by Ray Gordon
ADDICTED
by
RAY GORDON
Addicted first published in 1996 by Hodder & Stoughton. Published as an eBook in 2012 by Chimera eBooks.
ISBN 9781907976407
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.
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This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Ray Gordon. The right of Ray Gordon to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
Chapter One
My feet wide apart on the deep pile carpet, tightly bound with leather straps, my naked body bent like a rag doll over the sofa back, my wrists handcuffed, I rested my head on a cushion, praying that my degrading and humiliating ordeal would soon be over. As my abuser parted my tensed buttocks and forced a candle deep into my defenceless bottom, the lewd sensations permeated my quivering pelvis and I waited in fear and anticipation.
"Beg me to fuck your arse!" he laughed wickedly, thrusting the candle violently in and out of my aching bottom. Uncouth, vulgar - debased. "Come on, Helen; plead with me to spunk up your tight arsehole!"
I murmured the unfamiliar words of cold, crude sex. "Please, fuck my arse."
"Ask me to spunk up your arse."
"Please, I want you to spunk up my arse."
"Louder! Please shove your cock up my arse and fill me with your spunk!"
"Please, shove your cock up my arse and... and fill me with your spunk!" I sobbed uncontrollably as he withdrew the candle.
He entered me, my private hole, used and abused me there, gasping his filthy expletives, giving a running commentary on his obscene act. Who's using whom? I pondered in my sexual plundering. The naked truth was, we were using each other - I needed him, and he needed me - each of us appeasing our unique desires, fulfilling our desperate needs. I hated him, my vile partner in my vile adultery. To him, I was nothing more than a common whore to be taken, a sex object to gratify his sordid male desires. But we needed each other, desperately.
Before releasing me, he whipped me, thrashed my naked buttocks with a long, thin bamboo cane until I begged for mercy. He fixed a dog collar around my neck and led me around the room on a chain, slapping my stinging buttocks. He used cucumbers, carrots, wine bottles, vibrators - committed every perceivable act of degradation imaginable.
Finally reaching home after my horrendous ordeal, I sank into a hot bath and cleansed my abused body, washed the sperm from my perspiration-matted hair, from my flushed breasts, my oozing vaginal crack. I thought of my husband as the hot, soapy water lapped around my inflamed sex slit. Poor Tony! Six thousand miles away on a business trip, working hard for promotion, and I'd not only committed a wanton act of adultery, but behaved like a common slut.
The extreme guilt and shame overwhelmed me. For hours on end I cried, swearing never again to give myself to another man, to be faithful to Tony. But I knew that my tears were futile. Unable to help myself, I knew I'd go back for more - more filth, more humiliation. Though I desperately wanted to believe them, my oaths and affirmations were meaningless. I knew that I'd visit my sordid, perverted neighbour again, allow him to have anal sex with me, to chain me to the wall and whip me, to photograph the most intimate parts of my naked body. Now ordinary married life with Tony in suburbia was a lifetime away.
Looking back, it's incredible that just three months earlier we'd been blissfully happy together, enjoying the fifth year of our conventional marriage, the beautiful detached house we'd recently bought on the outskirts of Surrey. Our lives were idyllic, Tony earning a good salary, with promotion looming on the horizon, me establishing myself as an artist, my paintings selling well at a top London gallery. Never had I dreamed that I'd look at another man, let alone...
It was Tony's first business trip abroad that had sparked off the incredible chain of events that, even now, I find difficult to comprehend. He was to go to Paris for a fortnight, flying out of Gatwick early Monday morning, leaving me to concentrate on my art. I'd been looking forward to spending time alone in the house, getting on with my work, even though I loved Tony dearly and knew I'd miss him terribly. It was only two weeks, after all - hardly a lifetime!
He'd climbed into the taxi dressed in his new suit, clutching his briefcase in one hand, a copy of The Times in the other. His black hair well-groomed, his crisp white shirt and tie immaculate, he looked the part, I thought, watching the taxi pull away and move slowly down the drive. I was still waving as the car turned into the lane and disappeared from view - until the sound of the diesel engine had faded, and only the singing birds disturbed the early morning air.
Wandering back into the house, the appealing prospect of spending two whole weeks painting suddenly veered into a daunting loneliness. There was a void, an emptiness without Tony. But he'd soon be home, I consoled myself. I sat in the garden sipping decaffeinated coffee, listened to music - Tchaikovsky's first piano concerto. Wandering into my studio, I gazed at the oils, the brushes standing in jam jars, like dried flowers. Nothing inspired me to paint. But it was only day one - I had two whole weeks ahead! The inspiration would come, I told myself.
A week passed. Not only did the inspiration elude me but I felt panicky, nervy, uneasy - although I didn't know why. I'd missed Tony more than I'd imagined I would. But we'd talked on the phone every evening, whispered our sweet nothings, and the day he'd be home was nearing. I felt at ease with the house, comfortable and secure in my surroundings. So what was the problem? I pondered. My stomach churning, my chest tight, my breathing uneasy, I wondered whether I was falling for something.
By the tenth day I was in a terrible state, climbing the walls as if craving alcohol or nicotine, though I'd only ever enjoyed the odd glass of wine, and never smoked. Taking deep breaths, walking around the garden trying to convince myself that nothing was wrong, I eventually rang my doctor.
"I'm sure there's nothing physically wrong," our revered young doctor, John, pronounced, perching on the edge of the sofa, his blond hair cascading over his tanned forehead as he packed his stethoscope into his leather bag. "I'd put the tightness in your chest and the breathing difficulties down to anxiety."
"But I'm not anxious!" I laughed. "I've never suffered from anxiety!"
"You're probably missing Tony more than you realize. This is the first time you've been apart, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. So are you telling me my symptoms are psychosomatic?" I asked disbelievingly.
"No, not exactly," John smiled unconvincingly, making for the door. "See how you feel when Tony comes home. If nothing changes, give me a ring."
My respect for John plummeted with my condition. By the twelfth day I looked tired and drawn, my hands trembling uncontrollably, my palms wet, my heart palpitating. I was becoming a nervous wreck! Pacing the lounge floor, I found myself biting my nails, something I'd never done in my life.
Although I felt awful on the day of Tony's return, I took a shower and dressed in my blue satin miniskirt and sexy whi
te blouse. I didn't want him worrying about me, fussing over me - he would have enough on his mind without me causing him problems.
My makeup veiling the dark, puffy bags beneath my blue eyes, my long, blonde, crimped hair cascading over my shoulders, I scrutinized my slender body in the full-length mirror. My reflection smiled back reassuringly. Tony wouldn't know how I was feeling, the inexplicable anxiety, the heart palpitations, the uneasy breathing. He'd never guess how I really felt deep inside. That beneath my sunny facade, I was like a raincloud ready to burst.
"Hi!" he grinned, dropping his briefcase on the step and flinging his arms around me as I opened the front door. "Miss me?"
"God, yes!" I cried, burying my face in the musky haven between his broad shoulder and his neck.
You're probably missing Tony more than you realize. John's words reverberated around my mind as I held Tony close to me. Strange though it was that being parted from him for a few days could turn me into a physical and mental wreck, as I savoured his urgent hardness against me, I instinctively knew that the doctor had been right.
We dashed upstairs to the bedroom, almost tearing each other's clothes off as we dived into the king-size bed like a couple of excited kids at Christmas. Tony was strong with rippling muscles - firm but gentle. His dark eyes locked to mine, I felt comfortably weak and intensely secure with him by my side, naked.
Moving on top of me as I opened my legs to him, he pressed his male hardness against my own yearning sex. My eyes closing as he locked his lips to mine, he gently penetrated me, his penis gliding into my aching vagina, filling me with his love. As he began thrusting, pumping his maleness into my quivering body, I fervently nibbled and bit his neck, lost in my sexual delirium, in love.
"I've missed you!" he gasped as he quickened his rhythm, his penis driving into the very core of my being. "God, how I've missed you!" My mouth open, my eyes rolling, I clung to him, digging my fingernails into his taut back as my body trembled and my climax stirred, already welling within my contracting womb. We usually spent at least half an hour building up to fever-pitch lovemaking, Tony's tongue delving between my vaginal lips, me sucking his beautiful purple globe into my hungry mouth. But now, after two weeks away from each other, there was no holding back.
"Coming!" he gasped, his face nuzzling my neck, his breath warming my tingling skin. His familiar aftershave filled my nostrils as my climax gripped me, my vaginal muscles tightening around his solid penis as the sensations erupted within my pulsating clitoris. His sperm gushing, bathing my inner sanctum, filling me, our naked bodies perspiring, locked in a burning passion, we rode the crest of our lovemaking, surfed the foam of our carnal ecstasy.
Panting, our bodies entwined in lust and love, we lay trembling in the aftermath of our desperate passion. My sopping sheath lovingly gripping Tony's deflating penis, trying to keep hold of its prize as he raised his hips and withdrew, I had a strange sense of still wanting - of incomplete satisfaction.
Tony rolled onto his back and spread his limbs. Facing me, he smiled, brushing my golden hair away from my sex-flushed face. "Are you OK?" he asked, lifting his head, his smile turning into a concerned frown.
"Yes, of course," I gasped, although my heart was palpitating wildly and my chest felt tight, my breathing fast and shallow.
"How did you get on while I was away?"
"Not bad," I lied, praying that he wouldn't ask to see my work.
"How's the Blue Lady?"
"She's coming on."
The Blue Lady! The half-finished painting sitting uncomfortably on the easel in my studio had beckoned me. Stephen Giles, Tony's managing director, had commissioned me to paint her, the subject being his wife, Becky. He'd decided on the title, but he wouldn't say why. I'd imagined that it had something to do with her drifting into their dimly lit chamber in a misty blue negligee, hauntingly ripe for love. I imagine many things when I'm working.
Stephen had supplied me with dozens of photographs of Becky as she'd been too busy to come for the sittings. I hated working from photographs, but I had no choice. The light was wrong, the feel wrong and, more often than not, I was appalled by the finished product. But I was never satisfied with my work. I was an artist who couldn't paint.
This particular commission was important, however. Unless I finished the painting, I'd not only be letting myself down, but Tony. I was already past the deadline and the Blue Lady appeared as no more than a misty apparition on the canvas. But now, with Tony home, I'd be able to forge ahead with her, I thought optimistically.
Deciding to distract Tony as he again asked me about the painting, turn his thoughts away from my failing, I pushed the quilt back and rested my head on his firm stomach. His pussy-wet penis swelled in my hand, answering my call, responding to my intimate attention. Pulling his foreskin back, I took his purple plum into my mouth and gently sucked. Tony let out a long, low moan, his body becoming rigid, his warm stomach rising and falling with his panting. "Nice?" I murmured, slipping his swelling glans out of my hot mouth.
"Mmm," he moaned, his shaft twitching expectantly. "Very!"
Taking his glistening globe to the back of my throat, I savoured the heady, aphrodisiacal blend of my vaginal milk and his sperm. Kneading his heavy balls, I moved my head up and down, repeatedly enveloping his glans between my lips and then taking him deep into my wet mouth. God, how I'd missed him!
His shaft twitching, his balls rolling, I knew he was close to his climax as I swept my tongue over his throbbing glans. Breathing deeply, he gripped my head, thrusting his hips and driving his penis deep into my mouth as he gasped in his pleasure. His body tensed, he came, pumping his sperm over my tongue, filling my cheeks with his male cream. Savouring his heady offering, I swallowed hard, not wasting a drop of his love juice until I'd drained him, sucked the very life out of him.
"God, that was good!" he gasped, his entire body twitching uncontrollably as I ran my tongue round his sensitive glans.
Provocatively licking the sperm from my lips, I smiled. "You taste nice; I could drink from your cock for hours on end."
"It's good to be home, Helen," he murmured, running his fingertips over my naked shoulders, sending delightful tingles down my spine.
As I lay with my head on his fast pulsing stomach, fondling his flaccid penis, retracting his foreskin, an all-embracing calm swept over me - a strange, enveloping calm that completely engulfed me, brought me a sense of relief that I'd never before known. John had definitely been right, I thought happily. My symptoms had been psychosomatic - I'd missed Tony far more than I'd realized! Somehow, my subconscious must have reacted, causing tightening in my chest, wild flutterings in my heart.
But what would happen the next time Tony went away? I wondered to the drumming of his easing pulse. My pride wouldn't let me tell him what had happened to me. The last thing I wanted to become was the lonely little wife who ruined her husband's career because she couldn't stand to be parted from him! Perhaps, understanding what was happening to me, I could somehow combat the anxiety, the panic.
Until Tony's next trip, I was fine. Even though he worked long hours, I suppose it was knowing that he'd be home each night that kept the frightening symptoms at bay. After a day or two I began to forget the way I'd felt, not only putting it all behind me but convincing myself that it hadn't happened.
When Tony came home on the Friday night and announced that he was flying to Paris again first thing Monday morning, my stomach sank - churned. But I tried to take a grip on myself, to think about my art - The Blue Lady. Another couple of days, maybe three, and she'd be finished. Yes, I'd concentrate solely on my work.
After a weekend of glorious sex, Tony left in his taxi and I wandered back into the house, this time with a different outlook - bright, summery bright. In my studio, I looked at The Blue Lady. There was an uncanny serenity about her, her expression, and I was pleased - no, proud - that I'd managed to portray that important feature from the photographs.
Switching the stereo on, keen
to get into my work, I made my way to the kitchen and filled the kettle for coffee. It was going to be a good day, a good week, I could sense it. I vowed that The Blue Lady would be finished by the time Tony returned. It was important to me, not only as an artist, but because I felt that I needed to pay my way. I'd always dreaded the notion of the little housewife who cooked, cleaned and was financially dependant on her husband. Ego? Yes, I suppose you could say there was an element of egotism.
The first two days following Tony's departure went well, with The Blue Lady nearing completion and no sign of my weird symptoms surfacing from the deep. Calm waters - mill pond waters. The calm before the storm? It was Wednesday morning as I climbed out of bed and took a shower that I sensed that something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it, it was just a feeling, a knowing, that panic was near, lurking - watching me. Rain clouds gathering.
I decided to deny my feelings and carry on with my work. I wouldn't let them get the better of me - destroy what I'd hoped to be completion day for The Blue Lady. She looked out at me from the canvas as if she knew how I really felt. I imagined that she did - better than me. Returning her gaze, I noticed a strange glint in her eye, a mysterious glint that began to annoy me. She was almost alive.
I worked all day, not even stopping for lunch or a cup of coffee. By mid-afternoon my hands were trembling and my heart palpitating wildly. But I forged on regardless, determined to complete the painting if it was the last thing I did.
By the evening, I was a complete wreck - trembling, breathing unsteadily, pacing the studio floor. I felt anger, aggression - not towards the painting, but towards myself. Why was I allowing these alien feelings my space? Why couldn't I just shake them off and take a grip on myself? I rang John, babbling that I was climbing the walls, that my mind was blowing away.
