Today's Wank Wednesday word is #blanket. For more information about this writing challenge, and to find links to the other stories, check out the Word Ejaculation website.
Dirty Deities
The Unpublished Manuscript
(These opening five paragraphs were written after the bulk of the rest of the manuscript. On the Skepticism Scale they occupy a position approaching 0. Make of that what you will.)
Once every two hundred years, out of the mist, come the Old Ones.
Now, when I say "Old Ones", I don't mean that they are all frail and wrinkly. They don't come clattering out of the fog on Zimmer frames. No, these are the Immortals. Those who, in Ancient Greece, were worshipped as gods.
The full moon bathed the earth in its eerie light, as I looked out of the high window of my isolated mansion, over the Yorkshire moors, and watched the blanket of fog slide across the dark earth as if some invisible giant were pulling up the bedclothes. How was I to know that there were figures hidden within that crawling mass of vapour that had the power to take me to the very edge of sanity?
Let me introduce myself. I'm sure you've heard of me. Professor Richard Gerkins, author of the best-selling book You'd Have to be Nuts to Believe in God. I live out here, alone except for my maid Clarabelle, my cook Constance, my secretary Charlotte, and Gareth the gardener. I don't like people very much. They are so irrational. Of course I do my book tours. One has to. You have no idea how tiresome it is travelling around the world telling people how stupid they are. It quite wears me out. My mansion is a haven from all that.
On that fateful night, as I stood rapt in contemplation of the clouded landscape, there was a knock at the front door on the floor beneath me.
The Diary of Clarabelle Jones
8th of January, 2012
Professor Poohface is working on a new book. That's a good thing. He stays locked up in his room most of the day so he isn't always running his fingers over the furniture and complaining that it needs dusting. It isn't good for furniture to be dusted too often. It wears out quicker from all that friction of the duster moving over the leather. I tried telling him that, but you know what professors are like. Think they know everything.
When he's not around I can spend most of the day reading erotic romance novels. I can't get enough of them. My one complaint though is the that they usually feature young spunky heroes with six packs. I go for older men myself. You know, like George Clooney or even Sean Connery. I'm sure Freud would have had something to say about that. Freud, now there was a sexy guy. I'd have loved to lay down on his couch and feel that cute little grey beard of his tickling my twat.
12th of January, 2012
Dear diary, you'll never believe what happened last night! Well, you probably will because you're a book, and books aren't really capable of skepticism. (Damn, now I'm even sounding like Poohface.) It's been like an amazing dream, but I don't think I'm ever going to wake up from it.
Technically I was off-duty, up in my room watching Secret Diary of a Call-Girl, when there was a loud commanding knock on the front door.
Old Poohface doesn't like to answer the door himself. Sometimes it's his fans rambling on endlessly about how they have spent their whole life praying for someone to come along and rid the world of religion. Or religious people come to harass him. If you're a Mormon or a Jehovah's Witness, knocking on Richard Gerkins' door is an adrenalin rush equivalent to what bungee jumping is for the rest of us.
But none of these people were in the habit of knocking on the door at nine o'clock at night. Perhaps there had been an accident on one of the nearby roads. I didn't like missing any of my program, but it seemed like a good idea to see who it was.
I skipped down the steps in my baggy pink pyjamas - the ones with the teddy bears on them - and opened the door.
At first I didn't see anyone there, only a wall of fog, which flowed through the doorway and quickly filled up the passage.
"What the fuck!?!" I cried. Fog causes mildew, and mildew is a real pain in the arse.
But gradually the mist cleared to reveal two figures, a man and a woman. They were dressed in togas.
My eyes were instantly drawn to the man's face. His hair was wavy and grey, his eyes radiated the power to command and yet they also twinkled with mischief, his lips were full and sensual for a man who looked to be in his sixties, and surrounded by an immaculately groomed silver beard. As I gazed into his eyes a wave of ecstasy passed over me. My nipples stiffened, caressed by the soft fabric of my pyjama top. A quiver went through my chubby little belly. And I came. My knees wobbled, my clit stiffened and I squirted all down the leg of my pjs.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," I said. "I don't know what came over me."
"It looks like you did," smiled the lady, a radiant young beauty with long blonde hair piled up in some kind of complex arrangement on the back of her head. Her eyes were unnaturally blue. "I think you chose well, father," she said, addressing the man by her side.
The Unpublished Manuscript
"Who is it at this hour?" I demanded, as I descended the stairs.
Clarabelle was standing in the corridor accompanied by a man and woman dressed in togas.
"Don't tell me," I insisted, raising my hand, "I'm keen to guess. You were headed for a fancy dress party but your car has broken down."
"Hello, Professor," said the young woman with a mischievous smile. "We were once intimately acquainted, but it was long ago, and perhaps you have forgotten. Yes, I think you have forgotten."
"How could you have known the Professor long ago?" asked Clarabelle. For some reason she was nervously pulling down the bottom of her pyjama top over her crotch. "You don't look that old."
"I didn't know him," she replied, enigmatically, "but he knew me."
"If this is some attempt to make me look like a fool then you will find that it is in vain," I declared.
"Fear not," replied the woman's companion, an older man with a pointy beard, "you have been chosen as the recipients of a rare privilege."
"Yes, I know," I responded, waving my hand dismissively. "I've been chosen to go on a cruise to the Bahamas, and all I have to do to qualify is to run up a bill of three million dollars on my mobile phone."
The man smiled indulgently. "We are the Immortals," he said. "We have existed since the beginning of time. The names men use to talk about us change, but we do not. I have been Ra, Zeus, Jupiter, Odin... Personally, I've gone back to calling myself Zeus ever since I saw Clash of the Titans (the original, that is). Larry Olivier, now there was an actor...."
"Sorry about Dad," said the young blonde woman. "He can be a bit of a windbag."
"He's not the only one," muttered Clarabelle under her breath.
"I heard that," I told her.
"I didn't say I was talking about you," she replied, and poked her tongue out at me. You just can't get good help these days.
"I wasn't lying when I said you knew me long ago," she explained, stepping forward and touching my arm gently. Even through the cloth of my jacket and shirt I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "I am Love. And, in your youth, you knew love. Do you remember?"
"You're Aphrodite!" cried Clarabelle excitedly.
"Don't be a fool!" I scolded her.
"Her heart is open," the young woman said. "She see's what you cannot."
"Every two hundred years we manifest ourselves on earth," explained the man who claimed to be Zeus. "More often than that and we would suffer the indignity of being lumped in with UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot."
"You can't possibly imagine how boring it is to be a god," sighed the woman who claimed to be Aphrodite. "The value of anything is determined by its scarcity. Gold is valuable because there isn't much of it. The same is true with life and the experiences of life. For you, life is rich and exciting, because it is short. With immortality comes ennui."
"This applies especially to sex," added the man. "We've all fucked each other in every possible position. That really doesn't do it for us any more. But there is one form of kink that still turns us on, because we can only indulge once ever 200 years, and that is mortalphilia - having sex with someone who is going to die."
"You're going to fuck us and then we are going to die?" asked Clarabelle, panicking.
"Not immediately afterwards, no," the man reassured her. "Just eventually, in due course. What we do with you won't shorten your lives. Hell, it might even lengthen them. Sex relieves stress, and stress is the big killer."
I looked into the eyes of the young blonde woman and my head began to spin.
"Don't listen to them, Clarabelle," I warned. "Surely you've known me long enough to know that the universe is without a God let alone a bunch of the fuckers."
"I don't know," replied Clarabelle, with a goofy smile as "Zeus" fondled her buttocks and nibbled on her ear. "I'm willing to have an open mind."
"You need a holiday," purred "Aphrodite" in my ear as she unfastened her toga and let it fall to the floor. Underneath she was naked. She was also perfect, like the statues in her honour. That is in the honour of the fictional character she claimed to be. Damn, I have to keep my wits about me.
"I'm gonna open my mind and open my legs!" squealed Clarabelle, yanking down her pyjama bottoms and rubbing her pink pussy. Even from where I stood I could see that it was dripping wet.
"Has everyone gone insane!" I cried, as I tore down my pants and underpants to allow my erection some room to breath. (This, of course, is a figure of speach. Penises, having no lungs, are not capable of breathing.)
The Diary of Clarabelle Jones
12th of January, 2012 (continued)
They explained that they were gods who come to earth once every 200 years to fuck humans. And we were the lucky ones chosen. You can say that again. Of course Poohface didn't believe them at first. But I did. No ordinary man could make me cum in my pyjamas like Zeus did.
And the other one was Aphrodite, his daughter. She had the hots for the Professor. No accounting for taste, I suppose.
Poohface told me not to listen to them. Fuck that! The feel of Zeus' sexy hands fondling my bum was driving me wild. I just pulled down my pants and started fingering myself. It felt fantastic to do that right in front of my boss. 'Who cares if he gets to see my cunt?' I thought to myself. Actually, I wanted him to. Why should I slave away dusting the house and washing his underpants with nothing to amuse me but saucy novels? If he's not afraid of taking on the world's great religions in his writing, why should he be afraid to see my bare bum and my cunt squirting pussy-juice all over the place?
These were the questions I asked myself as Zeus threw off his toga and I sank to my knees to lick his balls.
At this point the door opened again and in came Gareth. He'd been out drinking at the local pub. He was accompanied by another toga-wearing man and woman.
"I said 'Hermes'!" insisted the woman. "Not herpes!"
"Oh, that's O.K. then," replied Gareth. "I mean you have to be careful."
Then he stopped aghast and stared at me, down on my knees giving a blow job to the King of the Gods.
"You never do that for me," he chided, with a fruity laugh.
"I prefer older men," I insisted.
"I've got you there," chuckled Zeus. "I'd like to write my age down on a piece of paper for you, but there isn't a piece of paper on the earth big enough to hold that many noughts."
The Unpublished Manuscript
O.K. For the sake of argument, lets just call her Aphrodite. What am I supposed to do, ask for ID? If someone tells you their name, it's polite to believe them, especially if they're really hot and stark naked.
Now she took me by the wrists and made me run my hands over her bare body. She made me fondle her soft, warm, perfectly-formed breasts and her round perky buttocks. And she told me to slide my finger into the warm wet depths of her excited pussy, with its adornment of golden hairs.
Then she kissed me, and all my attempts to cling to a last shred of sanity were at an end. I was hers.
"I think I do remember now," I admitted, looking deep into her chlorine-blue eyes. "I've never seen you before in my life. But I've felt you in me like you are in me now."
"That's nothing," she smiled. "Wait until you are in me." She began stroking my rock-hard cock.
I looked over at Clarabelle. She was now totally nude and slurping up and down Zeus's massive erection. Damn, she looked cute with no clothes on. And she was a slut! Who would have guessed.
At that point the front door opened and in walked Gareth and two more strangers, toga-clad like our fuck-mates. It was a bit too late to worry about being embarrassed.
The newcomers were introduced to us as Hermes and Artemis. Hermes had a hat with wings on and Artemis was holding a bow and had a quiver of arrows on her back.
"I've bagged my game for the evening," Artemis declared, tearing off Gareth's trousers forcefully and dragging him by his cock into the lounge room.
"There's got to be someone for me, surely," pleaded Hermes.
"Charlotte's still up in her room," panted Clarabelle. Zeus was holding her hips in his large powerful hands and bouncing her up and down on his prodigious prick.
"Charlotte's a sound sleeper," I added, as Aphrodite deep-throated me. "And she's a bit of a prude. She might not want to join in."
Hermes shot up the stairs like lightning, losing his toga in the process.
A moment later, Charlotte came stumbling down the stairs, wrapped in a blanket.
"Rape! Rape!" she cried.
"I never touched her," insisted Hermes, his concupiscent cock bouncing in front of him as he bounded down the stairs.
Then something clattered to the floor from under the blanket. It rolled across the carpet until it collided with my foot. It was the largest vibrator I've ever seen.
Charlotte's face went very pink.
"I can do better than that," smiled Hermes, stroking his cock.
"O.K." she said, shyly. "You can fuck me...."
"Atta girl, Charlotte!" cried Clarabelle as Zeus sprayed her smiling face with his nectar.
"You can fuck me..." repeated Charlotte, dropping the blanket to show that she was completely naked. "As long as you fuck me right up my tight little arsehole!" Then she bent over and pulled her cheeks apart to expose that very anatomical locality.
At that moment, a small figure trotted in from the direction of the kitchen. He was quite hairy, with horns and cloven feet and he was carrying a musical instrument made of various tubes bound together.
"Pan!" cried Zeus. "I wondered where you'd got to."
He was closely followed by Constance, her portly figure decorated only with a few shreds of what had once been her clothes.
"I think I just got fucked by Gheorge Zamfir!" she cried. "And I liked it!"
"Come on," said Aphrodite, "we have only one night. Let's go somewhere where we can make the most of it." And so we left the others and climbed up the stairs to my bedroom.
"My pussy tastes of jasmine and wild honey," she told me as we lay back on the soft sheets. She didn't lie. She was a work of wonder from the gold of her hair to the daintiness of her toes. I licked her all over that night and the taste and feel of her flesh is still on my tongue as I write this.
She was love. She was the very essence of the erotic. She was the universal fuck. That night I shared my bed not with a woman but with Woman Herself.
A night in Paradise. That was the upside. The downside? My life is now a hollow sham. Sure I still collect the royalties from my books. What else can I do? If I tried to tell people that I'd changed my views, and why, I'd be treated like all those people who claim to have had a close encounter with fairies.
There are some compensations though. I just had a new king-sized bed installed, and Clarabelle managed to stitch together a truly mammoth blanket. It gets cold here in the foggy weather and you need plenty of warm bedclothes to cover a horny ex-athiest and three happy sluts (one of them kind of on the chubby side).
The End
