My writing has been coming and going in fits and spurts. The Rob-Inn made it three chapters before I went back to another idea. That one lasted 12,000 words before I stopped.
I blame Sony. Stupid Sony giving me Isaac: Rebirth for free, then putting Persona 4 on sale. And Gravity Rush. And Demon Gaze. Basically every game I had on my wishlist. I had to give up sleeping, there was just too many games to play. Multiplying every day.
But I found time to write a story last week without stopping midway through to get distracted. Some of the content in it could be called 'sexual' but really, it's nothing you wouldn't hear in a teen-rated horror movie.
As always, comments or opinions would be greatly appreciated.
Naked
Garden of Eden, circa 2000, two thousand years after God forgave the snake his – forever his, for she walks without shadow and casts not the first stone – indiscretions and decided to let bygones be bygones. What's an apple amongst friends after-all when it comes to the eternal suffering of humankind?
Following forgiveness, sin was enveloped and overturned. Scientists blamed global warming, even as their instruments malfunctioned and grew greener and grassier and sprouted flowers and shoots.
Maliciousness was curbed, malign provocation stomped and envy became youthful exuberance developed meaningfully into creative output.
Destruction was removed from all vocabulary. People around the world lined up to throw their woes into the fire of purification. Those who attempted to hide contraband were found and, well, the word doesn't exist anymore for what was done to them but it rhymes with suction and begins with a phonetically spoken d's.
First went weapons, then words and finally, after a considerable look into the fashion industry and the terribly horrendous bitchiness spewing forth from within, clothing that caused provocation amongst the loins.
Positivity reigned supreme within the cosmos, which was shrunk considerably and kept confined to a single galaxy, each humankind picked up and placed into their own garden, all situated on the earth and within close proximity to one another. Just don't expect to travel. Segregation is the order of the day and God doesn't take kindly to folks who mingle interracially, too much contamination within the gene pool and his eyesight isn't getting any better.
Humans were, of course, always messed up, evolutionarily speaking. Millennia of inbreeding since Adam beget Eve, ignoring Destiny, Chloe, Beatrice and Annabel, God's original foursome. Citing the following problems preventing his breeding amongst the group: An unappealing birth defect (joys of being crafted out of the funny bone, you end up looking like a joke), the wrong hair colour (hair dye not yet created, the simplest solutions often being overlooked), eyes too wide apart (that would later become the inspiration for the noble sloth), and
irreconcilable differences (later to be used as a defence against unwinnable arguments).
These four rejected specimens would become God's right hand, left hand, righter hand, and lefter hand. Theologians would later mistakenly call them the horsemen – always men – of the apocalypse and give them snappy titles like Conquest and War, never quite realising that they all had the same title: Wrath, for what is worse than the combined wrath of four scorned women with an eternity to stew it over.
Two thousand years of reconstituted heavenly elbow grease doesn't always necessarily remove the stain etched within humanity's consciousness from millions of sweaty encounters. Hence, human perversion was overlooked and very much alive today, transformed by nature and forced to evolve as we all are want to do in times of deep desire and longing and incredibly repetitive boredom.
Enter Charlie Parker of One Provincial Cloud, a nice little residential lay-by up past the respectable shrubs lining Escher Street. Each street was the same, each shrub equidistant to the next, each house aligned exactly as preordained by the one true almighty saviour of the human race.
Charlie had a secret yearning that had been nagging at the back of his skull like some annoying subconscious itch, perpetually berating him with thoughts most wicked. His dreams were laced with their contents: Fashion shows from a forgotten city called Milan; Wet t-shirt contests; Slumber parties with college students in their nighties; Raves filled with colourful leggings and slashed costumes; Mafia-operated strip-joints, those classy affairs where women wore nipple tassels and themed teases.
Charlie would wake each morning drenched in sweat – though part blame could be given to the newly introduced climate control required as a by-product of having all life clothed in nothing but the skin they were born in – and sporting an uncomfortable protrusion between his legs.
Oh but of course his assigned partner, Susie Stoker formerly of Ebony Bough Lane until plucked from her family and given the task of being the female yin to Charlie's male yang, satisfied the physical malady with much enthusiasm. Her head would bob and he would shuffle convincingly and naturally things would take their course and she would gulp and he would sigh as if satisfied before returning the favour – God is not a complete misogynist after-all, merely believing in the natural order of things: Men came first and thus shall it always be – in equal measure until her lower parts spat a little watery gush upon his face and she sighed and they began the day afresh.
Thus finished, they would part ways to do their daily duties of prayer and worship for this exceptionally blessed existence.
Except Charlie would get looks. Mr Kline of number fourteen down the road would cast a sideways glance of derision as he worked on Patty’s bush from number sixteen. Patty's partner, Greg, watched on approvingly and occasionally offered some slight alterations to the fringed hedge that separated their houses, the hedge that Patty adored and spent hours debating with Mr Kline the local gardener and twice award-winning horticulturist.
Those men had been satisfied, such was their softness between the thighs. Charlie sported his dissatisfaction like a torch, burning hot and bright and sashaying left to right as he walked.
Ben, the baker of bread, would tut disapprovingly as Charlie came in for his morning doughnut, the same routine every day, the doughnut held down and forever trying to hide the protrusion that stood unceasingly erect. Women seated within the bakery would find themselves groaning or sighing uncontrollably as they spied Charlie, his hands having to bat away their attempts to alleviate him of his obvious yearning, their god-filled mind programmed with the knowledge that a man engorged required instant rectification.
At first he had relented, had allowed the women their run of him, reciprocated on one and all until the whole bakery smelled of satisfaction, leaving with his doughnut glazed and his bulge already returning to faithful straightness. But this needless distraction, that solved nothing for his problems, merely resulted in a rush to catch up with his daily routine, which had not waited around for his bakery boudoir episode to finish.
Returning home, Susie would be right-angling over the kitchen table as pots and pans bubbled away on top of the oven, her nakedness spread and pre-warmed for his arrival. Charlie would sigh, thrust until her vocal chords cracked, before dutifully conceding himself inside her to avoid displeasing her or the eternal overlord who had organised this little routine.
There were no garments to hide his shame as his protrusion grew forth during the night again, unsatisfied loins sheathed under splayed, shamed fingers.
A day like no other started when Charlie exited the bakery one cloudy morning – it was always cloudy, for positivity required a medium that will allow one to say
the glass is half full rather than becoming complacent with a full glass that never empties – and spied a woman that caused his muscular instrument to swell most resplendently, for she brazenly wore a pair of lace white panties. She removed them, twirled them atop her index finger, then let them fall across her knuckles as she bid him to come over.
She led him down a dimly lit alleyway that felt discarded, a leftover piece from God's Grand Reimagining, her lace underwear held tantalisingly over her shoulder to guide him onwards. They entered a door, a room, up stairs that creaked and groaned as if alive with their every step, through a red-rimmed door monogrammed with runic symbols, subtle protection against celestial eyes.
He was led to a bench and bid to sit, obliging. The girl guide left and returned a few moments later with four girls in tow. They lined up before Charlie. He was transfixed by their heaving racks, bulging and delicately balanced, filled as they were to the brim with clothes. Each woman sported a single tattooed letter emblazoned onto their collarbone that matched their names as they introduced themselves.
In time, Charlie would get to know each woman most intimately, but on that first day he was allowed only one choice. Her name was Desi and she brought her rack into the room with them and pushed it into a walk-in wardrobe. Charlie had never seen a wardrobe before, had merely dreamed about their existence and believed he was insane to imagine such a contraption existed.
Standing there naked before him, Desi did the unthinkable and began choosing articles of clothing. Charlie could not believe what he was seeing, that such an innocent looking woman could be so perverse, but he was freshly astounded as the woman flashed him a generous pair of underwear that she slipped into, the fabric covering all of her rear and front, leaving no slice of skin to sight. Charlie was panting heavily now as his dreams turned into reality before him and he felt his protuberance clamouring for more.
Desi obliged, selecting a flattering brassier from a shelf and expertly sheathing her bosom within, covering everything, even the line that bisected her breasts. Why to look at her now you wouldn't even know she was a woman, such was the coverage, and Charlie was trying to mentally control himself, feeling like a child let loose in the sea of satisfaction.
Desi was not finished, heading to the wardrobe and returning with a leather jacket taken off the rack. She seductively slipped one arm inside the sleeve, waved her naked hand from the exit hole before hiding it again. She slowly slid her other arm in, tantalising in her dreamlike movement, yet before he knew it she had done the impossible and shrugged her shoulders into the jacket, both arms fully elongated into the sleeves, and the piece de resistance: Zipped it up. He gasped, his breathing shallow now and filled with heavy longing.
They had passed the point of no return, he couldn't have stopped her now even if he had wanted to, such was her enjoyment of their taboo encounter, visible upon her brow that was glistening with the sweat of ecstasy. She followed the jacket with a surprise reveal of leather jeans that she thrust her legs into, one then two, quick jabs that Charlie felt reverberate up his legs and through his thighs. He gripped himself tightly in his hands. Now gloves, socks, shoes; she was really speeding up now, getting into it, enjoying the pleasurable torment she was inflicting upon her willing viewer.
Control lost, Charlie shuddered as his aching appendage released itself of his pent-up need, the gorgeous visage of this fully clothed woman before him. Shame followed quickly and he found himself blabbering for forgiveness. Desi walked to his side to put a gloved finger softly against his lips to shush his worries, a finger he couldn't help licking, if only to taste the sweetness of the course fabric upon his tongue, and before he knew it he was ready for round two. Desi was more than willing to let him play dress up and they spent the next two hours dressing each other and reaching plains of pleasure Charlie thought didn't exist.
Trixie and Clowy were strictly a twosome, Charlie was quick to learn, but their shows were filled with such debauchery that he often left feeling sexually invigorated, quickly returning home to satisfy Susie Stoker while the thoughts were fresh in his mind. He got so carried away after these sessions that Susie could barely reciprocate upon him the next morning once her legs had regained the blood-flow and the pins and needles had subsided.
Trixie and Clowy excelled in the visual tease. They would begin as we all do, naked, with an array of costumes ready to be used. Charlie would have the honour of choosing his restraints, leaping between options from session to session: Soft silken scarf one day; Harsh coarse nylon leggings on another. Tied to a chair, he would be helpless as they giggled and fake-bickered between themselves on what to choose.
This one? Trixie would muse questioningly to Clowy, holding it against her bare skin, Charlie holding back a groan imagining how those clothes felt against her skin, how they would look when worn, how her shape would change to accommodate the fabric.
No, no! A shake of Clowy's head as she grabbed the garment, tossed it aside, and picked another piece of clothing to hold against Trixie.
Much better, indicated by a silent nod of her head and a corresponding smile from her partner.
They would dress slowly, often changing their mind and taking it off again, constantly teasing Charlie's sight by keeping him guessing as to which parts of their body would be clothed next, his mind in sensory overdrive. They would 'accidentally' get in each other's way, the naked one cruelly hiding the clothed one's visage from view as they argued over the proper accessories to match the dress being worn.
If he was lucky, Charlie would get a pay-off for all this teasing. The girls would acknowledge his existence as if he were a passer-by,
oh excuse me kind sir, and they would teeter over to him on glorious heeled shoes that let the toes breathe – as alluring as having the nipple on a breast be barely covered, clothed to the minimum level of arousal – and they would request his opinion on this outfit or that. They would once more 'accidentally' brush their bra or their coattail against his face, apologising mock profusely at their illegal gesture, before letting an unhooked bra or a wrongly held glove fall into his lap and causing him to erupt all over it.
Those courtesans knew no limits of depravity. They would scoop up the afflicted accoutrement and put it back on, wearing it around the room and acting as if nothing untoward had occurred, his prior emission dripping down between hemlines, drying into dresses, seeping onto socks. It drove him insane with lust, instantly getting a rise again no-matter how little time had passed since he had previously lost himself.
Annie was perhaps the most captivating of all the women on offer. She excelled in the ancient art of spoken seduction. Unlike Susie Stoker, the bakery broads and their ilk, who spoke nakedly and with full transparency, Annie veiled her words in subtle illusions, never quite giving away her true intentions and leaving Charlie with quickened palpitations. She would merely imply and insinuate, through clothed lips draped in ruby red lipstick, leaving Charlie to figure out the rest, giving his mind a workout that he had never before felt in his life.
Lying naked – Annie's act needing no clothes to satisfy – together on the bed, Annie would gently take Charlie's hand within hers and trace his finger down the nape of her neck, bidding him to imagine how it would feel if the necklace she described in graphic detail was to be upon her neck at this very moment, how it would feel, how Charlie would personally feel getting to touch her most intimate of clothing.
She would guide his hand south, her mouth moving so close to his ear he could hear the silent smack of the lipstick as her salivating lips caressed each other, a whispered secret amongst the closest of friends. Explicit instructions guided his hands over her chest that she said could be held within a bra of his choosing, so convincing that he found his brain being able to ignore the nipple and feel nothing but soft and smooth globes of rarest lace, right down to the indent between the stitching.
Only once did he manage to last through her full act without his body expressing its weakness. Even as she pressed the palm of his hand against her groin, bade him to imagine how the wetness would coalesce to one solitary spot against her panties, how it would seep through the silk and distort the material, how the clothing would visibly darken right before his very eyes; Seduction at its finest as she remained mundanely naked, for at no point did she clothe herself and make good on her promises of feeling the touch of forbidden renaissance lace pushed against his body, the caress of corduroy against his thigh, nor the fleeting imprint of linen trailing between his toes.
His visits hastened to the point of being a part of his daily routine, expunging the bakery in order to make time for his illicit activities. He wanted to quiz the women on how they managed to hide such brazen activities from the eyes of God but didn't want to embroil himself in such trivialities if it meant having less time watching them get dressed.
He did, however, once have the courage of asking where they got all the contraband clothes. All four women had the same answer: The owner, the one who had first led him to this place of merriment. Every visit since that fateful day he had failed to spot her again and he often wondered where she was.
Charlie was becoming completely enraptured by his clothed escapades and it came to a head when he stole from Desi. It was only a swimsuit he surmised, pink and frilly with a bow at one side of the underwear to tie it against your thigh.
He waited until Susie Stoker was asleep then slipped the swimsuit onto her. She would fidget but otherwise stay asleep and he could spend a few hours silently ravishing her clothed body.
When it came to their morning routine he found it impossible to enjoy Susie's bobbing head, her nakedness repulsing him in its visibility when it came to his turn, try as he might to imagine the clothes on her, that he was licking a nice fur-lined pair of underwear, but it just wasn't the same and he was finding it increasingly difficult to fake his enjoyment of mundane nakedness.
The building occupied by the four ladies of infinite pleasures was closed when he went around that morning. He banged against the door until his knuckles began to bleed, was found slumped on the ground as Desi appeared at the door. He stood and begged to be allowed inside. She just shook her head from side to side. She didn't have to say anything more, he knew from her condemning stare, you stole from me.
Charlie felt as if he had been kicked from the gates of heaven itself, even though he was technically living in heaven, it was not the heaven he dreamed of every night with nightwear wearing women pillow fighting in their pyjamas and headbands. He grew reckless and demanded that Susie put on the swimsuit for him to enjoy. When she saw his contraband, she screamed and ran tearfully from the room. When he returned from daily worship he found the door to his house locked, the key he owned no longer working. On the doorstep was the swimsuit and a note:
You're sick.
Mr Kline, Patty, and Greg all watched his slow walk away from the house, tutting disgustedly at what he held between his fingers. The bakery was closed for him and him alone, the women who grouped within being satisfied by others now, no longer reacting passionately as he walked by the window. He was shunned from the town, found himself wandering aimlessly.
Days passed. He tossed the swimsuit away once he accepted that it would not be worn, every woman he offered it to either turning a blind eye or physically deriding him. He begged for forgiveness from anyone who would listen but his hands were stained with clothes and those who came near could smell them on his fingers.
All was lost and he had given up hope until one day, as if by deja vu, the woman with the underwear appeared at his side. He had been sleeping and awoke within her shadow. She was smiling down on him. Curiously, everyone was walking by on their normal routines, giving not even the most cursory of glances at this law-breaking woman with the bright white underwear. She turned and began walking slowly away, right through crowds of oblivious people. Charlie followed, crawling up from his knees to hurry at her heels, pushing people aside to keep up and ignoring their angry insults.
They arrived back at that fateful door, the door that led to his darkest of dreams, and they ascended the stairs and went through the runic door-frame, except this time the woman kept walking and Charlie kept following, onwards through a set of sliding doors that led into an office drenched in white: White walls, white desk, white floor, even a white chair. The woman sat herself down into a comfortable oak-white chair and requested he sit opposite her.
She stared out the solitary window.
Do you know why it's always cloudy? She asked.
Charlie shook his head.
Because positivity needs there to be the hope of something better. You will never feel happy if you always get what you want and don't have a counterpoint. If you always had clothes, would you get the same reaction from your body seeing them on someone or would you suddenly want everyone to be naked? Happiness is a feeling of betterment. It doesn't exist without sadness. Do you understand?
Charlie still looked perplexed.
The woman sighed.
I'm beginning to think that snake had a point, allowing a bit of leg-room for people to experiment. This whole routine business is getting dull, and seeing people like you makes it all the more obvious that I made a mistake along the line. I want some excitement, and as she spoke those words she flicked her arms out and the white walls flashed a most brilliant orange for a few seconds.
Listen, Charlie, you've got the right idea. Best to get a bit of a difference every now and then, but you need to centre it around a happy medium. If the glass was always full you'd expect it to be full, which just doesn't work. We can't always have everything, it ruins the moments.
Charlie was beginning to understand.
I've spoken to Desi and she understands that sometimes our desires get the better of us. If you return her outfit she will forgive you. And please, return to your partner. Don't worry, I've had the situation explained to her, all is forgiven. Be a good partner to her, whether you want to or not, and I'll make sure you get a bit of happiness every now and then.
Charlie smiled and nodded.
Good. But before you go. I have a very important meeting planned, lots of changes on the horizon, and I only have a thousand years to prepare. I'll need to try on a lot of clothes to ensure I get that perfect everlasting moment that'll have the people talking about me again. Can you help me pick out a nice outfit?
And Charlie was happy.