Joy

She touched the top gently, a stroke that made him jump, and caused Joy to pull her hand away.

"Sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"No. It's just really sensitive. It needs firm pressure, light touches seem like electric shocks."

Joy took a deep breath.

"Ok."

She wrapped her hand around the end of his prick squeezing gentle, Rupert involuntarily pushed up into her hand with a deep sigh.

"It looks wet it's so shiny, but it's dry."

"Won't be for much longer." Was Ruperts jerky reply.

"Tell me what to do."

"Move your fist gently up and down, yeh, like that. Oh fuck... oh... watch out... "

Rupert's erection had held over two hours. It was the first time a hand, other than his own, was holding his prick and the face of the owner of the hand, intent on a birds eye view of proceedings, was hovering inches from the head. A great ribbon of sperm issued forth splashing Joy's cheek and chin as she moved back in surprise, the ribbon falling back down across her hand and arm. To her great credit she didn't stop her ministrations, moved back closer to watch pearly beads pump from the slit head. The silence was deafening apart from the slosh of her cum soaked hand massaging his prick.

"Oh my God. Has it finished?"

"Yeh. You can stop. What a mess. I'm sorry, I couldn't control myself."

"I'm not! I wouldn't have missed that for anything. Can I taste it?"

"No!"

"Why not, you tasted mine."

Again she didn't wait for his answer simply lowered her mouth to brush the head of his prick, he felt her tongue wipe across the head flinching as it crossed the slit opening, helplessly pushing his prick into her mouth. She paused for a moment, lips wrapped snugly under the head rim, her tongue tapping lightly against the dome. He felt her swallow, and watched as she slowly raised her mouth running her lips back and forth across the prick she still cradled.

"Emm. That is sexy. Definitely! Tastes funny, I'll get used to it."

She surveyed the area of her labours; a drip of sperm fell from her cheek onto her arm causing her to giggle.

"Oh dear. We've made a bit of a mess. Got a handkerchief or tissues?" Joy asked.

"No. I didn't think to bring any."

"Well, we will know better next time."

Her words music to his ears, there was going to be a 'next time'.

Joy reached between her legs and started yanking on her panties.

"Help me get these off. We'll use them to clean ourselves. If I let go of this thing of yours, there will be even more mess."

They struggled, probably more than was necessary, eventually Rupert managed to remove her panties, immediately bringing them to his face.

"Rupe's! You're supposed to be cleaning me, not smelling my underwear."

"They're warm, smell nice."

"I'm warm. I'll still be warm when I've cleaned up. Pass them over."

Joy cleaned them both wriggling against Rupert's hand now snuggled between her thighs, she felt on heat, she could hear his fingers squelching against her cunt, she loved the rudeness of the word, pussy was for wimps, wondering if she dare ask him to put his face there. She didn't really have much choice, Rupert eased her around until her bottom pointed straight at him, her chest pressing down into the seat to maximise her exposure and she felt the heat of his breath on her bottom cheeks, listened to him inhaling her scent, felt moisture welling inside her as first his nose, then his lips and then his tongue explored her sex. There was no rhythm to her first oral orgasm, didn't need to be, it was enough that she could feel him nuzzling gently, that she could picture him in her mind sucking, playing on her cunt; Joy started rocking back at him, just to increase the pressure, hit and miss where it struck, didn't matter, his face was on her cunt, it was enough. She felt the orgasm coming like an express train in the stillness of the night, she knew it was coming, nothing could impede its path, it swept down upon her with an ear roaring, mind bending, body vibrating intensity that destroyed everything but the moment, to trail away leaving her shaking, overwhelmed, and subsiding into the bliss of release.

She had no idea how long she stay bottom in the air, Rupert's lips glued to her, gently responding to the palpitations between her legs. A cold trickle of moisture on her thigh that brought her back, wriggling herself reluctantly free of his lips not sure she could cope with more sensations. Aware, and to a degree embarrassed of her exposure, despite their being virtually no light, she struggled within the confines of the car to arrange herself, reaching for Rupert's hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss, partly to thank, partly to reassure herself he wanted more than sex.

She felt tears on her cheeks, couldn't explain them, not really, hot tears, happy, satisfied, shocked by what he'd done, by what she'd enjoyed, the tears seemed natural, washing away doubt, not pain. Rupert brushed her cheek, lent across kissed at her tears only to make her cry vocally at his concern and tenderness. For a fraction of a second, she'd felt like a whore and doubted his intentions, now, in the confusion of the moment, she felt immensely loved, and she felt like a lover.

There was nothing to say, nothing to explain, only a need to touch, to confirm the fact of their togetherness. Neither could bear to part, for supper they feasted each on the mouth of the other until it grew so late Joy grew afraid her Mother would telephone Maddy and discover she were not there. When they reached her house, she told Rupert to wait while she went inside, returning a few minutes later, wearing a tracksuit bottom.

"We've got an hour," Joy said, "I told Mum I was with my boyfriend. She didn't say anything, just raised her eyebrows told me to behave and put on some trousers."

Between kisses they planned their next few days, she was playing hockey Saturday. He'd watch, they'd go to the cinema, have a meal.

The following week, aware how quickly their sexual relationship was progressing, they discussed and agreed there could be no full sexual penetration. They were too young, she was too Catholic, they were too scared, they were having too much fun – why take the risk. Rupert's pleasure was to give pleasure. He made no demands on Joy, other than to touch her. He wanted to learn how to make her body scream with delight. She wanted to teach him. It was enough to sate.

Their journey became bound by a degree of ritual. It wasn't anything discussed or planned. Looking back, Joy could barely recall a meaningful discussion. They talked incessantly but we didn't contribute anything to understanding, not of the world they lived in, nor of themselves, other than in the complexity of sexual mores.

The ritual began with an examination of her legs. You remember the grazed knee, then the bruises – Joy's battle wounds. He'd inspect her legs like the engineer in training, examining them for imperfection, measuring them for some ulterior purpose, massaging tight muscle tissue after a match, or work-outs, familiarising himself before beginning.

If they were in his car, She'd sit with her back to the door, legs outstretched across his lap. He'd run his hands across her skin feeling for bruises, raising a leg to his lips imagining to kiss away the swelling, only succeeding in transferring the bumps on her leg to the bump in his groin. His attention exposed her thighs, her skirt sliding down into her lap. Fashion dictated she wore ankle socks; occasionally she wore stockings and a garter belt. These disturbed him. He thought them too sexual, too arousing. Rupert preferred a slow deliberate path. He'd touch and caress her legs until her body shook with tension, until her breath came in short sharp stabs as if breaths rhythm would breach her dam. Only then would he kiss her, catching her panting breaths into his mouth, calming with his lips, using his tongue to divert, legs slowly recovering strength, ready for his next more intimate assault.

If the weather was fine, they would take the car rug into the woods, luxuriating free from the confines of the car, walled between vivid green clouds of ferns or snuggled in barley pregnant with grain rustling in the June breeze. The ritual was slightly different. Rupert undresses the top of her body to make slow and deliberate love to her breasts. The attention lavished on Joy stimulated her breasts to bud, she would always be small breasted, nearly nineteen, they were still mostly nipple. 'Pico's' he called them after a photo he'd seen of a volcanic island in the Azores, a cone raised from the sea, the crater rim creased like a nipple. He caressed and soothed her breasts inflaming her nipples till they hurt from stimulation not pain, lips traversing from rib to gentle swelling to engulf the dark swirl of nipple, nibbling, catching distended tissue in slippery teeth, sucking them bigger until she started panting and shaking as the roar filled her ears and rushed over her leaving her flailing in its wake, her hand flapping between her legs. He'd slowly lick her fingers clean and eyes closed, intoxicated by the sticky scent, follow her hand as she led his lips down to the heat of her cunt to feast.

In the summer, they managed two weeks away camping in Tintagel. Joy told her Mum she was holidaying with Madeline. In a farmer's field above the ocean, Rupert feasted on her body day and night. They found a rhythm to suit tongue and slit, Joy's mewing echoing the cliff-face gulls. It was suffocating hot inside the tent; they spent most of the time naked, bodies slick with perspiration. On a couple of nights, she pulled him outside to make love to her under the stars with the dewy grass staining her back, and the sound of waves pounding the cliff. She lay wanton, legs splayed, nipples taut, cunt on fire, almost steaming in the cool night air wanting him to begin, wanting him to stop, it was never enough. Rupert's staying power astonished her, he'd lick her to orgasm after orgasm exploring her cunt with his tongue to find just where she wanted to be touched, she liked it best when he lapped across the top rim of her vaginal opening, she could pull his head onto her, nose brushing her clit, controlling the sensation. He alternates between lapping and tongue fucking. He says she tastes sweet, she told him she knew, he attack's her with renewed energy, lapping until her bottom rises off the grass with the approaching orgasm, he grasps her bottom, pulling it open, slipping a finger between her cheeks to massage the nub of her anus, pulling her onto his face, she never wanted him to stop.

In the morning he wakes to find her couched, lit golden by the morning sun through canvas, coaxing his limp prick into life. She told him she preferred to feel his prick grow to fill her mouth, clamping her lips around the base, feeling it swell, push back toward her throat, almost choking before easing her lock and beginning a slow masturbation waiting to feel the bitter sweetness foam warmly across the back of her tongue, feeling him trickle, tickle into her throat. This was Joy's fuck. Should couldn't imagine his being in her cunt as any better than this. When Joy cried 'fuck me Rupert', it was her mouth that received his thrust. After, she lay stretched along his body, his prick clamped between her thighs feeling him shrink, leaking into the crack of her bottom, face propped between her hands, making faces, laughing, loving; pretending they owned the world.

They were exhausted, high on orgasm, fed on cunt juice and sperm. It was madness. For two weeks sex ruled their lives, they tried everything, removed all boundaries; experimented through tears of pain and screams of pleasure; everything except vaginal penetration, well... not with his prick. They made promises to each other written on the Cornish wind.

Joy decided not to go on to Art School, it would have meant moving away and she preferring to earn a living rather than face an uncertain future as an artist, or go without Rupert's loving attention.

She started her first job after the holiday.

Joy is PA to Tony - writer, poet, broadcaster, dazzlingly brilliant and Mensa member. From her first day at work, he embarked upon her seduction. He's older, he claimed twelve years; his passport said eighteen. They work from his home, Joy's job title is Personal Assistant / Prime Amanuensis / Piece of Arse.

Tony overwhelmed her. His intellect swamped her; his friends and contacts stunned her. She found herself immersed in the world of the almost famous, willingly swept into the flow. His courtship conventional, his attempted destruction of her relationship with Rupert showed no immediate success, he under-estimated Rupert's willingness to compromise and the sexual nature of a relationship not dependant upon screwing. Tony devised ways and means to keep her in town, Gala dinners where he needed a companion, shows for which he had spare tickets, sudden urges to dictate the next crucial instalment of his work, a dinner party at his flat where Joy played the Hostess. Joy stayed over, initially sleeping on the sofa bed before finally being worn down into agreeing to share his bed. Same rules – no penetration, Tony arrogant enough to believe he'd soon win that round.

Joy fell in love with a man whose intellect surpassed anything she'd previously encountered. His mind games battered her into a state of helplessness, plunged her into to the depths of ignorance, feelings of inadequacy, childishly immature, only to be hauled out, shown off, celebrated, introduced as his muse and partner to be admired by his exclusive circle of friends and acquaintances. To refuse to share his bed seemed somehow impolite.

Sleeping with Tony was a hollow experience for Joy devoid of the attention lavished by Rupert. Tony's attempts to compensate for her refusal to allow penetration crude at best an she lacked to skill to feign enjoyment. Unwilling to lose his favour she took the initiative, applied her prick-sucking skills, satisfying part of his demands. She took to masturbating herself, he liked to watch; she preferred her hands to his. He took pictures, not what she wanted, and didn't know how to refuse him. One morning she arrives at work to find blown up pictures of her glistening cunt and her face creased in ecstasy plastered across his bedroom walls. She's angry, furious with him, ashamed to see her face more than her cunt, he's stolen something of Rupert's. Joy rips the pictures from the wall, they fight wrestling on the bed, crumpling strewn sheets of glossy images, she's face down, Tony astride her, lifting her skirt, panties pulled roughly down under the cheeks of her bottom. She's pinned, her cunt shining back at her from the bed cover begging him not to fuck her. He tells her to relax. She feels him part her bottom cheeks and press against the rosebud of her anus. Horrified and excited she lays still unsure if she wants this, trembling, eyes smarting, wanting him to begin, wanting him to stop. She's too tense, the openings too small. He abandons his effort, pulling her to him, cuddling her, promising her anything, everything: forgiveness at any price.

They have a grown-up discussion, finally equals, his shame raising her status. They agree new rules, she promises to let him fuck her, but not today; this agreement bought at the cost of experimentation, new ways to keep him in check, new ways to keep him.

Robert's waiting for her at the station, the 7.15 from Charing Cross. He can read her unhappiness, she's crying before she enters his car. Her tale strips his heart, he's torn, bleeding inside, finding excuses to love her, afraid to confront the reality of her words. Ready to believe her pleas for forgiveness, an aberration. Yes, she will stop. Yes, she loves them both. Yes, they fulfil her differently. Yes, she needs him. Yes, she'd die without him. Yes. Yes. Yes. Clutch at straws, anything except it's over.

She behaves for Robert's sake. For a whole month in the run up to Christmas she comes home every night, not telling him she spent the afternoon sucking prick doing things oral and anal to Tony that leave her wondering just where his sexuality lay. When she challenged his orientation he offered to get a boy in, so she could watch and learn, laughing at her shocked expression.

The month brings some stability to her life. Rupert recovers poise, the ordeal of his nightly vigils at the station eases, a degree of normality ensues as they re-visit the lane or snatch brief hours in his bedroom while his family are absent. He accepts her return. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't look for problems. Devotedly embraces the illusion. She tells him what he wants to hear, his hands, his lips, all perfect, hers. It's not a lie, they shared an addiction.

Rupert touches her core, moves her in ways Tony cannot conceive – Tony thinks it's all about the prick.

Tony accepts the one-sided nature of their relationship, she gives, he receives. She accepted the degree of control the sex between them gave her, grew to enjoy sucking him off, a powerful man, a minor celebrity, putty in her hands, her mouth. She could bask in the reflect glow of his fame. As Christmas approaches, Tony applies pressure; he needs her with him, dinners, parties, functions. Patiently she explains to Rupert, reassuring him she'll be home every night, or stay in a hotel. He's ready to believe.

They attend a Christmas Eve party, the Art's crowd, writers, and painters. She's enthralled by their company, to be on his arm and introduced to the famous. The attention, the ambience, the people suck her in; it's where she belongs. She drinks too much, watches time pass knowing she will miss the last train. She's approached constantly by men and woman, near Joy is near Tony. She hears his laugh from across the room, glances round, sees him with men his age looking in her direction. Their looks disturb her, she thinks he's boasting. Moments before she'd been ready to accept all of this, thinking it was only her naïveté held her in check, thinking it wouldn't be too bad to give herself, completely, fully. Now she saw it wouldn't be that simple. She'd bore him, not immediately, not until he'd taken her. She lacked sophistication, couldn't compete at the level of his circle. Was she tolerated, rather than wanted? She formed the impression her looks and expressive sexuality made her acceptable. She surveys the crowd around her, they are not here for her, their here for him and she recognises the attention she is receiving as akin to a queue, their interest skin deep.

In bed she cried, told Tony she felt out of place, objectified, a token. He told her she was imagining things, flattered her androgynous appearance; explained how this made her attractive to both sexes. He told her he'd fended off many enquiries, men and women, who wondered if she were available; he enquired if she'd ever been with another girl – he could arrange it, a gentle exploration; he seemed to take delight in embarrassing and confusing her.

"Their perception of you is of sexual innocence. It's your innocence they want Joy," he said, "they aspire to regain their innocence through you."

"You to?" She asked him.

"Hell you're not innocent. You'd break their hearts, just like you're breaking Rupert's. Release him. Trust me, it's for the best."

It was an answer, but not to the question she'd asked.

On Christmas Day morning Rupert came to collect her. It was humiliating for him. Tony insisted he should come into the flat, refused to dress, and showed Rupert around the one bed-roomed flat in his dressing gown - just to make sure Rupert fully understood where she'd slept.

He barely spoke with Joy on the drive home; she had no words to ease his shame. Her actions destroyed the Christmas she'd hoped for.

On New Years Day Rupert laid down an ultimatum; Joy had until Valentines Day to decide. Whom ever she spent Valentines Day with would be the one she'd chosen. Rupert distanced himself, it was a calculated plan, he withdrew the one thing she craved; Rupert stopped touching her, it was his last roll of the dice. They continued to see each other but he subtly withdrew, finding excuses not to spend time with her. She became edgy, anxious, snappy with everyone, except Rupert.