Lost And Found free porn video

Authors note. Each characters part has been written in the first person singular. I trust that readers will not be confused by this format. Some of the scenes are of a sexually explicit nature which I believe are necessary for the general plot. However if you don't wish to read them you know what to do. BG. Lost and Found. By Belle Gordon Kimberly. My doorbell buzzed. One short two long one short. Damn, who can that be? I silently cursed whoever my visitor might be. It was unusual for anyone to call, except perhaps creepy Norman the building supervisor, in which case I wouldn't open the door. I did not really want to see anyone this evening; I was planning on indulging myself with a little pampering and some time spent en-femme. I'd already soaked in a long hot bubble bath, shaved my legs and painted my toe nails. My still wet hair was wrapped in a towel otherwise I was naked. Donning my silk kimono I padded barefoot to the door and squinted through the spy hole to see who was there. The slightly distorted image I saw took my breath away. Wiping his neck with a hand towel stood a powerfully built man. He was about 6 feet tall, wore a sweat stained singlet, jogging shorts, white socks and running shoes. And was probably the most handsome man I'd ever seen. I did not know who he was or why he should be ringing my bell, but I knew I had to open the door. Clutching the kimono to my throat and making sure the safety chain was engaged and inched the door open. "Hi," he said in a deep growly voice, "sorry to bother you, but I've just moved into 4A across the hall and I thought I'd introduce myself and get to know my neighbour. My name's Peter Headland." He held his hand out to be shaken. I released the chain and swung the door open. For several seconds I stared at him seemingly having lost the power of speech. When I tore my eyes from his I stammered, "Hello. I'm Kim Field, pleased to meet you." I held out my hand. He took my limp fingers in his firm grip and pumped it up and down twice. He held it a little longer than was necessary before giving it a slight squeeze and letting it go. I watched his eyes scanning up and down my body. It slightly unnerved me as I'm sure I detected a hint of lust in his eyes. My own eyes dropped under his gaze and I was shocked to see movement in the crutch of his shorts. My God! He's getting an erection I thought. "I was wondered if you'd like to come over later for a beer and a chat," he said. "Yes, I'd love to. Thank you." I immediately cursed myself for agreeing, I was planning to spend the evening dressed in my newest lingerie and a sumptuous negligee that had arrived in the post today and I was dying to put them on. "Say about eight?" he said. "OK." He quickly turned away but not before I saw a definite bulge in his shorts. I stepped back inside my apartment and closed the door. My emotions jumped from shock to excitement. I was unsure whether I should be ashamed or flattered when I thought of the effect I'd had on him. I'd never caused this reaction in anyone before. I must have imagined it, I told myself. Why would a virile, extremely attractive man (did I just say that) have the hots for me? Peter. I came to the edge of the Regent's park and paused to jog on the spot for a few minutes to warm down. After a hard and fast circuit of the outer circle I was sweating and breathing hard but it felt good to get out onto the road again and to get my muscles working. For the last few weeks I'd neglected to exercise and I knew I was starting to get flabby and put on a little weight. I'd been made redundant due to downsizing, but I'd managed to get a new job almost immediately thanks to contacts I knew in the business. Only problem was it meant moving to London from Manchester but again I'd been fortunate. I obtained a list of apartments for rent from a letting agency and was lucky enough to find a place in a fashionable area of St John's Wood. It would be an easy tube ride to the office block in the City where my new job was, and I might even buy myself a bicycle, I thought. The building was situated in Cavendish Avenue at the back of Lord's cricket ground (which was a bonus). It was a four story over basement early Victorian house, originally built as a town house for some landed gentry. It had been sold and converted into flats after the war when the nobility discovered they could no longer afford the upkeep of several houses. It was quite a spacious apartment with two bedrooms, lobby, a big living/dining room with kitchen off and a large bathroom. I used the second, smaller bedroom as an office/den and set up my computers on the antique desk I'd shipped in with the rest of my furniture. Before I could move in the caretaker, Norman Dyke, a man I took an instant dislike to, had interviewed me and explained the rules. He made it clear that the house was a males only establishment and that females were prohibited in the building at all times, which I thought was a bit of an old fashioned attitude in this day and age, but didn't make an issue of it because there were always ways to circumvent the rules. He occupied the ground floor front apartment and spent his time observing the comings and goings of all his boys, as he liked to call us. He was also responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of the property, a job I was soon to discover, he did with a minimum of enthusiasm. I took the stairs to my floor and as I reached the landing I thought, it was about time I met my neighbour. I'd lived here for nearly a month and I didn't know who lived in the apartment opposite. Once or twice I'd caught glimpses of a slight, youngish man as he'd been coming or going, but I knew no more about him. I pressed his bell, using my signature ring, one short two long one short, the Morse code for 'P', a silly habit I'd gotten into when visiting one of my old girlfriends. There was a long delay and I was about to turn away when the door slowly opened. Standing there clutching a floral silk bathrobe to his throat, his head wrapped in a towel and smelling of lavender and lilac was a small thin guy. He was quite short, only about 5'5" I guessed, slight build and delicate features. For a moment I thought this person was a woman, and that somehow she'd got round Norman's rules. As we made our introductions I scanned him from his turbaned head to his bare feet, whose toenails I was surprised to see were painted a bright red. His face was small and oval, his eyes large and blue, his lips full and luscious (and oh so kissable). He had a slender neck atop narrow shoulders. The hands that held the kimono tightly to his chest were those of a pianist, long and thin, with well manicured nails coated in a clear varnish. He said his name was Kim and he'd love to come for a beer. I beat a hasty retreat then because the sight of this divine creature was giving me a hard on and I was sure he would notice the swelling in my shorts. Safely inside my apartment I poured myself a stiff whisky and gulped it down. What was the matter with me? I wasn't gay, yet here was a young guy who was getting me all excited. Who was giving me an erection for Christ's sake! Something that definitely shouldn't be happening. OK, he seemed nice enough, but to lust after him was a definite no-no. And yet, there was something about him that really turned me on. I stripped off and went into the shower. Perhaps a dose of cold water would calm me down. Kimberly. Well, my anticipated evening of lounging around in my satin and lace would have to be postponed till the weekend. Usually the other tenants left London to go and stay with family or friends, and then with the house to myself it was safe to indulge myself in total femininity with no risk of being disturbed. Until then I'd have to wear boring boy clothes. But even with these I favoured unisex designs; I liked pastel colours and soft floaty fabrics in as feminine a style as I thought I could get away with. I entered my bedroom, slipped the kimono off my shoulders and hung it behind the door, then unwound the towel from my head. I sat at my vanity table and began to brush and comb my hair which was now almost dry. It was cut fairly short, a uniform 2 inches in length, and was naturally curly. At the front I combed it forward so that the curls fell over my forehead, and at the sides I pulled two long locks down into my cheeks to that they formed an elegant loop (what used to be called kiss curls). I held the coils of hair in place with two spring clips and sprayed a little styling mousse on them to fix it in place. The effect I created would look a bit foppish on a man but most striking on a woman. I took a lot of care with my hair, washing it daily and using only the best shampoos and conditioners. I visited my hairdresser every fortnight where Carol (who called it a pixie cut) trimmed it and kept in perfect shape. When I was happy with it I turned my thoughts to what I should wear to my visit neighbour. I didn't want to wear the stuff I wore everyday for college, which was normally jeans, a tee-shirt and sweater. I wanted to look my best and as I was feeling feminine I decided I'd have to find something a little more soft and androgynous. But at the same time I didn't want to appear too effeminate and have Peter think I was a pansy. I chose a pair of soft grey woollen ladies slacks that could just about pass for men's trousers, with a wide leather belt; a pink cotton short- sleeved shirt worn over a white silk camisole that could be mistaken for a vest if one didn't look too closely. I knotted a silk Hermes scarf around my neck leaving the two ends outside my shirt. Thinking about footwear, I remembered that when I'd answered the door my feet had been bare and that I'd just painted my toenails. Oh well, as he'd surely seen them there was no point trying to hide them, so I slipped my feet into a pair of tooled leather flip-flops that I'd bought in Marrakesh where I'd holidayed last year. Finally, as a consolation for being deprived of the pleasure of an evening en-femme, I selected a pair of yellow satin panties with white lace trim. I made myself a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich then watched television till 8 o'clock. As the time for my visit approached I began to feel a tiny bit nervous and apprehensive. I began to worry that he wouldn't like me; that he'd think I wasn't butch enough and he'd see me as a sissy. I fretted that my clothes were too outrageous. At 5 past the hour I almost chickened out and changed into jeans and tee-shirt. But I didn't, rationalizing that if he thought I was a poof then so be it. I checked my appearance in my hall mirror as I left and liked what I saw. I pushed his bell, one short buzz only. His door opened immediately as though he'd been waiting for me to ring. "Hi," he said. "Do come in. You're most welcome." "Thanks, it's nice of you to ask me." Peter was dressed casually in jeans and check shirt. Black slip-on shoes on bare feet. His shirt was open revealing and forest of thick black chest hair. A heavy gold chain hung round his neck. The lay-out of his apartment was the same as mine but decorated in an unashamedly masculine style. There were lots of browns, leathers, heavy furniture, and bare wood floors. Sporting paraphernalia were dotted about; a fishing rod propped in a corner, a gun case on a side-table, a rugby ball and a cricket bat on the floor under it. Hunting prints adorned his walls and several silver trophies were displayed on shelves. "Have a seat," he invited. I sank into the embrace of an enormous leather chesterfield and my feet barely touched the floor. "Would you like a beer or something else?" "I'd love a white wine spritzer if you have any," I replied. "No problem," he said as he hurriedly left the room. He was back in no time with a tall glass of wine and a can of beer. "Here's to good neighbours," he said. We clinked glass against can and I held the stem and sipped the chilled drink. "So, tell me about yourself," he invited sitting across from me in an equally enormous armchair. "Well, my name is Kimberly Fields, Kim for short. I'm 22 and a student at the London School of Art and Design." "Kimberly's usually a girl's name, how come you have it?" "It's a long story, but briefly I was christened Kimberly in honour of my great grandfather who made a fortune in the Kimberly diamond mines in South Africa at the turn of the century. And also my parents had really wanted a girl." The evening flew past and I was very surprised when I glanced at my wristwatch to see it was almost midnight. It was easy talking to Peter; he was a fascinating character with a fund of amusing stories and anecdotes. He knew lots of interesting people and had me in stitches on several occasions with his witty and insightful observations. As he walked me to the door of his apartment he said, "Kim it's been a wonderful evening. I've enjoyed your company so much. I hope we can meet again." "As we only live across the hall from each other I'm sure we shall." I replied somewhat facetiously. "No I mean I'd like to see you socially." "Do you mean you'd like a date?" I asked teasingly. The poor man actually blushed and I wished I hadn't said it. But somehow it was how I thought of it. "If you like," he mumbled. "Ok I'm free every evening, my course work doesn't take long. I'd love to see you again." "That's great. What about tomorrow, we could go for a pizza?" "I've a better idea. Why don't you come to my flat and I'll cook us something?" I suggested. "Ok. I'll be there about seven." I felt so happy that he wanted to see me again that as I left I turned and kissed him on the cheek. After I closed my door I looked through the spy hole and saw that he still stood there brushing his fingers against the spot where my lips had kissed him. Peter. Wow, I don't think I've ever met such a remarkable creature. From the moment he entered my apartment I was totally captivated by him. He seemed so small and vulnerable sitting on my sofa that I had an urge to sit by him and take him in my arms to offer him protection. I didn't of course but he did have the effect of making me garrulous; I talked incessantly about anything that came into my head, mostly utter drivel. But he seemed to be amused by it and laughed a lot in a delightfully charming manner, covering his mouth with his hand in a most endearing fashion. As we talked I took stock of him. He was very slight and must have weighed less than 60 kilos. He sat almost primly with his knees together and turned to the side. His thin arms and slender hands he kept folded in his lap except when illustrating a point, and then his hands moved gracefully and eloquently. His teeth were perfect; straight and porcelain white with no sign of any dental work, (I later learned that he'd worn braces as a child). He was blessed with adorable lips. Lips any woman would have died for; full and pouty and a perfect cupid bow shape. His blue/grey eyes appeared almost too large for his delicate elfin face. Long dark lashes curled upward and appeared to be blackened with mascara. His rich auburn hair was shining with health, catching the light as his curls bobbed and shook. I longed to touch it; to run my fingers through it; to smell it and bury my face in its fullness. His dress was somewhat effeminate. His trousers were clearly made for a woman as the zip and button were at the back and there was no fly. His shirt was a man's, - but salmon pink? Under it I could just make out the shape of what I'm sure was a woman's camisole top. The shoulder straps were too narrow for a man's vest and I thought I could detect lace on the front. And he was definitely wearing panties because on one occasion when he bent forward the white lacy waist band was visible. I wondered if he was a transvestite. The thought of him dressing as a woman excited me strangely. If he was not a TV he had a very definite preference for feminine fashion. All too soon the evening was over. I had to be up for work in the morning and Kim had classes. As he was leaving I asked if I could see him again and he jokingly inquired if I was asking him for a date. I blushed because unconsciously I was beginning to think of him as a girl whom I'd like to take out. He noticed my embarrassment and kissed me on my cheek as he left. The feel of his lips on my skin remained for a long time and my dreams that night were of a beautiful young boy dancing in flowing gossamer robes and singing in an adorably sweet voice. Kimberly. He rang his Morse code 'P' at exactly 7 o'clock. I hadn't expected him to be so punctual; I had only just returned from my dance class and was in no way ready to entertain. Never-the-less I rushed to the door to let him in. He was as devastatingly handsome as I remembered and my heart fluttered when I opened the door. He'd dressed more formally this evening in grey slacks, white shirt with a cravat and a blue blazer. He was freshly shaved, his hair was neatly combed and he smelled of Old Spice aftershave. He carried a bottle of wine in one hand and a posy of flowers in the other. "I'm sorry, Peter, I was late back from my class. Sit down and have a beer while I take a quick shower." His mouth had dropped open when he saw me and I knew he was wondering why I was dressed so bizarrely. I was late leaving the dance studio, so being in a hurry I hadn't bothered to change. I'd simply put a Burberry raincoat on over my dance kit of pink leotard, white tights and pink satin ballet shoes and left like this. I guess I must have looked a bit strange to him. He silently handed me the wine and flowers. Ten minutes later I was in the kitchen preparing a meal. Peter came in and talked as he watched me putting the meal together. He asked if he could do anything. "Would you open the wine, please? The food's nearly ready," I said. "Of course," he said taking the corkscrew I handed to him. As he worked pulling the cork he said, "I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I think you look really nice." I glanced at Peter and was amused to see he was slightly embarrassed paying me the compliment. I'd deliberately dressed little more outrageously than last time. I wanted to be a bit shocking and I'd given a lot of thought to what I should wear. I'd chosen a sleeve-less gauzy muslin top. I tied the ends together instead of buttoning it and in so doing I exposed the jewel in my navel piercing, and a pair of white girl's hot-pants shorts that were so small and tight I could barely get into them, but they showed my exceptional legs well and hugged my butt beautifully. Under them I wore a tiny g-string thong. I wanted to flaunt myself and be provocative, hopefully getting the same reaction from him that I'd achieved the previous evening when he'd got hard looking at me. The idea that I could excite him sexually gave me a deliciously wicked thrill. "No I don't mind at all," I replied. "In fact it's kind of you to say so; I always love to get compliments. And if I may say so, I think you look very handsome too." I smiled shyly at him as I said this. "Now let's eat." The evening was very relaxed. After we'd eaten we said together talking and laughing. He wanted to know about my dancing. I explained that I attended was a somewhat unorthodox dance academy where we were taught to dance the roles of both sexes. He was fascinated and encouraged me to give a little performance of my ballet skills. I put my ballet shoes on again, making a show of winding the ribbons around my ankles and tying them. I then demonstrated some of the moves we'd practiced this afternoon. "These are some of the steps the men dance during a performance." I explained, as I executed a series of basic moves. "Bravo" Peter said when I bowed gracefully at the end of my demo and clapped his hands. "Would you like to see some girl's moves now?" I asked. "Definitely." "Ok, I'll need some music for this. And I should really be wearing a tutu for the full effect." I selected the disc I wanted and started the stereo. I then danced a solo part of Pas de Quarte Small Swans from act 2 of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. On completion I curtseyed deeply before him and Peter applauded approvingly. At the end of my display I flopped onto the couch beside him and lay against the back breathing heavily and fanning my face with my hand. He draped his arm across my shoulders and gave me a hug. "Kim, you're brilliant," he said. "You have a natural talent. And you're a better ballerina than a danseur. I'd love you to dance some more." "Thank you. But not now, I'm exhausted. Next time I'll do it properly and wear the correct costume." Again the evening flew by and soon it was midnight. I walked to the door with him clutching his arm and as he turned to say goodnight I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him squarely on the lips. I expected him to be shocked and revolted by my spontaneous gesture but instead he accepted it as though it was perfectly natural for two men to kiss. He held me around my waist and pulled my small body hard against his. To my astonishment I could feel that he had a huge erection and that he was pressing it against me. As our lips parted I was startled to see his eyes roll up into his head and he began to jerk and convulse. His knees went week and he sagged against me. My god, I thought he's having a seizure, he must be an epileptic. For several seconds he shuddered and ground his teeth together, the tendons in his neck stood out and he'd stopped breathing. I didn't know what to do and was thinking that maybe I should call an ambulance, then his eyes slowly came back into focus and he remembered where he was. "I'm sorry," he croaked looking down at the floor, "I have to go. See you on Monday." He quickly released me, turned and bolted out of the door. Peter. All day I kept thinking about him. The way he smiled and the sound of his laughter. The way he held his head; the way he gestured with his expressive hands. I marvelled at the line of his neck, the curve of his cheek and the swell of his perfect bubble butt. And most of all I thought of the touch of his lips on my cheek. Never had anyone obsessed me as he did. I found it hard to concentrate on my work and at lunchtime I told my boss I was feeling unwell and left. I bought a bottle of wine on my way home and on an impulse I purchased a small bunch of flowers from the old woman's stall at the tube station entrance. In my apartment I paced the floor restlessly constantly checking the time. Impatiently I went out and got a haircut. I bought a new shirt. I showered, shaved and polished my shoes. Finally after an agonizingly long afternoon the clock ticked up to 7 o'clock. He opened the door to my ring and babbled something about being late home from classes. He removed his mackintosh and hung it on a coat hook at the back of the door. Underneath it, I was surprised to see, he wore a girls pink long-sleeved leotard that moulded itself to his slim body, emphasizing his curves and angles; a pair of white nylon tights that accentuated his superb long legs, and on his dainty feet ballet slippers. I stared in open wonder at the most erotic sight I'd ever seen. My cock immediately became aroused and I was afraid he'd see it tenting the front of my trousers. I had to quickly sit down to hide the evidence of my excitement. He excused himself and left the room to shower. I sat with my beer and tried to relax enough to allow my penis to subside. I had finally got myself back under control when he re-appeared this time wearing an outfit that was possibly even more immodest than his clinging ballet garb. He wore a flimsy muslin shirt with a floral pattern that he'd left unbuttoned. The bottom edges he'd tied together in a knot that left his midriff bare. Despite the printed pattern it was quite see- through and his pointy dark nipples and hairless chest were clearly visible. I saw that his naval was pierced with a gold ring and suspended from it on a short chain was what looked like a small diamond. On his lower half he wore a skimpy pair of shorts that sat low on his hips. They were barely 6 inches from waistband to leg and made from thin white cotton that, like his top was partially see-through. Under them I could discern a tiny black g string. When he turned his back to me the bottom curves of his buttocks were exposed below the leg holes. The tiny garment was so tight fitting that the front bulged obscenely and the material moulded itself like a second skin to his lovely derriere. The swell of his globes and the dark ravine bisecting them were clearly visible through the opaque cloth. His legs were incredible. Long and straight and curvaceous, smooth and hairless; legs any woman would be proud of. His firm thighs tapered to soft dimpled knees before widening to perfect calves then narrowing to his shapely ankles. His petite feet with their red nails were bare. He walked on his toes accentuating and tightening his calves. He was an altogether stunning sight; a sight that immediately re-aroused me to painful hardness. I was unable to take my eyes from his lovely legs and undulating buttocks constrained in his tight shorts as he moved around preparing supper. I offered to help but he insisted I wait and he would serve me. I opened the wine and gratefully took a swig hoping to calm my fevered nerves. I don't remember what we ate. My whole attention was on his exciting body and beautiful face. The tantalizing glimpses I caught of his nipples peeping out of his shirt and the provocative way he served the food, often bending unnecessarily and flaunting his superb butt. I was thankful that the table hid my massive erection; I could feel my boxers becoming damp from leaking pre-cum. After the meal I asked to use his bathroom. I hoped the break would give me a chance to reduce the swelling in my pants. Once inside I sat on the bowl and breathed deeply in an effort to calm down. I became aware of the flowery perfumed aroma that filled the air, a heady scent of roses and blossoms. I looked around and noticed that on the shelves and vanity top were a great many bottles and jars, aerosols, tubes and sachets. There were many different brands of shampoos, conditioners, skin creams and lotions as well as talcum powder, moisturizing creams, eau-de-toilette, hair-spray and mousse. This explained how he maintained his wonderfully soft skin and glowing hair. Rather than reduce my raging hard-on the sight and smells of all these feminine products only increased it. Adjusting my cock to as comfortable position as I was able I returned to the sitting room. Kim had cleared the table and made coffee and was sitting on his chintz sofa. He patted the space besides him indicating I should sit next to him. The sagging seat of the couch caused us to lean against each other and I was very aware of his presence and the fragrant odour of his body. We talked as we drank our coffees and I quizzed him about his dancing. I asked him if he would give me a demonstration of his dancing skill. He feigned reluctance at first but he fetched his ballet shoes and made a big show of putting them on and binding the ribbons around his ankles. "You have to remember I'm not very good, so please don't laugh," I said. "I promise." He was a little self conscious to begin with but after he'd demonstrated some to the basic moves he asked if I'd like to see him dance a girl's role. He put a CD on the stereo and danced to the music of Swan Lake. He was sensational. I was totally entranced. He moved with such grace and elegance jumping and scissoring his legs as he danced the part of a cygnet. It was without doubt the most erotic exhibition I'd ever witnessed. He concluded his performance with an elaborate courtesy. I was terrified he would see my rampant hard-on that was now impossible to hide, and the spreading wet spot from the leaking pre-cum that was darkening the front of my trousers. I was mortified that this young man should have this effect on me. I couldn't understand why my libido was so enflamed by the presence of this effeminate boy, and why I was powerless to do anything about it. I planned to return to Manchester tomorrow and I prayed the womanly charms of Susan my girlfriend would banish these homoerotic fantasies. "Kim," I said, as I was leaving. "I have to go away for the weekend, but if you aren't doing anything on Monday would you like to go out for a meal?" "Oh, yes Peter. I'd love to. And thank you for coming tonight, it's been a lovely evening." Then he threw his arms around my neck and kissed me full on the lips. Instinctively I held his waist and kissed him back pushing my boner hard against him. The pressure on my cock was too much; I was tipped over the edge. After spending the last few hours in a state of high sexual excitement my balls were aching for release. I came in my pants in long juddering explosions. Four or five times I spurted my spunk into my boxers. I almost collapsed as my knees turned to jelly. My underpants were flooded with a huge quantity of cum that soaked through my trousers leaving a massive stain. As the exquisite climax abated and my senses returned to normal, the realization of what had just happened hit me. I had just had a spontaneous and powerful orgasm whilst pressing my cock hard against a beautiful boy's body. Never in my life had I ever experienced anything like it, and never with anyone of my own sex. In my embarrassment I almost ran from his flat to the safety of my own. Kimberly. Following his abrupt departure I leant against the door and pondered on the cause of his hasty retreat. Suddenly it hit me. Like the sun re- appearing from behind a dark cloud, I clearly understood what had occurred; he'd had an orgasm. Whilst pressing his erect penis against me he'd ejaculated. For several seconds I was shocked by the notion that I could have this effect on another man, then a sneaking feeling of pride and satisfaction came over me and I smiled to myself. Norman. So far life had dealt me some pretty shitty hands. From as early as I could remember I detested and feared my father. He was a bully both verbally and physically with a violent and quick temper. Both my mother and I suffered at his hands (and fists) and I'd often hear her pleading with him to stop beating her. I'm convinced it was his treatment of her that eventually caused her to crack under the strain. Being unable take any more punishment and abuse she'd found freedom in an overdose of paracetamol. At the earliest possible age I was sent off to boarding school. Life in an all-boy's school suited me; I enjoyed the company and camaraderie of my fellow pupils and for the same reason after my schooling ended I joined the army. I loved the environment of an all male society; the rough and tumble, the casual nakedness and coarse conversations, the drunkenness and swearing. I soon realized I preferred the company of men to women. Life was good till fate intervened again and dealt me a bitter blow. On the gunnery range I stood too close to a firing howitzer. The explosion and concussion ruptured an ear drum leaving me partially deaf and the army does not want half deaf soldiers so I was unceremoniously discharged as being medically unfit. Father was furious; not with the army of course, but with me for being so stupid as to get myself thrown out. My only possible future he announced was marriage and a job; he certainly wasn't going to support me. I didn't even get to choose a partner. The daughter of a friend of father's was selected to be my spouse. Years later I learnt that to settle a debt father had agreed to take the woman off his hands so that he could be rid of her. If I'd been more of a man and less of a wimp I would have refused to countenance such an arrangement, but I was so afraid of my father that I complied with his wishes without a word of protest. Rosemary Pond was a repulsive woman. She was fifteen years my senior, was grossly overweight, had a dreadful completion, rotting teeth and straggly thinning hair. Her manner was course and abrasive, she was rude to the point of insulting and her language was appalling. Her personal hygiene left much to be desired, she was unkempt and smelt. It was no wonder that she was still unmarried. The wedding ceremony was a fiasco. Rosemary was so heavy she was unable to walk the length of the aisle to the altar and required the use of a wheelchair and two ushers to push her. The rector arrived late, was drunk, and confused our names with a couple he'd married previously. Then as the vows were being completed my father had a massive heart attack and dropped dead. All I could think was why he didn't die before I'd committed myself to the: for richer, for poorer; for better or worse, etc etc.; and said 'I do.' The marriage was a disaster from the start. When I first saw her naked on our wedding night I almost threw up. The revolting woman wore a hideous silken night gown that strained at the seams to contain the rolls of flesh. In her imagination she no doubt saw herself as attractive and desirable. She performed a grotesque striptease, gyrating and swaying obscenely, then throwing the nightdress aside she advanced on me, her pendulous breasts swaying and hanging over her enormous stomach. Rolls of fat sagged from her upper arms and her cellulite covered thighs were a big as my waist. A huge hairy bush covered the lower half of her abdomen. That I was unable to get any sort of an erection came as no surprise to me. Seeing my limp cock she endeavoured to arouse me by roughly handling my penis and then by taking me into her mouth in a futile attempt at fellatio. Having no success the awful woman began screaming at me that it was my duty to satisfy her, and if I couldn't manage it with my pathetic little prick I must bring her relief in some other way. She grabbed me, threw me onto my back, and then crawled on top of me straddling my head with her mammoth thighs. With her colossal weight sitting on my face I was almost asphyxiated. Grinding her hairy crutch against me, my nose hard against her clitoris, I was obliged to suck her dripping cunt. Finally after climaxing several times she rolled off me allowing me to gasp the clean sweet air. From then on my life was a constant misery. I was forced into a role of total servitude. Any argument or dissent on my part was countered with verbal abuse and/or physical violence. I was required to wake an hour before her, select the clothes she'd wear that day, which I'd previously washed and ironed; cook and serve her an enormous fried breakfast in bed, wash the kitchen floor, empty the dishwasher and dispose of the garbage all before leaving for work at 7:30. At the end of my working day, stacking selves in a supermarket I'd cycle home (I was not allowed to use the car) where I had to cook another vast meal, serve it and clean up afterwards. After her evening meal I helped her to the bathroom where sitting on an adapted stool I sponged her gross body and washed her hair. Dried and powdered I assisted her to her bed where she settled for an evening of television viewing. Then I started work cleaning the house, doing the laundry, ironing and a hundred other chores. She had a little bell that she'd ring whenever she wanted me, and whenever I heard it I had to drop whatever I was doing and attend her immediately. I dreaded the sound of that bell, especially when it rang late in the evening. On entering her room she'd beckon me in with a bashful smile and I knew what was expected of me. I'd strip off, lie on the bed and she'd mount my face smothering me with her repellent crutch and then for the next hour I'd service her with my mouth and tongue bringing her to multiple orgasms. After she was satisfied I'd be dismissed to continue with my chores before collapsing exhausted onto the sofa-bed in a back room I'd been banished to. I considered running away because I didn't know for how much longer I'd be able keep up the punishing regime she subjected me to, and was actively making plans when fate dealt me a much better hand. She found a lump in her breast. It turned out to be a particularly virulent strain of cancer; so aggressive that a mastectomy and massive doses of chemo and radio therapy failed to check it. She was dead inside six months. Four months after her funeral I was dealt a royal flush. I received a letter from a firm of solicitors informing me that I had inherited a house in St John's Wood, London, and cash and shares totalling 27 million pounds from an aunt who'd recently passed away. I'd never met the woman but it seemed as I was her only living relative her whole estate had come to me. For a long time I didn't know what to do with the house, and considered selling it, but my newly engaged financial advisor said that the current property market was very weak and I should hold on to it for a while. In the meantime he suggested I should do it up and let the rooms to paying guests as there was a strong demand for rental accommodation in central London. I spent one and half million pounds modifying and improving the rooms and in the end I had eight luxury apartments one of which I kept for myself. I equipped the kitchens and bathrooms with the most modern appliances available; I fitted expensive carpets and drapes throughout but left the remaining rooms empty for the tenants to furnish as they wished. During the renovations I installed miniature wireless surveillance cameras in all the rooms, landings and hall. They were hidden inside light fittings, and being the latest development in espionage technology they were so small as to be virtually undetectable. Connected to the electrical mains supply they ran indefinitely and eliminated the need for batteries. The CCTV's were connected to a bank of monitors which I've installed in a room that I keep locked and by switching from one to another I was able to observe any room in the house and listen to conversations. Finally I fitted new locks to all the doors and kept duplicate keys. Remembering the dreadful experiences with my wife I've sworn I will never live or even share a house with another woman, and also recalling how pleasant life was in the single sex world of school and the army, I decided I would rent the apartments to young single males only. I interviewed each applicant to assess their suitability and only selected the most presentable, charming and agreeable men. I employed a detective agency to carefully check their backgrounds and their financial solvency so that I'd know they could afford the monthly rents. I made it clear that this was a non smoking establishment and drunkenness would not be tolerated, and also that women were not allowed in the house at any time. If they had a problem with these rules then they should not become tenants but if they disobey them and are caught then they will be summarily evicted. I had these clauses written into their leases which they all signed. So far none of my boys (as I like to call them) has given me any cause for complaint. The first tenant I accepted I allocated to the room opposite to mine, 1B. Joseph Beach is 30 years old and my oldest tenant and a bit of a mystery. He leaves early each morning before dawn and arrives back at around midnight. What he does I do not know. My investigations only reveal that he enters a large government building in Whitehall where he stays the whole time. I've carefully searched his rooms but can find no clues. He leaves nothing behind but spare clothes. There is no food, books, documents or any personal items in the apartment. Each weekend he leaves on Friday morning and returns on Monday evening. He never has any guests and appears to use the place only for sleeping. On the second floor living in 2A is Paul Rivers, a 25 year old civil engineer and religious fanatic. He belongs to an obscure sect named 'The Church of the Hallowed Way', who believe that true understanding and forgiveness can only be achieved through the constant purging of sins. This is attained by daily prayer and punishment. On Wednesday nights each week his disciples gather in his apartment to pray and worship in a room he's converted to a chapel. The room is illuminated with dim red glowing lanterns and heady incense fills the air from smouldering joss sticks. Each week I watch their ritual with rapt attention. At the sound of a gong the men file in dressed in heavy crimson cloaks with cowls covering their bowed heads. As the service progresses, alternating between praying and chanting, kneeling and standing, the men slowly become filled with a spiritual fervour that steadily builds in intensity, till at a word from the leader they throw their cloaks off and stand naked. Forming a circle the ten men begin to flog the man before him with tawses and whips. To the regular beat of a drum, and a low hypnotic chanting, each man gives and receives a stroke to each calf, the back of the knees, the thighs, on each buttock, the small of the back and across the shoulders. Then at a signal they turn about and repeat the beatings on the man who's now ahead of him. This continues for ten times till their backs, buttocks and legs are a mass of angry red wheals. At the climax of the ceremony, when each man's body is red, sore and bleeding, they are in a state of high sexual excitement. Standing together facing the altar they masturbate, then as each man approaches his climax he advances to the altar and pours his ejaculations into a silver challis that stands on a raised dais. When each man is spent their combined outpourings are blessed and the consecrated man-juice is offered to each supplicant. Kneeling before the priest each man takes the cup, brings it to his lips and drinks the sanctified cum in a perverse form of Holy Communion. Across the hall in 2B lives John Cape. John is a doctor who works at the nearby Wellington Hospital as a paediatrician. He is also a secret paedophile. I have discovered hundreds of images on his computer which he is not very skilled at hiding. He belongs to a ring of like minded individuals with whom he shares pictures and movies. I am considering ways of getting rid of him as I do not want this kind of pervert in my house. I am undecided whether to inform his superiors or the police about his activities. But he is soon to be exposed. On the next floor in 3A I've installed Justin Meadow. He owns a successful gymnasium and fitness centre in Sussex Gardens and is a committed and devoted body-builder. His clients are split between the middle-aged over weigh and out of condition, and young upwardly mobiles that are keen to stay in top shape. The elder group attend during the day and the younger set in the evenings. When Justin is not instructing or taking aerobics classes, he works out using the full range of equipment in the gym. When he gets to his apartment in the evening he eats a meal of high protein food, them mixes up the many supplements and steroids he uses to increase his bulk and muscle mass. I always try to observe him because I know that after he showers he poses in front of a large mirror he's installed. With his gleaming oiled black skin the pumped up muscles and sinews stand out in wonderful relief. It is a huge thrill for me to watch him stretching and bending and tensing his powerful muscles. I find the whole exhibition highly erotic and I sometimes spontaneously orgasm as I drool over his perfect manly form. In 3B is Gordon Lake. He's recently been made a senior partner in his father's law firm. As this promotion carried with it a big salary increase, Gordon decided it was time to cut the apron strings and move out of the family home. He works long hours and likes to keep fit. He joined Justin's gym and sometimes the two of them work out together in Justin's apartment. It is a startling contrast to compare Justin's bulging muscular black physique with Gordon's thin white frame. Gordon's other interest, which he is at pains to keep secret, is an addiction to internet pornography in particular to that dealing with she-males and lady boys. He will spend several hours at a time surfing the net looking at sites that cater to his tastes. He is also a compulsive masturbator and will jerk-off several times during each session at his computer. My newest tenant in 4A is Peter Headland. He's 26 and works in the City as a commodities broker. A well-built handsome man who likes to keep fit by running in the park most mornings. He tends to keep to himself staying in his flat during the week and at weekends he returns to his native Manchester. I have had insufficient time to discover much more about him but my research will continue. So far I've uncovered nothing incriminating about him. Finally in number 4B is my special favourite. Diminutive Kimberly Field is a 22 year old student and is quite the prettiest boy I've ever seen. Of all the apartments I have under surveillance its Kimberly's I maintain a 24 hour watch on. The reason being that he has an individual trait that interests me especially; he loves to cross-dress. He's a talented transvestite and female mimic. I had to attend a business appointment on Friday but as soon as I returned I went immediately to the locked room and switched on the screen that monitors his room. As on most Fridays everyone leaves for the weekend to stay with friends or family leaving only Kim and myself in residence. As the screen comes to life I'm relieved to see that Kim is in his bathroom taking a shower. I'm hoping he'll do what he often does on a Friday evening; transform himself from a pretty boy into stunning young woman. I start the recording machine just as he emerges from his bathroom rubbing his wet hair with a towel but otherwise completely naked. His skin is startlingly white with not a single blemish nor any sign that he's ever been exposed to sunshine. His smooth body is completely hairless except for a small tuft at the root of his penis which is quite large for such a small person. My breathing quickens and my pulse accelerates as I watch him shimmy into his underwear. I'm entranced as he pulls his panties up his legs and snaps the elastic waist band, and then carefully tucks his testicles and penis away. His bra is a very pretty mauve with white lace trim and matches his panties. He pulls the straps onto his shoulders and expertly fastens the clasp behind his back then slips breast forms into his bra. They are quiet small probably a 34A or B but beautifully shaped with delightfully hard nipples which perfectly suit his small frame. Anything bigger would have looked gross and I shuddered at a sudden memory flash of Rosemary's giant mammaries. Sitting at his vanity table he starts his makeup. With his perfect complexion he needs very little foundation; just a little rouge to colour his cheeks. His lashes are naturally long and dark so require only a little mascara. He brushes a blue-grey eye shadow onto his eyelids; a tint that complement his blue eyes. His lips he paints a pale pink shade then finishes with a clear gloss. He puts down his lipstick and inspects his work, turning his head from left to right. He brushes his short curly hair and arranges his side locks then runs his fingers through it fluffing up. Happy with the result he loops a suspender belt around his waist and clips it together at the back, then feeds the garter tabs inside his panties. Turning sideways on his stool he unwraps and new pair of hose then carefully and sensually draws the sheer nylon stockings up his lovely legs and clips the lacy welts to the toggles of his suspender. He slips his dainty feet into white strappy sandals with a 3"spike heel, and then stands to adjust the seams of his stockings looking over his shoulder at the refection in his mirror. He walks confidently to his closet, gliding gracefully across the floor with no hint of a wobble, placing one foot in front of the other and swaying his hips. He's clearly had lots of practice walking in heels. As always the sight of the delectable girly-boy dressing in sexy lingerie gives me an erection, but I resist the temptation to masturbate as I have another plan. From his closet he takes a white silk blouse with a large floppy collar, slips it on and fastens the tiny buttons down the front and at the cuffs, taking care not to damage his manicured nails. From a drawer in his vanity he selects a white satin half slip with an extravagant lace hem and pulls it up his legs. After a moment's thought he un-hooks a coat hanger which holds a gray tailored woollen suit. Holding the pencil skirt open he steps into it and slithers it up over his hips. Reaching behind his back he skilfully pulls up the zip and fastens the press studs. Over the blouse he dons the short fitted jacket that matches the skirt, tugs it down and closes the single large button. The suit fits him perfectly. The skirt ends just above his knees and is narrow enough to oblige him to take short paces. Sitting once more at his vanity he chooses his jewellry. He inserts pearl stud earrings through his pierced lobes. Around his neck he fits a wide velvet chocker with a large ivory cameo brooch at the throat. On his right wrist he buckles the thin leather strap of a ladies jewelled watch on his left arm he slides several gold bangles. He surveys himself in his long mirror, turning left and right, and looking over his shoulders to ensure everything is correct. Satisfied he walks from his bedroom to his lounge, pours himself a glass of white wine, and then switches on his computer. This is the moment I've been waiting for. My own my computer is already on line with an email I'd written earlier waiting to be sent. The email has an attachment which I'd made by compiling a selection of the tapes I'd been saving over the last few weeks. The recordings were very good quality and clearly show him dressing and undressing in his various outfits, strutting and mincing about the room in ultra sexy lingerie, dancing and performing lewd strip-tease shows, and always culminating by masturbating to a climax standing or reclining before his mirror. I click the send button. In the email I instructed him to immediately open his apartment door and to wait exactly as he is and not to attempt to change his clothes or appearance in any way. Failure to do so, I warned, would result in the attachment being sent to all the names in his address book; names that include his parents, his friends and his tutors. Having sent the message I quickly and quietly ascend the stairs and wait outside his door. I see the shadow as he looks through the spy-hole and hear the lock being opened. Slowly his door swings open and there, in all his nervous feminine beauty, stands the object of my desires. "Hello Kimberly, May I come in?" He nodded and I walked in. "Close the door and sit down, we have something to discuss." I said. He silently does as I order. I sit on his couch and admire the lovely boy as he sashays to the other chair and sits with his hands folded demurely in his lap, eyes downcast. "What do you want?" he whispered. I could barely hear him. "I want you to suck my cock," I said without preamble. He gasped in shock. "I beg your pardon?" "You heard what I said. As you obviously like to dress in girl's clothes, and act like a girl, you must want to be a girl. And girls suck mens cocks; therefore, you will suck mine." "Oh no, I couldn't. I've never done anything like that before," he chocked. "You will do exactly as I say or you charming indiscretions will be sent to all your friends and family. I might even put it on You-Tube. So, on your knees, sissy boy and get over here." I shouted at the same time opening my fly and drawing out my erection. I waved it obscenely and slowly stroked it as he considered his options Deciding that he didn't have any choice, he reluctantly slid off the seat and knee-walked across the carpet to where I sat. I hoped it didn't ruin his nice nylons. "Please don't make me do this," he pleaded. I waved my hard cock in his face, then with my hand on the back of his neck I forced his head downward into my crutch and jabbed at his lips with my penis. "Open up pussy boy. A girl like you is born to suck cock" I prodded the head of my cock against his mouth and slowly he parted his lips. I pushed the head into his warm wet mouth. With his eyes tightly shut he allowed me entry. The sensation was exquisite. He instinctively wrapped his fingers around the stem of my prick to limit how far I could push in, but his small soft hand squeezing the base of my shaft had the dramatic effect of bringing me to an instant climax. I filled his mouth and throat with hot spunk that he was forced to swallow as I held his head firmly against my pubic area. When I was sure he'd swallow all my offering I allowed him to raise his head. He gasped for air and involuntarily licked his lips. Incredibly I was still rock hard and immediately pushed him back onto my cock. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" I croaked. "But this time put some more effort into it and use your tongue and hands more. Enjoy your work. And make sure you swallow every drop." I held back for much longer this time, and I do believe he was getting the hang of it, when I was overwhelmed with uncontrollable convulsions and my second load of jism erupted into his beautiful mouth. Again he swallowed frantically, desperately trying to keep up with my huge discharge. Even so, he was unable to take it all and two streams dribbled from each side of his mouth. Finally I collapsed back on the sofa releasing my grip on his hair, my slowly deflating prick slipped from his mouth. As I relaxed in the glow of sexual release and gratification little did I know fate was about to deal me one final hand that even the most compulsive gambler would fold. Kim Oh! The loathsome man. How I hate him. After humiliating and debasing me I'm obliged to walk to the nearby all-night corner shop and buy cigarettes. With the threat of exposure hanging over me I have no choice. He wouldn't allow me to change back to my boy clothes, but insisted I repair my make-up and lipstick, so for the first time ever I'm in public dressed as a girl. Gradually my fear is replaced with exhilaration. I find it very exciting to hear the sound of my high heels striking the pavement and feel the cool night air brushing my legs under my skirt. But equally I'm terrified some-one will spot my masquerade. I can still taste his sperm in my mouth when I asked the guy behind the counter for a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes. He's a pimply youth who leers obscenely at me as I hand over the money. "What's a nice chick like you doing out so late and all alone? How'd you like to step into the back for a while and keep me company?" "Get stuffed." I spit at him as I turn on my heel and stomp out. "Good idea" he shouts. "But it's you who should get stuffed, with this," he says grabbing his crutch in both hands and shaking it lewdly. I'm trembling slightly as I head back to the house, but secretly pleased, as he obviously didn't see through my disguise; he just saw me as a pretty girl who was fair game to make a pass at. The night is still and quiet with only the distant sound of traffic on the Wellington road. I begin to enjoy my sojourn. Slowing to a stroll I savour the thrill of walking the public highway dressed in lingerie, an elegant suit and blouse and high heeled shoes. The knowledge that anybody seeing me will assume I'm a girl and not a boy dressed in women's clothing is elating. A car drives passed and I put an extra sway into my hips hoping to give the driver lecherous thoughts. My mind goes back to the events of earlier in the evening. I was flabbergasted when I opened the email attachment and witnessed myself prancing and preening in my apartment, dressing and stripping then finally wanking before my mirror. I shuddered with shame at the memory. The threat of sending it to my family and friends made me blush to the roots of my hair. What could I do? I had no choice but to let the detestable creature into my flat and let him to do those awful degrading things to me. The act of fellatio he'd forced me to perform on him was revolting. Not that I hadn't imagined doing such a thing; I had. In my dreams the penis I'd lovingly sucked and caressed had been Peter's. He had treated me like a woman with care, affection and respect and yes, love. The recollection of taking Norman Dyke's disgusting, stinking appendage into my mouth almost caused me to vomit. The appalling recognition that this was only the start, because I knew he was waiting to subject me to even worse indignities, brought me to tears. My thoughts were suddenly shattered by a blinding flash of light and a second later a tremendous noise. The street shook and the pavement beneath my feet heaved. My eyes were blinded by the intense light and I instinctively turned away from the source. As I crouched with my back to the blast, imprinted on the back of my retina was a slow motion image of my apartment building expanding like one of those exploded diagrams in car maintenance manuals. During the time I'd been away running Norman's errand, things had been happening in the basement of the building. The antiquated central heating furnace shuddered on its worn-out rubber mountings as the solenoid switched off the burner at the end of the cycle. After many years of continuous use and a minimum of maintenance the constant vibrations had caused the rusting pipe connecting the gas main to the unit to eventually split. Natural gas began escaping from the cracked pipe under high pressure. Being heavier than air the gas rapidly began to fill the basement. As the pressurized gas was forced through the opening in the pipe the break gradually widened till it failed completely. The gas quickly filled the space available and then seeped beneath the door at the top of the basement steps. In less than half an hour the entire basement and half a meter of the first floor was filled with volatile gas. Norman had returned to his own rooms and was happily anticipating Kim's return. He was excited at the thought of resuming his carnal activities and was stroking his already hard cock when he realized he could smell gas. He wondered where it could be coming from and decided he should check his stove. At the very moment he bent his face to the cooker ring the solenoid kicked in to re-ignite the furnace burner. The single spark was all that was needed to detonate the highly explosive atmosphere that now filled the lower part of the house. The house disintegrated into a million fragments of masonry, glass, wood, steel, fabrics and human flesh. The fireball lit up the night sky, turning it into a bright summer's day that could be seen for miles around. The noise of the explosion was deafening and the shock-wave denuded all the trees of their leaves within a 500 meter radius. Nearly every window up to a kilometre from the blast site was blown out and the destruction to properties within the immediate area was severe. A passing car was blown onto its side and pushed into the garden of a house on the opposite side of the road. Amazingly the only fatality was Norman. A few people were injured by flying glass and debris and the driver of the car suffered a broken leg and concussion. Emergency services were quickly on the scene but the fire continued to rage for some time. The severed end of the pipe acted like a giant blow torch sending a jet of flame roaring high into the air and it was some time before the valve was located and the flow turned off. Only then was the fire brought under control and eventually extinguished. I stood and stared at the destruction in stunned silence. How could this be happening? What should I do? Everything I owned had been inside the house. All I had was what I stood in and they were clothes of the wrong gender. In my purse I only had a lipstick, a compact and some tissues. There was a small amount of loose change and my credit card, which fortunately was printed with a name on that could belong to either sex. I was vaguely aware of the frantic activity going on around me but it was only when I felt my arm being shaken that I focused on where I was. A man in a fire-fighters uniform with a name badge that said he was First Officer John Cave was saying something to me. When I made no response I felt his breath against my ear but could hear nothing except a loud roaring noise. I turned to face him and opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I tried again but still I made no sound. A sense of panic was beginning to take hold of me. Why was I unable to speak or hear? Was I dead? Had I been struck by flying shrapnel and was I witnessing the mayhem from beyond the grave? Helen. PC Trevor Valley and I were patrolling the streets of North West London when the call came over the car radio to proceed immediately to St John's Wood where a house was on fire and to assist with crowd control. Leaving the car blocking the street we hurried towards the fire. We were met by a fire officer who pointed to a young girl standing in the street staring at the blaze. He could get no response from her, he said, and would we mind moving her back to a safe distance. I told Trevor I'd take care of it while he dealt with the crowds that were building up attracted by the commotion. The girl was clearly in shock. She stared fixedly at the conflagration and shook violently. I put my arm around her shoulder and gently turned her away then led her to the car we'd left parked across the street. Sitting in the rear seat with her I tried to ascertain what she was doing here and where she lived, but to no avail. She could neither hear me nor make any reply. I had to assume she was either a deaf mute or else the shock of the recent events and temporarily deprived her of her senses. Not knowing anything about her posed a problem. Clearly she couldn't be allowed to wander off on her own. Who knew where she would go in her confused state. And not knowing her name or address she couldn't be taken to where she lived. Then I thought to look in her purse and found a credit card. Now I at least knew that her name was Kimberly Field. Later Trevor brought over two paper cups of coffee. It seemed some enterprising citizen had arrived with a mobile tea van and had set up business at the end of the street. It was very welcome and the hot drink appeared to calm Kimberly. Leaving Kim in the car we discussed what should be done with the girl. At this time on Friday night there would be little chance of contacted anyone in social services, which meant we couldn't provide her with a hotel or hostal accommodation. After a lengthy discussion and several calls on mobiles and radios it was decided that Kimberly should come home with me for the night and I'd put her up in my spare room till it could be established exactly what her circumstances were. Peter. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Next to me Susan stirred and rolled onto her side, her arm fell across my middle and I felt her hand slide down to my limp cock. Her gentle caress again failed to awaken any life in my member. Despite her best efforts the previous evening I had been unable to get hard after we'd retired to bed. A state of affairs unknown to me as I'd never before failed to respond to her sexy ministrations. I blamed my failure on the pressure of work in my new job. But I knew what the real cause was. It was nothing to do with Susan or the pressure of work, but all to do with Kimberly Field. Since spending the previous evenings together I had found it impossible to get him out of my mind. I thought of him constantly; something he'd said or a gesture he'd made; the sound of his laughter, way the light played on his hair, or the provocative way he dressed. I longed for the weekend to