Ten Viterbi, Chapter 1



The very beginning of the first novel in a series. Since I wrote this Ten has come off the page slightly alarmingly, and seems to be taking the series more towards serious thrillers than just erotica. Questions; Should I let her?Ca n I stop her? Which would you prefer? Want more of this one?

Well there was I, one foot up on the bedside cabinet, duvet still wrapped round the other, my manhood seriously starting to ache and no letup in sight.

I don’t mean to sound negative, I was thoroughly enjoying myself, but we’d been at this for about two and a bit hours by this time and with the best will in the world the flesh was starting to weaken.

Was I alone in all this I hear you ask? No of course, Tennyson was there as ever, holding my member in one hand and gently oh so gently torturing me with the tip of her tongue. She was good at that, and could keep it up for what seemed like hours at a time.

A little in, a little out, gently gently.

Little by little, soft and slow.

Then around the tip in increasing circles, once… twice… a little harder, a little harder still, round and round slow, warm and wet.

Then back to in and out, a little harder this time, in… out… in… out…

Then a long slow lick right across the tip.

Then back to the circling, round and round a little faster this time and harder with it.

I could feel the pressure building all the time, bringing me closer and closer to climax, my penis felt as hard as iron and really starting to hurt through the pleasure.

I leaned back onto the pillows, closed my eyes and surrendered to it. Then…

“Here we go round the Mulberry dick, the mulberry dick, the mulberry dick” she sang suddenly, simultaneously wrapping her hand round my tip and squeezing so hard it was painful.

I was blindsided by that. Neither my brain nor my body had the faintest idea of the correct response to the sudden and unexpected change of direction. I burst out laughing of course, I couldn’t have helped myself if I’d tried, and burst out in the other way at the same time, once, twice, thrice in quick succession, then in decreasing strength with more delay between as she continued to squeeze and slide her hand, now better lubricated, slowly up and down in time. I was slightly surprised I had anything left, this was the third or fourth time since we’d started I think, I’d lost count.

“That doesn’t even make sense” I was eventually able to force out as the eruption finally subsided.

“It doesn’t have to, does it?” Ten replied, giving me one of her signature looks.

This one was number four, made up of equal parts quizzical, erudite, and slightly malicious amusement. I’ve christened it ‘Puck with a PhD’, and it usually appears when she is entering one of her most whimsical moods. Not always, Ten is not that predictable, but here I could pretty much take it to mean we weren’t done yet.

“Well, no I suppose it doesn’t.”

“And is sense a necessary part of all our actions?

“No. But…”

Ten rode over my objections.

“And when it comes down to it, how sensible is anything we’ve done since we woke up this morning?”

Aha! “Its Monday morning,” I replied. I had her! She’d walked right into that one, “Given that we woke up in the first place I can imagine nothing more sensible than to approach Monday morning by staying in bed and shagging.”

“It’s Monday afternoon,” she corrected me.

I glanced at the clock; 12:17. Damn!

Deflated. Never mind, rally and seek a distraction.

“Well that proves my point then; we’ve managed to entirely avoid the experience of Monday morning, and won’t be bothered by it again for the rest of the week.“

“Besides,” Successful defence, time to counterattack, “where did the ‘We woke up’ come from. I don’t seem to remember waking up in any sort of natural manner,”

I was warming to my theme now.

“No, far from gently rising to the surface, I was ripped from my slumber unceremoniously by something unexpected going on under the covers. In my befuddled semi-conscious state I thought Steve Irwin had got lost in the bed and jumped on my early morning erection thinking it was a Banded Krait or something.”

Ten was quick; “More like a spitting cobra.” she rejoined with a laugh.

“And by the way, I have no memory of going for a pee since last night."

“You haven’t.”

“Thought not.”

Now I was off the sexual high some of the other less enjoyable but vitally important bodily functions had begun to compete for my attention. First things first; bladder. I suspected I was backed up to the kidneys, and once the tap was turned on it was going to hurt like fury. Also competing for attention my stomach chose that moment to give a loud, long, and thoroughly unromantic gurgle. I sat up, oh yes; definite pressure there.

I lurched from the bed. Ten gave my bare arse a resounding slap as I carelessly passed within range. I should have expected it and reckoned it would have left a big red handprint. At any other time it would have made me jump out of my skin, but in comparison with the suddenly urgent messages emanating from my bladder it felt as important as a mosquito bight versus a frenchie from Jaws.

Maintaining just enough presence of mind to consider how romantic a sound like a discharging fire hose wouldn’t be, coming through the thin door from the en-suite, I legged it from the room and down the hall to the main bathroom instead.

Simultaneous relief and pain ensued, and seemed to last forever. If you want the details of that particular episode I suggest you look elsewhere, this isn’t quite that sort of book. Suffice to say I’m given to wonder if Catullus was writing an ode to the public jakes after a long night on the Falernian when he penned ‘Odi et Amo, excrutior’, rather than another of his infantile scribblings to his ‘Lesbia’ (as if anyone was fooled.)

By the time I emerged I could hear the heavy-duty graunching noise that announced either next door was being demolished, or Ten had started the very German bean-to-cup machine to make some coffee.

Going through to the kitchen I was not surprised to find her sitting starkers at the breakfast bar eating a banana.

Little by little, soft and slow….

I groaned.

She laughed.

Leaping up she bit off a bit popped the last inch of the fruit into my mouth and retrieved two steaming mugs from the machine. A splash of Baileys in each. This might seem a reckless indulgence on a Monday morning, well afternoon, but it has at least one beneficial effect. Believe it or not it seems to at least partially counteract the butt-blasting effects of Ten’s favourite anti-personnel Java. Also, it’s nice.

Half a mug later I was beginning to feel a bit more human, though it seemed to be having the opposite effect on Ten. She was staring distractedly out of the window, but I could tell she wasn’t seeing the view. From the way she was caressing her mug and starting to wriggle on the stool I suspected some of the more animal aspect of her nature, probably vixen in this case, were coming to the fore.

Naturally the realization itself, ably assisted by the early afternoon sun streaming through the window and flattering her bare breasts with emerald hue, was having more than a little effect on me. No, not really emerald; more a sort of golden rose colour overall, with the erect nipples (ah yes, that confirms it) standing out as darker targets against the lighter background, and slowly but steadily darkening further still.

No denying it, she could turn me on with silence and stillness, apart from the little unconscious wriggle that is. Sure she was naked, and the sun played a cameo role too, but I’ve seen a fair few naked women and quite a lot of sunshine over the years and none have ever had quite the same effect.

And turning on I was. A scant quarter of an hour after the previous bout and the exhausted warrior, still reeling and from the last assault, was nobly pulling himself back to attention and preparing to march forth to the firing line once more. He might be sore, he might be tired, he might be drastically low on ammunition, but he was going to do his duty! No fusilier at Rourke’s Drift could have shown more spirit¸ no sergeant majour could have set a better example to his men at Waterloo, Gordon at Khartoum didn’t look one whit more noble, sword and pistol in hand, standing atop a pile of dead Fuzzywuzzys in that fatuous canvas hanging in the V&A.… No, wait a minute, Gordon came a cropper didn’t he, along with all his regiment. Better not dwell on that one.

Ten had noticed too. Damn. I was hoping for another minute or two to sink the rest of my coffee and recoup. My stomach chose that moment to let out another protest at the lack of sustenance, the banana end had only made matters worse in that area. I chose to ignore it and hope it would go away.

By now my erection had reached the underside of the breakfast bar and was pressing hard against the walnut. Serviceable and not too sore, good. I made a mental note though: the underside of the worktop may not be very visible, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need sanding.

With a slightly wicked grin Ten leaned across and kissed me. Lingering, then slowly parting lips, then coffee-banana flavoured tongue thrusting hard into my mouth.

No, wait a minute, that’s not tongue, its another bit of that bloody banana. Ten leaned back and giggled. She’d obviously been planning that for the last ten minutes at least, presumably keeping that bit stuffed in the window-side cheek where I couldn’t see the bulge.

I chewed and swallowed.

“Think that will shut your stomach up for a bit longer?” she asked.

“No, but I can ignore it if you can.” I replied, laughing, And true to the rising libido all thoughts of food were rapidly passing out of my brain.

She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulled me close and kissed me again, properly this time.



© Marcus Brook 2014




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