Love begins with an image; lust with a sensation ~ Mason Cooley
Lust is to the other passions what the nervous fluid is to life; it supports them all, lends strength to them all; ambition, cruelty, avarice, revenge, are all founded on lust ~ Marquis de Sade
The pills helped. She no longer spoke of panic at rush-hour, no longer lingered on the bathroom scales, tipping side to side to shift that last, invisible pound. Their children no longer had to worry about the angry tears that all too often poured from their unstable Mother. A year in, they could both agree, the pills helped.
And like an alcoholic measuring time since his last drink, he could count, to the hour, the last time the pair had made love. Eight months, two weeks, three days, and seven hours. It had been a typical moment of intimacy; short lived, tender, and soon forgotten. By her. He, on the other hand, clung onto the memory of that night like his life depended on it. How many times he wrapped his hand around his throbbing member, wishing it was her cunt, tightening his saliva filled first and working himself to that painfully dissatisfying climax. He watched his cock spurt it’s meagre load and even as the orgasm pulsed through his body, and his dick fell limp against his thigh, he sighed, making do.
Evenings had sorted themselves into a dull daily rhythm, and as he wiped the come from his fast-cooling stomach into a tissue, his left hand automatically clicked closed the window on the vibrant laptop screen. The moans cut off in their prime, his ears once again grew accustomed to the warm hum of the house. Upstairs he could hear his wife’s gentle footsteps on the landing, having tucked their children into their mismatched bunk-beds. Had he not persuaded himself that he was saving his marriage, that he needed this time to relax and satisfy himself, he might have felt guilty about the pile of washing up that would undoubtedly be done by the time he reappeared, or the children whom he never wished goodnight, or the wife who kindly turned a blind eye to his necessary activities. But guilt didn’t plague him because his little routine was, indeed, necessary.
Once, in times gone by, the couple had been great friends; but somewhere down the long, long line, they had run out of conversations. Occasionally they repeated some, re-remembering their youth, but more often than not, as they climbed into bed at night, they found themselves relying on books to avoid the active silence between their bodies. Friendly “goodnights” shared, lights symmetrically switched off, they slid deeper under the duvet and lay back to back as they fell to slumber.
August came, and like every August, she upped, and hand-in-hand, took the children to visit her Mother. At the station they kissed for the kids and as the train pulled out, used the little girls’ fast waving hands as the intermediaries of their indifferent farewell.
For the first time, he experienced no change between usual life and the sudden silence of the empty house, except that now his masturbatory desires could be enjoyed before the impressive television he had paid for. He forgot to miss his daughters as he spent evening-after-evening in pursuit of teenage-like self-fulfilment.
It was only a matter of time before he noticed, at the edges of his conscience, the devil grin of self-disgust. And so he used this bright-eyed smile to label not his activities, but his regression; he would not stop his endless pursuit of satisfaction, but he would move on from such decidedly childish occupation. And clicking link-to-link through the vast internet, he found what he was looking for.
Standing over the box, five feet in length, one and a half across, he smiled lecherously. Like Barbie’s box, he opened the white cardboard to be greeted by her perfect, silicone smile; mascara that would never smudge, hair to muss, eyes without judgement, a lipsticked mouth that would never say no. Peeling back the tissue paper he uncovered the flawless and only slight curves of her petite frame, the long legs, modestly covered by underwear the likes of which his wife would never even consider. Pulling her from her white encasement, he sat her on the sofa, bent her legs with ease, and smiled to himself as he did. Stowing her box away, hiding the evidence of her shameful arrival, he seduced her.
This first time was not something he wanted to rush; if his goal had been orgasm he would have saved the money and kept the close comfort of a tight fist. He slid his hands over her almost too real skin, tugged at the edge of her knickers, pressed his body against hers. He even slid his wanton mouth over her painted smile and suppressed the silliness he felt at such unwarranted action. Licking his fingertips he drove them into her panties and teased the senseless lips of her sex. Inhibited by the experiences he had enjoyed with real women, it was a long time before it occurred to him to reach behind for the tight hole of her made-for-purpose ass. And when he did, fingering the orifices that he had paid for, that he owned, he groaned, deep in his body and took her every way his stamina allowed. In his active imagination, she was his wife, back from the dead, asking, begging to be fucked. She moaned and whimpered and came a hundred times by the poignant power of his grinding cock. And when he finally filled her, it arched into her pulsing body, heavy breathed, and they lay, eyes closed, together on the christened living room floor, regaining strength.
Had his sense of the ridiculous been any further impaired, he would have taken her to share the comfort of his empty bed.
Night after night, his lust drove him to seek the ever-giving attentions of his submissive lover, and it was not long before thoughts of his wife disappeared as the doll presented him with the perfect opportunity for every fantasy he had ever had. Her body bent and twisted into a new position daily, he fast discovered the total pleasure of such submission. No consent needed, no questions asked; he took from this silicone slave whatever he wanted. And always, always, she looked back at him, smiling coyly as he fucked her giving orifices. There was no fantasy, no idea too large that he could not realise it with her. He dreamt, thought, lived every concupiscent idea that sparked in his quick-turning mind. He forced her to impossible, inhuman positions, anything to allow his pulsing erection better access, and his mind moved further in, closer and closer, seeking to dissect every detail of this unnatural coupling until the surroundings of his reality were nothing but the vague knowledge of their existence.
But it couldn’t last forever. He found excuse after excuse to keep her perfection in daylight just a few hours more as he cleaned around her, readying the house for his returning family, casting filthy glances at her well-used body and remembering the myriad ways in which he had fucked her, senseless. At last, mere minutes before the forgotten loves of his life returned, he packaged her into her pristine coffin and stowed her, safely and secretly, in the attic.
Life returned to it’s slow moving cogs, and quickly he found himself, dick in hand, before the white glow of his computer screen. Only the dirtiest, nastiest, most self-effacing pornography now satisfied his total dominance. Girls humiliated and used like dolls, thrown around, pushed, pulled, forced to take what they were given. He shuddered and closed his eyes, dreaming of the salacious silicone hidden in the rafters, and upon the appearance of her lifeless face before his dreaming eyes, his cock emitted spurt after spurt of self-satisfied seed. The memory of her willing obedience caused him a deep, guttural desire the likes of which he had never before experienced.
By the time his long wished for miracle came to pass, the absent husband had forgotten that he wanted him. Between the sheets of his marital bed, he was shocked awake by the tender caress of his newly-loving wife. She moved over him with such gentle beauty, arousing with her far off familiarity. She kissed and stroked, teased tears to his eyes. And, of course, it wasn’t enough. He played his part, loving husband, lovingly desirous, pushing deep into the cunt that God had ordained was made for him, and laying over her fierce passion, he pressed his gritted teeth into the pillow, knuckles white as he gripped the sheet, and imagined, deep in his distorted mind, the doll.
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