Feature Writer: Zipper D Dude
Feature Title: THE STATUETTE 1
Published: 11.01.2023 / Storiesonline / Copyright© 2023 by Zipper D Dude
Story Codes: Magic, MC
Synopsis: Two funerals and a wedding … and some magic
The Statuette 1
Millie
Great Aunt Millie died. Actually she was my Great-great Aunt Millie; dad always called her Great Aunt Millie, so I should really add the extra great.
She was ninety-four and had been in a hospice for over a week, so it wasn’t a big surprise. The family all gathered for the funeral, giving us a chance to meet cousins we hadn’t seen since Vanessa’s wedding. We needed an excuse for the whole family to get together as there were too many of us for casual meet-ups.
Millie had a big old house in the country near Aberystwyth, so the funeral service was in the village chapel, and we all went back to her place afterwards for a buffet and conversation. I grabbed a beer and started circulating. Noticing Uncle Keith bearing down on me with intent, I swiftly dodged into the garage to avoid twenty minutes of boredom at his hands.
With a big house and plenty of time, Millie had accumulated a lot of stuff. Her immediate family had picked out the pieces they wanted, and they’d stacked the rest in the garage for the rest of us to look over for mementos before it went to the auctioneers. To make sure Keith didn’t see me I made straight for the back and poked around in the bric-a-brac there.
For some reason a clay statuette caught my eye. It looked African—Millie had spent some time as a nurse in Africa—about five inches tall. A man with a smile and what looked like a pregnant belly. Strange. He had a beard, so he was definitely male, but with a big belly as well. I decided he was silly enough to pick up, so I did. Perhaps he looked lonely? Lonely or not, he was heavier than I had expected for a clay figurine that size.
Emerging from the garage with my new acquisition in my pocket I saw that Uncle Keith had pinned cousin David against the wall and was boring him with whatever his current obsession was. Usually politics, but occasionally he picked something different.
Once most of the food had disappeared we decided we’d stayed long enough, so we said our goodbyes and left. Mum had stayed off the booze because she was driving. Dad sat up front, and I was in the back with my younger sister, Arwen. Yes, twenty-three and still living with my parents. Sad, but necessary. I’ve got a job, but it barely pays enough to cover rent, so I still live at home. I do pay them a little each week, but they don’t ask for much, which lets me save a bit. Arwen is twenty-one and at college, so they don’t charge her rent at all.
I never bothered with college as I didn’t want to end up with a load of student debt, and I’m not the academic type anyway. Even after college I would still be stuck in a low paying job, so I started work straight from school. Arwen’s smarter than me, so she’ll get a lot more out of college than I would have.
Back home I put my new acquisition on my ‘interesting bits’ shelf. I was glad to have something to remember Great Aunt Millie by. Whenever we’d visited as kids she always had sweets and a smile for us, and her big garden was wonderful for running around, climbing trees and getting muddy.
I carried on with my life while the statuette sat there on the shelf. Looking back, the first strange thing happened with Rana, one of Arwen’s friends from college. I didn’t realize it then, but it was probably a sign of what was to come. That afternoon she’d come back with Arwen, and they were in my sister’s room talking. I heard a knock on my bedroom door, “Gavin, can we come in?” Arwen asked. We were both careful not to barge in on each other uninvited.
“Yeah, sure.” I was lying on my bed checking my phone, not doing anything embarrassing.
The two of them came in. Arwen has been blonde for the last few years, good figure about five-six. We used to argue a bit when we were younger, but that’s all calmed down now. I’m light brown, rather than blond and three inches taller. Rana was this small Indian student, five foot nothing max, with long straight black hair and brown skin. Nicely proportioned with the standard Indian look, but shorter. Her nose was a little large, but not too much so, and she had a nice wide smile.
“Are Rana’s boobs too small?” Arwen asked, “We need an unbiased man’s opinion.”
“Why?”
“Tim dumped her, and he said her tits were too small. We think he was just saying that. So, what do you think?”
Rana was wearing a green v-neck top, and pushed out her chest, so I could get a good idea of their shape. I took a few seconds to ogle — very pleasant they looked too. No bra either from what I could see of her pointy nipples making little bumps in her top.
“Okay, Rana, you’re small, so your breasts are small as well,” I told her, “But they’re the right size for you. A pair of huge silicone footballs would look really silly on you,” she giggled at that, “They’re small, but definitely not too small. From what I can see they’re just right.”
Rana glanced at Arwen, reached down and pulled up her top. No bra and two very nicely shaped smallish, firm coffee-colored tits with hard dark nipples. They jiggled slightly as they emerged into view.
“Well?” she asked.
I took a couple of seconds to react.
“Ahhh … Yes, they’re perfect for you. With smaller boobs your nipples look bigger; really nice. Your ex is a moron. And thanks for the show,” I smiled at her.
She pulled her top down and grinned.
“You can think of me tonight.”
Yes, I did think of Rana that night, and she was doing a lot more than just showing me her tits. Afterwards, I thought over what had happened. First, Arwen’s friends mostly ignored me, they definitely didn’t flash their boobs at me. And second, Arwen didn’t react at all to Rana’s display. In a way that was more surprising; knowing my sister, I’d have expected her to react more strongly. At the time I thought it was a little strange, but not too strange. Sometimes girls worried too much about their looks.
The next strange thing happened about a week later. I wanted to look at a fossil ammonite I had on my shelf. As I reached for it my hand twitched, knocking the statuette onto the floor. When I picked it up (after swearing at my clumsiness) I saw it had a chip out of the heel. Under the chip it was black, not clay, looking more like stone. I couldn’t be bothered to glue the chip back right then — it didn’t show from the front — so I put the statuette back with the chip next to it. I decided I’d fix it tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came. Well, it did of course, but I never fixed the chip. I didn’t fix it because I had a dream that night, a dream about my statuette. A bearded black man, not African black — which is really more of a dark brown — but black black, like black rock. He had mud smeared all over him.
His lips didn’t move, but I got the distinct impression that he wanted the mud cleaned off. One thing about him, he certainly wasn’t pregnant, instead he had this huge stiff cock that reached up to his breastbone. It looked at least eighteen inches long, maybe more. “Hung like a horse,” though it definitely wasn’t hanging.
I remembered the dream in the morning, so I checked the statuette. Strange, it had a lot of small cracks in it, which I hadn’t noticed before. I was able to pull about half the clay away, and there was a black stone figure hidden underneath. That probably explained why it was heavier than it looked. From what I could see under the part-cleared clay it looked like the black man from my dream.
It was a work day, so I went into the office for another boring shift typing boring stuff into a boring computer. When I got back, there were more cracks in the clay, and I was able to clear most of the rest away. It was the man from my dream, big dick and all. It had been hidden under that ‘pregnant’ belly.
Another dream that night. The black man had much less mud on him, and I sensed a distinct, “Thank you,” from him. That morning I removed a few of the larger remaining pieces, and cleared a lot of smaller bits that had fallen off the statuette overnight. It looked as if it was somehow able to shed the leftover clay once I had taken off the main chunks.
That evening, as I brushed away the newly loosened clay, I thought of using a screwdriver to scrape the last bits out of the deeper parts of the carving. As I got up to get it from my toolbox I got the distinct impression that the statuette wouldn’t like that. Maybe metal might have scratched the stone? Perhaps the clay wasn’t significant, but the stone was? The man in my dreams was black like the stone, so the stone was probably more important.
I sat on my bed looking at the black statuette. There was obviously something very strange going on. My dream had showed me the stone statuette, big dick included, before I had cleared away the clay. I was getting some distinct impressions from it, both in my dreams: “Clean me … Thank you,” and awake, “No screwdriver.” Feeling rather silly, I talked to it, “Who are you and what’s going on?”
I got an answer! There was a definite, “Sleep,” in response. Perhaps it was easier for him to talk to me in my dreams than when I was awake?
We talked while I slept that night. Not a proper conversation, I talked and got thought-impressions in return. It took a few days to get the story, one night at a time. I was right about it being easier for him to talk to me while I was asleep.
The black man was a spirit called Ogushege. He had got into an argument with another spirit and needed to hide, so his shaman had disguised his image with clay to protect it. Judging by his reluctance to tell me exactly what had happened he’d come off second best in the fight. At some point Great Aunt Millie had picked him up and brought back with her to Wales.
He was a sex spirit and fed off sexual energy, which presumably explained his enormous dick. Millie’s house was very isolated, so after her husband, Great-uncle Rhys, died Ogushege wasn’t getting any human sex to feed off. Sheep, cattle and rabbits were enough to keep him alive, but apparently a very poor substitute for humans. By the time I’d found him, he was very weak. Here in town with plenty of people around he was gaining energy and feeling a lot better.
The good news was that he felt grateful to me for taking him away from the countryside to the town where he could feed a lot more easily and in return he would help me with my sex life. I definitely needed the help as I was between girlfriends — Rana’s tits were the most real excitement I’d had for far too long.
I woke up the morning after he told me half-expecting a queue of eager women outside our front door wanting to boff me, like in those iffy stories on the internet. Nothing. Oh well, maybe some of the women at work? Nothing there either; June did flash her cleavage, but she did that most days anyway.
The night after my disappointing day he gave me the bad news: I wasn’t going to get a huge harem. He didn’t want dozens of girls sitting round doing nothing, waiting for me to boff them. From his point of view that was a waste of good fucking time — why wait for me when they could be shagging someone else? He’d help me with a few women, but not too many at once. I could live with that, even one girlfriend would be better than none.
The other bad news was that he didn’t want to break up couples who were having lots of sex. That was a real downer. Top of my fantasy list was Mrs. Lloyd from next door. Twenty-eight, blonde, good legs, great figure and a nice personality: the whole package.
Unfortunately for me, she was bonking Mr. Lloyd at least twice a night and more at weekends. There was no way Ogushege was going to break those two up. Basically he would only help me with women who were not in a relationship or whose relationship was not very sexual.
I’d have to resign myself to not having wall-to-wall girls. Just as well really, my room was far too small for a decent size harem, and there was no way I could afford anything bigger.
Judging by the late-night noises, mum and dad were at it more than usual. I didn’t ask, but I assumed that was his doing. I suppose he was helping Arwen as well, though again I didn’t ask. She certainly had a sex life, though she generally kept it away from home. I didn’t pry as we mostly respected each other’s privacy. The last time we’d done anything sexual with each other was when we were a lot younger and played Doctor.
xxxxx
Mrs. Wilson
I got home from work to find mum in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Wilson from down the road, with a hair-dryer on the table between them.
“Gavin,” mum asked, “Can you fix Mrs. Wilson’s hair-dryer? It stopped working.”
I’m not good academically, but I am good at fixing things. Better than dad, so I usually do the handyman stuff round the house.
“Sure mum. Hello Mrs. Wilson.”
She gave me a small smile as I picked up the hair-dryer and took it up to my room where I kept my tools. To my surprise Mrs. Wilson followed me; I’d expected her to stay downstairs talking to mum. She sat quietly on the bed watching me work at my desk. “Quiet,” was a good word for her, I’d always thought of her as a church mouse. Her husband, John, was loud, boring and overbearing — another Uncle Keith. He dominated every conversation and never let her, or anyone else, get a word in.
All I’d ever heard her say when he was around was, “Yes dear.”
The problem was a loose wire in the plug, so I fixed it and got her dryer working again.
“There you are Mrs. Wilson.”
She took it and stood up.
“Thank you, Gavin. That’s very kind of you. Do I owe you anything?”
I was about to tell her no when I got a message from Ogushege, “Rana.” What did that mean? Rana had flashed her tits; surely Mrs. Wilson wouldn’t do anything like that? She was an average-looking housewife, about thirty or just under, light brown hair pulled back and reasonable calves below her dark green knee-length skirt. No kids, so her figure wasn’t too bad. Could I risk it? If I wanted Ogushege to help me then I had to start somewhere, so why not now?
“Yes, Mrs. Wilson. Would you take off your blouse please.”
I regretted saying it as soon as the words left my mouth.
I watched her in a panic, expecting her to blow up. She didn’t, much to my relief. First she registered surprise, and then something that looked like mixed excitement and hope.
“You want me to …”
“Take off your blouse,” I interrupted, trying to sound commanding.
She hadn’t exploded immediately, so I decided I could push her.
She did it! First she turned to put the hair-dryer on the bed. As she turned back, her hands went to her neck and started undoing buttons. She wasn’t looking at me, but staring at the floor. What I could see of her face was pink with embarrassment, but she was doing what I had asked!
She looked up once she’d laid her blouse on the bed. Definitely embarrassed but also excited.
“And the bra,” I ordered.
She reached behind her, and the plain white bra joined the plain white blouse on the bed. She kept her hands at her sides, so I could see everything. Her breasts were relatively small and hardly sagged at all. With no children they hadn’t been affected by pregnancy. I could see her chest move with her breathing, her dark pink nipples were standing out hard.
I beckoned her to move towards me. As she approached, I raised my hands ready to capture her breasts. She moved in without pausing, giving me two warm soft handfuls, with her hard nipples boring into my palms. She didn’t say anything, but stood there breathing heavily and let me play, despite her obvious embarrassment. I tweaked her nipples, lightly pinching them, while running my hands around her smooth titty-flesh. Definitely bigger than Rana’s.
I was conscious that mum was waiting downstairs, so I pulled back.
“Very nice thank you, Mrs. Wilson. You can get dressed now.”
She dressed silently, picked up the dryer, thanked me again and went downstairs. I heard her say goodbye to mum as she left. She’d obviously kept quiet about what I’d done as mum didn’t come storming upstairs to give me a bollocking.
I was very distracted over dinner that evening because I had a lot to think about; mainly that Ogushege’s promises were not just hot air. Even without the harem, I genuinely was living in a sexual fantasy. I had a lot of questions that were suddenly very real. Rana was unusual, but not impossible. Mrs. Wilson … Well, she convinced me Ogushege could deliver what he said he could.
That night I started a long conversation with the statuette. He assured me that pregnancy wouldn’t be an issue unless we both wanted a child. Diseases would not be a problem either. He had long-standing arrangements with other spirits to take care of details like that.
I could get away with a lot of things. Given half a chance he could make people not pay attention to what I was doing. The parents would notice me boffing Mrs. Wilson in the same room, but if we were upstairs in my room, they’d just think we were talking, so I only needed minimal discretion. He’d done this before, so he was ready with the answers to my questions.
He did have one temporary limitation; because he was still building up his strength he only had a short range. It would get better later, but for now he couldn’t reach out very far to help me; Mrs. Wilson’s house was still outside his range for example. It didn’t matter because she visited two days later.
I heard the doorbell and dad talking to a female visitor, followed by her steps up the stairs. She knocked and came into my room: Mrs. Wilson.
“Hello, Gavin. I wanted to thank you again for fixing my hair-dryer.”
She wanted to thank me, “Again.’ That meant she’d enjoyed what we’d done and had come back for more. Ogushege couldn’t reach down the road to her house, so she must have wanted to come and see me without his prompting.
Was she wearing a bit more makeup than last time? I’m no expert, but it seemed to me she was. Today she was in a blue blouse with white collars and cuffs. I stared at it, not saying anything. She soon got the message and started to take it off. I decided that I wanted more from her today. My room was definitely within Ogushege’s range, so I could go further with her.
I moved to my bed and sat on the edge, watching her. After she took off her bra, blue to match the blouse, she stood watching me, her nipples hard. I spread my knees apart and obviously looked down at the floor between them, then I looked back up at her. Again I saw excitement (and was that hope?) on her face. She began to move slowly towards me. I didn’t tell her to stop, so she moved faster. I got the feeling she didn’t want to do anything to annoy me, she wanted to do whatever I told her.
She knelt on the floor between my legs. I spent a few minutes fondling her breasts as I had before. Then I pointed a finger towards her mouth and moved it to her lips. She opened her mouth to take it in, moving her head forward and sucking on it. I could see in her eyes that she understood.
“Get it out,” I told her.
Again the look of excitement, this time mixed with nervousness.
“I haven’t done that a lot. John doesn’t like it.”
Her husband didn’t like blowjobs! Obviously he was stupid as well as loud and boring. It fitted his personality though. According to him there was only one right way to do anything and all the other ways of doing it were wrong. Probably he only ever fucked his wife in the dark and missionary-style. That could explain why Ogushege had pointed her at me, because she needed more sex in her life. Well, that was definitely something I could help her with.
“Just do your best,” I told her, lifting her hand to my belt.
She got my dick out and gave it a few strokes. Only the usual six inches, nothing like Ogushege’s monster. She was very tentative at first, pouting out her lips and touching them to the head of my dick. She looked up at me. I smiled and nodded at her; she was nervous and needed reassurance.
Gradually she took the head into her mouth, swirling her warm wet tongue around it. I wasn’t complaining, she had the basics down well. She could only take in about three inches, the head and a bit beyond. It was enough. I looked down at this supposedly respectable housewife sucking on my dick with her naked tits jiggling below. My cock was disappearing into her face as she looked up at me.
Yes, she was enjoying this.
I could feel the tingling building in my balls.
“Do you swallow?”
I didn’t want to frighten her away after one blowjob.
She gave a small nod, keeping me between her lips. Twenty seconds later I unloaded into her sucking mouth. Yes, she did swallow.
“Thank you again, Mrs. Wilson. Any time you want something fixed, I’m your man.”
She smiled at me as she settled her tits back into her bra.
“I’ll remember that, Gavin.”
When I got back from work on Wednesday the next week, mum asked me to go over to see Mrs. Wilson after finishing my tea. Apparently her kitchen sink was slow emptying, so the drain needed unblocking.
I quickly shoveled down some bread and jam while sucking down a mug of tea before going down the road. In her kitchen, Mrs. Wilson showed me the sink. The drain was a bit slow, though it wasn’t a big problem. She’d bought one of those bottles of gunk from the supermarket, though I could tell she was using the drain as an excuse.
Today she was in a belted dress, a blue and yellow floral pattern on a white background. Again a respectable length, coming to her knees. After showing me the slow drain, she stayed in front of the sink with her back to me. That meant I had to reach round her to do anything. Well, if that’s what she wanted…
I stood behind her, lightly pressing my groin into her ass. The instructions on the bottle were simple enough: pour down the drain, leave for ten minutes, rinse through thoroughly. I took my time reading while pressing against her. She stood there silently, letting me rub myself on her bum.
I opened the bottle and poured the stuff down the drain. She didn’t move. I set my phone to beep in ten minutes and put it by the sink. Again nothing from her. I shifted my right hand to her hip. If she complained, I could claim that I needed to move her to one side. No objection came. My left hand went to her other hip and both hands started climbing upwards. As they moved up her sides I could tell that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Soon I was fondling her breasts through the dress, with her hard nipples poking holes in my hands.
She wanted this, so she’d prepared. I wanted more than before, so I let one hand fall to her arse cheek. She twitched slightly, but didn’t object. I stood back a little to give myself space and let both hands wander over her rear. She moved slightly to brace herself against the sink.
I used one hand to lift her dress at the back and soon had it tucked into her belt, with my hands exploring over her tights and knickers. As with her bras, Mrs. Wilson’s underwear was middle-aged practical, not porn-star sexy. Strangely, I found that exciting; she was not in the habit of entertaining men at her kitchen sink while her husband was away at work.
My phone beeped, interrupting us. She turned on the tap, leaving me free to fondle. I hooked my fingers into the waist of her underwear and pulled down. Once I had things started I told her, “Take them off.”
She kicked off her shoes and lowered everything to her ankles. I’d moved back to give her room, and to watch. She had nice legs with well-shaped thighs. Her bum-cheeks were nicely rounded, pale and smooth. She kicked away the mess round her ankles and silently resumed her place at the sink. I moved back behind her, one hand on each ass cheek — definitely very smooth.
“Turn off the water now, Mrs. Wilson.”
My right hand moved down and pressed on the inside of her right thigh. She got the message and moved her feet further apart. I moved the hand up and touched her pussy from below. She gave a slight intake of breath, but didn’t stop me. She was acting like a puppet, letting me do what I wanted.
I slid my fingers along her lower lips. She was wet. My other hand moved round her hip to find her clit. Once I made contact, she began thrusting her hips slightly to rub her button against my finger. That was good. She hadn’t cum during either of our earlier encounters, so I owed her one this time. Her pussy was getting juicy as I fondled it. She was getting into this.
I used one hand to undo my trousers and fish out my stiff cock. I pressed it up against her, fitting it along her ass-crack. That got a wiggle in response. She wasn’t saying anything, but she gave all the signs of wanting this. Soon I moved my cock down between her thighs, letting it press upwards against her pussy-lips. I slid it back and forth over them a few times, getting it slick from her juices.
I wanted to be sure she was ready for more.
“You know what I’m going to do next?”
She nodded.
Not good enough.
“Say it aloud,” I told her.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to?”
She stayed silent, so I asked her again.
Very quietly she said, “Yes.”
I pulled back and redirected the head of my cock at her slick pussy. I went slowly at first to let her stop me if she wanted to. She didn’t. I fed the last few inches in more quickly. She was smooth, silky and tight.
“Brace yourself,” I told her.
She spread her legs a little more and held onto the sink.
I grasped her hips and began to thrust steadily into her, building up speed. She kept quiet, letting me set my own pace. She seemed to prefer being led, not trying to take the lead herself. I stayed quiet as well, just some heavy breathing as I drove into her pussy. We hadn’t done a lot of foreplay, but she managed to cum. Did Ogushege have the range to help her with that yet? I followed her a few seconds later, unloading in her pussy. After we had both finished she held onto the sink top while I held on to her to recover.
“I need to clean up,” she said, “Then we need to talk.”
As I cleaned my dick at the kitchen sink I noticed that the drain was working better now; another success for Gavin the handyman!
When she returned, Mrs. Wilson led us into the sitting room and sat on the couch. She patted the seat next to her.
“My husband has very regular habits,” she started, “Monday to Thursday he never gets back from work before seven. On Friday he stays later and gets back by eight at the earliest. Sunday afternoons he always plays golf. He leaves about half-one and is back by six.”
“Even when it’s raining?”
“Yes. He just sits in the clubhouse talking and drinking.”
“You say he’s very regular?” I asked.
“Yes. Very regular.”
“So if I wanted to visit …”
“He wouldn’t be here,” she confirmed.
Talk about an obvious hint!
xxxxx
Rosie
Mum liked to go to a gym twice a week: Tuesdays and Thursdays. She called it keeping fit; I called it bouncing about for middle-aged women, though obviously not to her face. A few months ago, shortly after she’d started, she pulled a muscle in her calf, and I had massaged her leg a few times to help. One Tuesday I arrived back after work to find a mixed-race woman, mid- to late-forties, talking to mum.
“Gavin, this is Mrs. Morton.”
I said hello, and she told me to call her Rosie.
“Do you still have your massage stuff, Gavin?” mum asked, “Rosie pulled a muscle at the gym, and I thought a massage might help.”
I went upstairs to check. Yes, it was still there in the landing cupboard. The oil didn’t smell off, so it was likely still usable.
Rosie went into the bathroom to change while I spread towels on my bed and got into an old rugby shirt and shorts. I didn’t want to risk getting massage oil on my work clothes.
She came in with a towel wrapped round her.
“Hello Gavin,” she said, dropping the towel and laid on my bed, face down.
She’d kept her bra and panties on, both light green, contrasting with her light brown skin.
“Mum said you’d pulled a muscle, Rosie.”
“Yes. At the top of my left thigh, on the inside.”
There was definitely a tense muscle there. I worked on it a bit, which seemed to relax it some. I didn’t want to press too hard in case I made the injury worse. I did work on the opposite thigh a little, though that felt a lot less tense. It was more to give the injured area a short rest than anything else.
Two days later she was back for another massage. I know that I am not the world’s greatest masseur, not even close. This was the statuette at work again. Today her underwear was blue.
“Can I take my panties off?” she asked, “Last time some massage oil got on them.”
Yeah, undoubtedly Ogushege.
“Sure, Rosie, that will let me work closer to your hip. I’ll use a small towel to cover you instead.”
I put a towel over her backside, and she wriggled her panties down.
This time I worked further up both thighs. The muscle strain was much more relaxed, so I gave both sides equal time. She didn’t object as I worked between her legs, spreading them slightly.
We talked as I worked. She was from Cardiff, with a Welsh mother and a Trinidadian father. Divorced, with a couple of grown children. She knew she was overweight. I was polite and called her ‘curvy’, but she wasn’t fooled. Her thighs were a bit too large and not toned, with some cellulite showing.
Mrs. Wilson’s legs were better, but Rosie was fifteen or twenty years older. By the end of the session her legs had drifted apart, and the towel over her rear had drifted up. Everything was in shadow, but there was obviously a pussy there. I could even smell it.
The next Tuesday she was back. She dropped her panties without even asking, and the towel was higher on her backside — she was showing the lower third of her cheeks. I spent about thirty seconds doing her thighs. “Do you want me to do your glutes?”
“My glutes?”
“Your bum.”
I lightly stroked the twin objects in question.
“Yes. That would be nice.”
She kept her head turned sideways, not looking at me
So, I oiled up her bum and let my hands wander over it, lovely and soft it was too. I moved to her thighs and lightly pushed them apart. One hand tested the water by brushing lightly over her pussy lips.
“Mmmm,” was all I got in response.
Another pass over her pussy — another, “Mmmm.”
“Would you like an internal massage?” I asked.
“What’s that?”
“Like this.”
I slowly pushed a finger into her pussy. She was already wet, as my nose had told me.
“Ohhhh yes. That’s good,” she responded.
Before long I had two fingers working in her pussy while my other hand worked her clit.
She soon got off, with a long, “Aaaahhhh …”
I didn’t. After she thanked me and left I had to finish myself off by hand. First time I’d done that for a while.
Thursday that week she was back on my bed in a pink bra, with my fingers in her pussy. This time I decided that I wanted some for myself.
“Do you want a deep internal massage, Rosie?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like an internal massage, but I go deeper.”
“OK, let’s try it,” she agreed.
I got her to lift her hips, so I could slide a pillow under them. With her hips raised, and her legs spread wider, I dropped my shorts, got behind her and started to insert my, “Deep penetration instrument.”
“Is that all right, Rosie?” I asked after a couple of inches.
“Mmmm, that’s fine, Gavin. Does it go deeper?”
“Yes,” I told her and demonstrated just how deep it could go.
“Ahhh, that’s nice,” she said.
Naturally I agreed, it felt very nice indeed. I had one hand down on her clit to make sure she got off.
“Oooh, don’t stop!” she told me.
As if I would!
Hers wasn’t the tightest pussy I’d been in, but she was well lubricated and slick. I was going to enjoy this, and I wanted to make sure she did as well. I kept one hand on her clit as I moved steadily in and out of her pussy.
“That feels great. Ahhh. Don’t stop. Yes, yes …”
I carried on for a few more seconds and came myself. When I’d finished, I got off her.
“Thanks for the massage, Gavin,” she said before disappearing into the bathroom.
Massage? I’d given her a lot more than a massage, but if she wanted to think of it that way I didn’t mind.
Rosie became a regular visitor, coming round two days most weeks for her, “Massage.” She was the only one of my women to comment on Ogushege; she noticed him on my shelf one day, “Now why can’t I find a man with a dick like that?”
Maybe she did? She stopped coming after a few months and mum told me she’d found a new man and was getting married.
xxxxx
Humaira
It was a nice day, warm, no rain and even a little sun, so I was walking back from work instead of taking the bus. As I neared home I got a message from Ogushege, :Turn left.” My normal route was straight on, but I followed his suggestion. At the next junction he said, “Turn right.”
That put me parallel to my normal route, where I saw a familiar face coming towards me. I recognized her, but I couldn’t immediately place her: very attractive, South Asian in her late teens with big smiling brown eyes. She was wearing a yellow headscarf and a bright green, salwar kameez with gold edging. It looked like she had some nice tits hidden under there as well.
How did I recognise a South Asian woman? She wasn’t from work — everyone there was older. Got it! Every weekday morning I buy a paper to read at lunchtime. I spend all day looking at a computer screen, so having a real newspaper to read gives my eyes a rest. This woman was the daughter of the couple who ran the local newsagent, I’d seen her working in the shop some mornings. Was she the reason Ogushege had sent me this way? I wondered whether to speak to her or not. Better not, I decided, let her make the first move.
As she approached I smiled at her.
She smiled back and said, “I’ve seen you in our shop, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Can I use your phone please?”
Why did she want my phone? Whatever, I fished it out of my pocket and passed it to her.
“As long as I get it back,” I joked.
She giggled, “I want to send a text to my phone,” she explained with her eyes down and concentrating.
She passed my phone back, “Thanks. I’m Humaira, by the way.”
“Thank you, Humaira. I’m Gavin.” She nodded, smiled and walked on.
No more directions from Ogushege, so Humaira must have been the point of his diversion. Very sexy. She was certainly a looker and seemed to have a nice personality to go with her equally nice tits. Her giggle was pleasant as well. I could do worse.
Two days later I got a text from her, she wanted to meet. The address was near where we’d met in the street, not her parents’ shop. I’d assumed they lived over the shop; obviously I was wrong.
I wasn’t. When I arrived Humaira introduced me to her aunt Noor, whose house it was. Her parents thought she was visiting her aunt, not having an assignation with a man. She didn’t seem worried about Noor knowing, so I didn’t worry either. The older woman soon disappeared into the kitchen, leaving us alone together.
“I’m getting married in a few months,” she told me.
Now that was a strange way to begin seducing a possible boyfriend.
“Congratulations to both of you,” I responded, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ve got the list down to three, and me and my parents will need to meet them a few times before we decide.”
So it was an arranged marriage, common enough in her community.
“I don’t suppose I’m one of the candidates?” I joked.
She laughed, “No, I’m afraid not. I want you to be my teacher.”
“Teacher?”
“Yes. I’m a good Muslim girl, so I don’t know much about the practical side of sex. I want you to teach me something about it before I marry. We can’t … do it because I must be a virgin on my wedding night, but I want to learn a bit about the rest before then. I thought you might be a good teacher.”
“Couldn’t you find a Muslim boy to teach you?”
Why did I say that? Trying to talk myself out of the job!
“No way!” she said emphatically, “None of them know a lot, and they gossip so much I’d have a dozen of them wanting to teach me inside five minutes,” she paused, “That’s another thing, you can’t tell anyone.”
Reasonable enough.
“I’ll keep quiet, though your aunt obviously knows.”
“Yeah, I’ve already explained my idea to her, and she’s okay with it.”
“So, what have you done so far?”
“Held hands and a peck on the cheek. Nothing much really.”
She seemed slightly embarrassed at her lack of experience.
I held her hand and said, “So, give me a peck on the cheek.”
She did. The sort of kiss you give a child or an aunt.
“If that’s all you’ve done you have a lot to learn,” she nodded, “But I can guarantee that learning it will be a lot of fun.”
I grinned at her and she grinned back. I really liked her smile.
“Sit closer to me, so our shoulders are touching.”
As she moved I raised my arm and put it round her shoulders.
“If I go too fast, tell me, and I’ll slow down,” she nodded again.
I talked to let her get used to my arm round her.
“Did you get sex-ed at school?”
“Yes, but no practical,” she grinned, “All talk and boring videos.”
“Boring?”
“Yeah, they left out all the good bits,” she said with a small pout.
“Do you have internet access. For the naughty parts I mean.”
Again that lovely smile.
“Only here at Auntie Noor’s. And even then not much. Do all women have those huge breasts? None of the women I see in the street look like that, unless they’re really fat.”
“Those are fantasies. They pick the actresses for their big breasts, or they have surgery to make them bigger. If you look carefully you can sometimes see the scars.”
“Scars? Where?”
“Underneath where they hang down, so the scars are hidden.”
I moved my free hand over my chest to show her. I assumed she wouldn’t want my hands near her breasts yet, even with the statuette helping.
She nodded.
“I’ll look next time.” Then she paused, looking embarrassed, “I’ve never touched a boy’s thing.”
I took hold of her hand and moved it over my cock.
“Touch all you want, but not too hard.”
She stroked me lightly through my trousers.
“It’s not as big …”
“They choose the men on the internet for their big dicks, like the women for their big tits. Real people aren’t as big.”
She nodded.
“Can we kiss?”
“Of course.”
Like I was going to say no! For a girl who’d never been kissed properly before she soon picked up how to use her tongue. Obviously a quick learner.
During the kiss I slowly moved my hand over a breast. Mmmm … very pleasant. Even over her clothes it was lovely; both firm and soft, with a hard nipple in the middle. She seemed a little nervous at first, but settled down when I didn’t push things any further.
She ended the kiss, to my disappointment.
“I have to go back home now. We can’t be seen leaving together, so can you stay here for a bit before you go?”
“Sure.”
I didn’t have anything planned.
“Thanks for the lesson, and be nice to Auntie Noor. She’s been sad since Uncle Salman divorced her.”
Now what did she mean by that? Actually it turned out to be more like Auntie Noor being nice to me. She came out of the kitchen and saw Humaira to the front door. Then she came back in and knelt between my legs. Whoah! Was she going to …? Yes she was. She stroked my stiff cock through my jeans, as Humaira had been doing, and then opened my fly to extract me.
Noor was not really my ideal of a girlfriend, or a woman-friend for that matter. Probably late thirties and a bit overweight. Looking serious, not smiling much and keeping her eyes down as she sucked me in. She knew a lot more than Humaira; definitely not a beginner. After I’d filled her mouth, and she’d swallowed the result, I thanked her. Just a nod from her, no smile.
That lesson turned out to be typical. Humaira kept her clothes on, and I couldn’t touch her below the waist. That didn’t apply to her, she had my cock out by the second lesson and stroked it for me. She’d obviously not done anything like that before, so I had to give her a few pointers: not too loose a grip and not too tight.
She wouldn’t put it in her mouth.
“I don’t want to seem too experienced with my husband. And I’ve been practicing with bananas,” she informed me with a nice big smile.
I did like her smiles. Should I be jealous of a banana? At least with me as an example she could pick the right size banana for me to be jealous of.
Noor didn’t have a problem with either sucking or fucking. After the first time we usually fucked, either with her bent over the kitchen table or doggy-style in her bedroom. She preferred having me behind her for some reason. I don’t think I’m that bad looking, though obviously I’m biased. Mind you, her ass was good, well-rounded and plump.
Maybe Ogushege’s target was Noor rather than Humaira? He obviously had his own agenda that didn’t always mesh with mine—given the choice I would have definitely preferred Humaira. Still, Noor was ready to let me have my fun, so I wasn’t too unhappy.
It all ended of course when Humaira got married and moved to Glasgow with her new husband. She sent me a nice, “Thank you,” message, while not being at all specific about what she was thanking me for.
Teaching Humaira reassured me. The statuette wasn’t forcing her to go further than she wanted; she had control over what we did and didn’t do.
At first, I had worried that Ogushege was forcing all these women to have sex with me. A fantasy harem is fine as long as it stays a fantasy, but these were real women not fantasies. I didn’t want to force them into doing things they didn’t want to, even indirectly. Thinking about it, I decided that he was only using the minimum influence.
All my women were already looking for a man: Mrs. Wilson wanted more sex in her life, Rosie wanted sex after her divorce, Humaira wanted a sex-teacher and Noor was obviously interested in a bit on the side. Ogushege didn’t have to force them into anything, all he had to do was point them at me instead of some other bloke.
Each had their different limits: Humaira wouldn’t suck me or do anything below the waist, Rosie only fucked and pretended it was a, “Massage.” Even Rana perhaps; she’d just lost her boyfriend and might have been looking for a replacement. Damn! I might have missed an opportunity there.
Ogushege always worked with the grain, not pushing them any further than they already wanted to go. Working that out was good. He wasn’t making these women do anything they didn’t already want to do. At worst, I was depriving some other guy of his fun and games. That I could live with.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE
Such a well-written story… compelling one to read on as Gavin has his ‘spiritually assisted’ cumming of age.
I’ll look for subquent chapters and further adventures of ‘The Handman’…very nice work!