did love each other in their way, expressing their love often at first, a few times a week until ... they had come full circle. He blamed it on the supplements, she blamed it on his junk food but they physically and emotionally detached, not fell out of love so much as fell out of contact.

The last bout of oral sex was the breaking point for him. She tasted of chemicals, she never had before ... chemicals, like lapping at a toxic sludge.

Didn't mean he couldn't still admire her ... didn't women put toxic crap in their hair and on their face to look better? And it might not have changed things if she hadn't started to succumb to the sludge, at least in his mind. As her compete level accelerated, her emotional level diminished. Sex became only occasional and never very satisfying.

She was always on the top now doing all the work and never even close when she finished. But never mind, she still held him afterwards

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in one of the bedrooms looking for what she could possibly be seeing in me. Quiet calm? Sure, in an expressionless, fat face that would have been cute on another body. Calm because I have accepted who I am, what I am — a bystander, a voyeur making stuff up about other people's lives, that's how I get by, that's what holds my interests, fills my thoughts, keeps me calm. Calm and quiet not by design or personality but because nothing ever happens to me, I haven't let it, I've never had a choice.

Now, maybe, I do.

The breasts and ass are the reason I'm quiet and calm, they have defined me to myself, made me conscious of myself, a fertility figure without allure, that's the way I've been thinking of me since my 18th birthday when I sat in what would be the Train room and planned my future. The voyeur in me had already taken hold, writing erotica about people I've met but didn't know, didn't know anything about. That would be my future, finding a place to meet them was my principle objective. I tried university but hated it because the lives were all the same, all uninteresting, all a pursuit to grow up by experiencing inebriation and gratuitous sex, either that or by locking yourself away in maniacal study. Neither were interesting to me.

The first entry level job I got in a big corporation offered much greater fodder for my imagination except, like the next one, the people weren't very interesting, they were cut-outs, it could have been me, but they all seemed unusually dull. This crop inspired me, I hadn't yet worked my way through all of them and already was re-visiting initial drafts with new ideas ... and fucking one of them, or trying to and being seduced and fucked by another.