AVATAR
Mutant John doesn’t smile much, but when he opens the door of his ground floor flat and sees me he beams so widely and toothily that he looks like someone else. I slip off my sunglasses, stow them in my bag, then look up at him. As we stand there it feels as if we are two shy people meeting on a first date. He goes to say something, shakes his great shaggy head, then smiles some more. Then he opens his arms. I cross the threshold to be enfolded in them, and he kicks shut the door.
For a while I am engulfed in him, his body, his attention, his adoration. The only time he moves is to hold my head and kiss my hair, which he inhales the smell of – a great reverse-bellows sound that reminds me of a bison. He slips my bag off my shoulder and puts it on the telephone table, and then he looks at me as if trying to memorise every contour of my face and body. Although the smile has gone, I sense his joy in me, and the way I make him happy simply by being here. It is intoxicating, as if I am being stroked.
As he reaches forward and gently unzips my jacket, his breath speeds up. He slowly spreads the lapels as if I am a present he is opening, and then he leans down and breathes in through his nose. Towards the end of this inhalation it becomes ragged, and he emits an odd, high squeak. He runs his big rough hands down the ridged contours of my abdomen, and then straightens, pushes his palms around my middle under the jacket to grip my back and pull me to him.
I lift my chin and look up at him as his head descends once more and he kisses me, once, on my upper lip. Then he clutches me to him as if I am the only thing keeping him alive, and I feel how hard he is through his jeans. My PVC squeaks against his leather-patched denim as I press myself against it and he squeezes me so tight I can’t breathe. I say nothing because it is wonderful being love-crushed like this.
Then he is kissing me again, with a rare and powerful hunger. His beard grazes my lip as he licks the front of my teeth. I open my mouth and he pushes his tongue in, trying to get all the way down my throat. One hand lets go of my lower back, slips out of the jacket, and grips the back of my neck. There is a delirious aggression to it, and I become the opposite: purely submissive and malleable, my tongue entwining his as it lashes and thrusts. Breathless erotic energy rises from my core, engaging the unique power of a girl who loves to take it. I wrap my arms around his neck, and his hair rustles against the sleeve of the PVC jacket.
Mutant John strokes my bob, breaks off kissing to smell it again, then returns his vigorous attentions to my mouth. He kisses me and kisses me, and I begin to forget where I am.
I love kissing. I could do it all day.
It’s just as well – Mutant John shows no interest in stopping. His chest heaves against mine, and I try to quell doubts that this might be too much for him. Perhaps he intuits the same, because he withdraws finally, but instead of stepping away pushes me back-first against the front door.
It’s a heavy wooden one with a pane of lightly frosted glass, so that anyone watching from outside will see me pressed against it. They will know what is happening to the pretty woman with the sleek bobbed hair, in the whorish black outfit. They will know that she is accommodating the desire she has inspired, and that something stronger than she is has taken her firmly in hand. They will know that things are being done to her, and that she is at the dizzy commencement of a long process of enthusiastic, brutal sexual engagement that will work her slim body hard. It will make her shake and sweat, take the sheen of that shiny hair, and leave her screaming, then limp and silent…
Mutant John zips my jacket back up. Then he kneels and regards the front of my short, black PVC skirt. He does not move, other than the soft rise and fall of his large chest. I had thought his black T-shirt merely battered, but now I see it sports the remains of an ancient Motörhead logo. I study the contours, picking out the shape of the great tusked skull, and am thus distracted when Mutant John lifts my skirt.
He does not simply hoist the front, he pulls the whole thing up so the hem runs around my ribs. The skirt is so tight that it stays there with no support, like a thick plastic belt. Below it, I am naked. My backside is pressed against the door, the feel of the wood warm and slightly rough. My front is exposed to Mutant John’s slowly opening mouth.
I feel his breath on me, and I twitch my underneath like a doe shaking her tail. Mutant John’s hands rise in that measured way he has and then he holds my hips. I wiggle again. He grips me tighter, leans forward, and inhales through his mouth and nose. He grunts, then pulls me forward and wraps his arms around my bottom, rubbing his beard and face in my sex and sighing with pleasure. Then he presses me back against the door again, and with the slightest of movements take me in his mouth.
Big Clit hardens at once, and I cannot keep still but he holds me in place as I gasp and make little cries. He has not yet moved his lips up and down – he wants to leave me in there, soaking in the vast succulent heat of his big wet mouth. Abruptly, he pulls back and I feel the wetness cool between my legs. He pulls my skirt down, still with that calm, methodical movement.
“I had to have a taste,” he says, and gets up.
I regard him. It is so delicious and beguiling to know that even in the way my face is composed – a haughty, misplaced innocence – that I am offering myself to him, and submitting completely to something we both know will happen, but has not happened yet.
He kisses me again, and I taste myself on his lips, and smell myself in his beard. After a while he lifts his head and places two shaking fingers against my mouth, as if in a token attempt to ward me off. I stay there, looking up at him with big eyes. He pants softly, so hard in those tight jeans I am sure his arousal must be hurting him.
“You are my avatar,” he says, which is not what I expected him to say at all.
My confusion breaks the spell, allowing him to let go of me, step back and give a bashful grin.
“I’m going to put the kettle on,” he adds.
He takes my hand and leads me through to the small, neat kitchen. Everything is well-maintained, but old, slightly battered, and defiantly analogue. The kettle is a dented steel whistler that goes on a gas hob with Bakelite knobs. I’m actually ready for a nice cuppa, but am confused when Mutant John gets one dainty cup and saucer from the neat stack in the cupboard above, which is solid wood, worn smooth with age and polishing. He regards the cup, which has a flower pattern around the rim, and which I suspect is an heirloom. A thoughtful sound escapes him, one I don’t even think he is aware of. He carefully measures tea from a tin that has a mermaid on it, while manoeuvring a silver teapot into position. I stand close to him, enjoying the calm focus of being included in a homely ritual. He reaches for a small, terracotta jar and lifts the lid to reveal neat cubes of white sugar.
“I don’t take sugar,” I whisper.
He turns to me in surprise.
“My pretty maid,” he says. “The tea is for me. I have something else in mind for you.”
“As… your avatar?”
“Yes,” he says, pouring tea and adding sugar. He doesn’t take milk. “That night in the woods, when I nearly died, I… Something changed. I’d been doing drugs and drinking for so long that some might consider me an addict. I never was though, because I always knew I was in control.
‘Instead I became an expert, going from one level of consciousness to another, finding ways not just to maintain the high but enhance it, to go further into new realms of consciousness. It was always weed that did it for me, not any of the harder stuff, which I was never interested in. Just the sweet, sweet grass – the power of it, the poetry if you like.
‘And now I can’t.
‘Sometimes when people have a near-death experience they say they’ll change, but never do. I did though. I had been so full of joy when I was with you, stalking you, enjoying your fear, then taking you as I wanted. I never wanted to stop!
‘But then I was on my back in the mud, in the dark, and the cold, and the night felt close, like it was pressing into me, until I was nothing but darkness. You had gone, and I wasn’t sure if you’d run away, or if something had happened to you, or…”
He takes a shuddering breath. I lean against him, and he kisses my hair, and smells it again, as if to anchor himself in a precious reality he thought he’d lost.
“Then there was this huge light, and a roaring sound, and I thought that was it. I’d be gone, without even the strength to tuck my cock away. Then you were there, the light behind you, and I saw the concern on your face, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my life.”
His arm tightens around me, then he suddenly grabs me and hold me tight, and I feel his powerful chest with its delicate heart heave against me. His sobs are a strange, muted series of grunts. From spending so long with him, I intuit that I do not need to say anything, that my presence in his arms is enough.
We stay like that for a while, and I feel unusual pride in my emotional relevance to him. We also have the luxury of time. As one gets older it goes by so fast, but today it seems to mould itself to us, like an additional embrace in the narrow kitchen with the sunny afternoon just outside the window. The day feels rich with promise, like a summer in miniature.
Eventually, he kisses the top of my head.
“I love the way your body smells,” he says. “Such a pretty girl, smelling so raw. Even your sweat is delicious, like the base notes of an expensive perfume.”
He takes my face in his big, rough hands and looks in my eyes.
“I have prepared some… adventures for you. That moment when you reappeared, like an angel, it… linked me to you. I can’t really explain how. I mean, I don’t usually talk much, and here I am telling you all this. But the things I can no longer do to myself I can do to you instead. And because we have this link, which feels like a psychic link to me, it’s almost as if what you will feel, I will feel at the same time.”
I smile.
“Good,” I say.
...To be continued
