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From: "storyace" <storyace@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Carnal knowledge; the psychic agent F/M F/m old/young by Ace
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Date: Fri, 11 Jun 2004 07:10:02 -0400
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Carnal knowledge; the Psychic Agent ; M/F, mF, old/young, mystic by Ace

Author: storyace, ace

Title: Carnal knowledge; the Psychic Agent

Part: 1 of 1

Summary: A woman is psychic; she "Knows" a person if she has sex
with him. But is this a gift or a curse?

Keywords: M/F, m/F, old/young etc.

I'd very much like to hear opinions about this story; good, bad, or other.
Thanks, Ace
The rest of my stories are at; http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/aceinthe_hole/www//
and; http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/aceinthe_hole/   [in plain text]

Please send comments to; storyace@hotmail.com


Carnal knowledge; the Psychic Agent

I was always different, and I always knew it.

I grew up knowing a lot of things innately; when I was a baby
[I'm told] there were some people who I would never let near, and
others that I'd gurgle along happily with all day long.

It happened when someone would touch me; I can feel them. I can
feel if they're bad, and more or less how bad.

Very rarely, I've had the privilege of touching a good person.
Good people are few and far between.


My parents were not perfect, I could feel their areas of guilt
and rot; but for the most part, they aren't Bad. I know they love
me. I always knew it, even when I was an adolescent. I just had
to hug my dad, and I knew he would give his life for me. The
extraordinary thing was only that I KNEW it; I could feel his
emotions through his skin. That assurance of support and
protection is what kept me strong enough to keep my sanity
despite my curse.


Because it is a curse; how can I ever have a relationship? Who
could possibly pass my test?

It would be fine in the first weeks, when a boy would be all
hormonal over me. He would be all happy to see me, and it would
make me feel good in turn when I held his hand.

The first time I made out with a boy, I was 14. We kissed and
groped, and I could feel the incredible energy of his excitement
stronger than my own.

But when we started to really kiss, when I let his tongue into my
mouth; something strange happened.

It was like an electric shock, it was a terrifying rush. I could
feel more than his basic emotion, I could glimpse his very
thoughts.

And his thoughts weren't pretty, not to me. He was thinking nasty
dirty things, things that would seem sweet if I'd been an adult,
but to me as a 14 year old girl were horrifying.

I broke away from him and ran home, to hug my mother until my
confidence returned.



I avoided a repeat performance for a while. I still went out with
my boyfriend, and I didn't mind holding his hand, but I wouldn't
let him kiss my mouth again for a long time.



The next pivotal event was about 6 months later.

We were in the process of buying a house. My parents were both
really happy with a property we were looking at.

"What do you think, Constance?" my dad asked me.

"I don't like the guy who's selling it." I told him.

My parents didn't know about my curse; but they knew I had
extraordinary instincts about people.

"I don't think we should buy it." My mother said.

"Don't be silly, honey!" Dad said, "We don't want to go into
business with the guy, we want to buy his house..."

I wandered off, leaving them to argue about whether to make such
a decision based on logic or on intuition.

The seller was sitting in the kitchen; a balding and slightly
overweight 40ish man. I had shaken his hand when we'd met, and I
knew he was deceptive; not evil, but not an honest man either. He
was hiding something, and if I didn't find out what it was, my
father would make the mistake of buying the place for us.

I had never actively tried to gain information from someone like
that before, but this was important. I put my hand on the top of
his head.

I knew I was right; he couldn't hide from me. But I needed
specifics to convince my father. And I knew how to get them.

I grabbed his face between my hands, bent, and kissed the man on
the mouth.

The man thought it was sexual, of course; but it wasn't, not in
my mind. I was attacking him. He was threatening my family, and I
wasn't going to let him hide whatever it was he was hiding. He
was frightened of discovery, but thrilled and aroused at this
very unexpected event.

His sexual arousal was affecting me, making me hot between my
legs yet utterly disgusted simultaneously. All I was getting from
him was sex; I needed to get deeper. I pushed my 14 year old
tongue into his middle aged mouth.

I shivered with the conflicting desires; the desire to find him
out and the nauseating act of kissing him. His hands couldn't
help but fondle my little breasts as I held my mouth steady.

His desire for me was intense, it filled his entire
consciousness.  He was imagining me naked, my long thin body
stretched below him as he pushed against me with his stiff penis.
 He was imagining the intense pleasure he would feel; and that I
would feel if such a thing were to happen.

His fingers pinched my nipples, toying with my immature breasts.
He was excited, extremely excited yet afraid.  Afraid of my
father, so close by.

Then I knew.

I let go of his head and ran back to the safety of my parents.

"Ask him about termites." I said to my dad.

"Termites?"

"There's termites in the foundation."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."



I was sick for several days afterwards. The man's energy, his
sick lust, affected me. As an adult, such a simple interrogation
wouldn't bother me; with time, I became accustomed to the
terrible hungers of men.

But I had glimpsed his thoughts, the memories of real sexual acts
that he had thought of in those few moments of our contact.  I
was still a virgin, but I knew what a man felt [for what he
remembered feeling] when he had sex with a woman.

My father had the foundation checked; after that, he knew I had
some extra sight. I've never told him the painful part. I've
never told my father what it is I have to do to get true
knowledge of a person.



Boys, young boys; they're so sweet and innocent, compared to men.

After recovering from my trauma with the house seller, I began to
enjoy making out with my boyfriend again. His dirty little
thoughts were like those of an angel compared to the older man's.
I wallowed in his sweet hot desire, allowing it to light mine.

We didn't have sex; just the innocent touches and childish kisses
of kids, enjoying the taste of forbidden fruit without actually
taking a full bite. But as we thrilled each other with our little
experiments, I could see every thought he was having, every image
in his mind.

And so when he had cheated on me, I knew.

I suppose normal girls would also find out, in their normal ways;
but I knew immediately. I knew every detail, emotional and
physical. And it hurt; I was just a 15 year old virgin, but my
first love hurt just as much as my last.



I knew better than to ever tell anyone the full truth, but my
friends knew they couldn't lie to me. They just thought I was
smart.

I didn't let anyone close again for a while; I was a tall skinny
girl, and it wasn't like the boys were camping on my lawn anyway.

It's hard to see into someone's head; what you see there is hard,
sharp, and unforgiving. I began to kiss all the boys I could at
times like Christmas and new years day, when it could be done
just the once with the appearance of normality. I didn't find one
I was willing to kiss twice until I was 17.

By that time, I was the oldest virgin in town [don't forget that
they couldn't lie to me].

His thoughts were like mountain snow; clean and smooth. The
images from his brain were soothing. He asked me out; it was good
to have a boyfriend again, like a normal girl.

I had filled out some, but my body has never been voluptuous. I
was tall, boney, and a bit angular. My eyes are brown, so is my
hair. I never dressed to attract attention either, so I could
just be thankful that a nice boy like him would ask me out.

I didn't notice that he was short and spotty; that was never the
part of a person I looked at.

Jim was happy to have a girlfriend, and never pushed me to go all
the way with him, but I knew his thoughts; he was desperate to
make love with me. His desire was to please me as much as
himself, so I didn't mind his lust.

But I was afraid. I could feel a person with a touch, I knew
their thoughts if I kissed them. What would happen if I were to
make love with someone?

I was 18 the first time I dared. My fear was not misplaced.



Sex for me is a massive experience; I feel my partner, I feel him
as he feels me. I see myself through his eyes, looking back at
myself. I feel my own ecstasy, as well as that of my sexual
partner.

I had very short hair at that time; I wasn't a girl who fussed
over her appearance. I felt an incredible pulse of pleasure as I
fished Jim's penis from his trousers; I kept my lips on his, and
shivered with shared delight at the sensation.

I fondled him for a while, and I knew he wanted me to suck it;
his desire was so strong, it became my desire. It was time; he'd
been a gentleman, he'd been patient. Kids our age in this age
just don't date for months and months without doing it.

His penis was warm, friendly, and non-threatening. I kissed down
his belly, and took it into my mouth.

A hot rush flooded through him, and through me. He stiffened, and
I stiffened. I saw myself then; I could see me sucking his cock.
I could feel his delight, I could feel how it felt to have me
sucking his cock, and it was phenomenal.

In my own mouth, I could feel the throbbing of his warm live
organ, taste his flesh, take pleasure in the beautiful texture of
his sweet young penis.

And through his nervous system, I could feel what he felt, the
warm wet friendliness of a tongue and lips around his organ, the
thrill of being hard nearly to the point of pain, the ecstasy of
a blowjob.

I shuddered in fear and bliss; my big brown eyes looked up at me
in a narcissistic overload. I looked like a boy, I realized; a
very attractive boy sucking a lovely phallic male organ, feeling
both ends at once.

Conscious thought slowed down in both of us; there was just the
pure carnal pleasure of my mouth and his penis, his penis and my
mouth.

Feeling his every sensation and desire, I was able to achieve
what others could never hope to; I was able to drive him to a
height of rapture that he'd never known. And might never know
again.

My fingernails across his stomach, around his ass, sent shivers
through us both.  I stroked his balls gently, I ran my tongue
around the head of his cock.

He was shocked by the intensity of pleasure, nearly as shocked as
I was.  I looked into his eyes and stopped for a moment, so that
he wouldn't come too soon.  I resumed, experimenting, finding
what I could do to his penis and balls with my lips and tongue,
finding how to please him; and through him, myself.

For half an hour or so, I stroked, licked, and sucked him; until
neither of us could handle any more.  Then I speeded up, bobbing
my head over his dick, pulling his balls, until I felt him go
over the edge, and I knew he was going to come.

When he came, so did I. Despite the fact that my vagina was still
untouched, I came in sympathy with him, his flood was my flood,
his sperm was mine before he even released it.

His pleasure was so intense as his hot cream flooded into my
mouth, that I could only find it delicious; I held his dick in my
mouth as I swallowed.



We had regular intercourse after that; for me, it was as
incredible as the blowjob.

The pressure against his hard penis mirrored the pressure from my
unspoiled vagina walls, the sensations multiplying like images
between two parallel mirrors; the hot wet joining of our bodies,
the coupling of his soul to my consciousness. He moved within me,
threatening, penetrating, invading the sanctity of my body and my
psyche. Yet I knew he meant me no harm, I knew that he was as
concerned for me as he was for himself.

The pleasure was intense, more so than I'd ever suspected was
possible; but when we came, something else happened.

When we came together [and feeling him come couldn't help but
make me come too], I knew everything about him.

Not just what was in his mind at that moment, but everything that
he knew, every memory he had, all the knowledge he possessed.



"Connie? Connie, are you alright?" Jim's face slowly sharpened in
front of me.

"I think so." I told him. "It was... my first time, and... It was
pretty incredible."

It took a while before I realized the enormity of what had
happened; I knew every book he'd read. I understood higher math.
I knew what he'd had for breakfast, what his aunt had given him
for Christmas when he was seven.

I knew he was gay.

It was a bit depressing; that a gay guy should have found me
attractive. He was trying to be hetero; he really did like me,
but would never love me in a romantic way, I was sure.

I had his knowledge, but he didn't have the benefit of mine. He
didn't know what I did.

In one way, it made my experience with Jim the most intense I've
ever had; I'm attracted to men, too. He saw me as semi-male,
especially when I gave him those monster blowjobs, and that's
what I saw through his eyes as we did it.

We had a lot of sex for a few months; I needed to feel those
things again, but I clearly couldn't indulge in the kind of
promiscuity that my friends did. I thought it would be suicidal.

Later, I found out that I wouldn't retain everything unless I
used it somehow; like math, French, and some other things I
learned the sudden way.

I filled myself with Jim above and below, testing my strange
ability to absorb another human being.

I ran my first secret experiments, writing down what I knew of
Jim, and then asking him questions to be sure it was so. After
all, how else could I be sure I wasn't simply psychotic?

I enjoyed myself, and I enjoyed the incredible rush I get from
sex; I didn't pass out again though, since there was only a
fraction of new information each time.

I was able to keep his interest sexually, by knowing exactly what
he wanted. I acted very masculine [for a skinny girl], kept my
hair short, and wore men's clothes. I sucked his cock for an hour
at a time, my pleasure at the act even greater than his.

But it was not a battle that could be won, nor one I wished to
win. It was learning in a safe environment while passing the time
before college.



I was unsure what to do with my life; I was a walking lie
detector, but I needed some physical contact to be reliable, and
no one would necessarily believe the results.

Another thing I always knew about people was when they were sick,
so I took biology, thinking I would like to take medicine. But it
takes a decade to become a medical doctor, and I got sidetracked
by psychology.

Psychology fascinated me, and it was knowledge I needed to be
able to withstand the onslaught of other people's thoughts.

Sex was too good to give up, yet too frightening to indulge in.
What if I went nuts? What if I got overloaded with someone else's
personality?

And no, I didn't do it with my professor; that would have been
too weird. I did do it with several of the other professors
before I graduated. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

In my final year, I confided in my professor; I didn't tell him
everything, just a little. I felt I owed it to science to give it
a chance.

He ran a bunch of standard tests; impressed, he ran more detailed
ones. A curiosity, he concluded; I must be somehow detecting the
slight changes in skin resistance they used in polygraph testing.
We all ignored the little problem that I had a 98% success rate
[and frankly, I believe the other 2% was experimental error; I
know what I know].



I had several boyfriends through my college years, and each was a
whole story by himself.

Each experience taught me more about myself, my strange
abilities, and about the human mind.

I didn't actually have full sex with most of them; what happens
is just too intense, and too frightening. Besides, there are
ethical issues. I enjoyed kissing and making out, though, and
listening to their internal dialog [humans are mostly
schizophrenic]. When I knew they were getting too frustrated, I
relieved their pressure with oral sex; the pleasure is immense,
without the frightening intensity and real danger to my
individuality and sanity of full carnal knowledge.

I started to wear makeup, and grew my slightly hair longer, since
that turned on my boyfriends, and by extension myself.  I loved
to look into their eyes as I sucked their dicks, seeing myself at
the same time, feeling the intensity of their hard young cocks. 
The orgasms were always wonderful, but we all liked the wind up
best.

The professors; well, yes...

How could I resist? Their minds weren't full of drivel, like the
boys. I didn't know how many times it would work. Perhaps I would
become "normal" after a while. Maybe I could be a genius...

As it turns out, it doesn't work that way. I get their memories,
I know things they know, but I don't get the brain power. I can't
figure out new things like they can. That Physics guy left me
with a head full of weird shit, I tell you.

But doing it with smart guys is an extra kick; an incredible
blast of brain-orgasm that I call "Mind Fuck".

The trick to seducing professors is to not tell them you're a
student. They run a mile if they know you're a student.

I had let my hair grow out, and I did some things for my
appearance; not too much, that just isn't me, but I put on a pair
of tight trousers, a nice blouse, some earrings, and a little
makeup. I knew where they hung out, and who I was interested in.

Sciences, please; no offence arts people, but sciences was what I
wanted.

A finger on a man's arm always gets him going; usually, that's a
pain in the ass, since I'm just checking him. But in the
professor's bar, it worked both ways very well.

I chose a Med guy. He was good looking and young for a professor,
married but separated. Most importantly, he wasn't Bad, and he
was fairly honest with his pick up rap. I suppose a professor of
medicine doesn't have to lie to get laid.

He was twice my age; generally, I'm very particular about older
men, since they have a lot of shit in their heads by then. But I
wanted his knowledge; I knew I wouldn't be a doctor in the
morning, but I would learn much from him.

Picking up men is so easy for me. As I said, I'm not a true
beauty; but I know what turns a man on. I know exactly which
little look or manner appeals to whomever I'm talking to, and
which don't. It's equally useful for getting rid of people I
don't like.

Jeremy was an ego freak, and he was into younger women [almost
all men are], as long as they didn't bore him.

Long adoring looks into his eyes, while listening attentively
stirred his juices. I held his hand, but didn't go home with him.
He wouldn't have respected that, and neither would I. I gave him
my number.

I kissed him for a long time on our first date, and knew he was
not dangerous to me. On our second date, I went home with him.

He was the first lover I had with a kink; I knew it early on, and
I wasn't bothered by it. I felt his excitement every time the
image of me peeing on him came into his head.

But that was for later; nice straight sex, that was first.
Straight full mind fuck sex, I'd decided.

The semester was over, and I had a week to recover in, so I
wanted to get started.

He wanted to turn me on; I felt his need to please. He was turned
on by my modest breasts; he had had many lovers, and I could see
all of their breasts passing through his mind while he compared
mine to theirs. Big ones, small ones, fake ones. My tits were
nothing special, yet he appreciated them as much as any others.
It made me glad.

Great legs; long delicate shapely legs. Yes, I had those. Cute
feet, he thought; kissable mouth. Nice smell, natural smell. Flat
stomach, like a fertile field waiting to be planted. Don't forget
the condom, Doc.

"Forget the condom, doc." I told him.

"What?"

"I don't like them. I need to feel you when we do it. Don't
worry, I'm on the pill."

"I believe in safe sex, Constance."

So do I; but then I don't get the full knowledge. And you have to
remember, I can feel illness in others when I touch them, so I
knew he was uninfected.

I stroked his stiff hot cock and waiting eager balls; "I'm
healthy, doctor. And I want to feel you shoot your hot stuff
inside."

Was it fair? I knew exactly how to penetrate his resolve. I knew
which words would trigger his basic instinctual desire to leave
his juices inside me.

If life were fair, we'd all be up to our knees in mud as we
planted rice.

I licked him and sucked him, exactly how and when he wanted me
to. He marveled at my ability to please. He licked me back, the
first man I let do that. It isn't that great for me; it's nice,
but two dimensional, since it's secretly not really pleasant for
the guy. I could taste myself in his mouth as he did it; it made
me a little uncomfortable.

And then, at last, we were coupled; I lay on my back with my long
young legs spread wide as he put his lovely cock against me; the
rush began as he pushed his member into my body.

I suppose sex is special for everyone, but I know that it's more
special for me.  I don't do it a lot, as I said, I don't think it
would be healthy for me.

But when I do it, it's GOOD!

The wonderful pressure of his penis entering my body caused me to
stiffen, a feeling of myself against him, the taste of my young
body in his mouth, my thick hair in his hands, my firm little
breasts against his chest.

His hands, his mouth, his penis. I was getting flooded with his
persona, I could feel his inner being. His thrill, his desire,
his joy, and his guilt.

His good hard penis, his firm tight ass, his thrill for me, mine
for him, the lubrication of my juices, the pressure of my vagina,
the power of his cock as he penetrated my thin young body again
and again and again.

He still loved his wife, and there were two teenaged children he
hadn't told me of. I reminded him a bit of his daughter, the
dirty bastard.

Then the Big Rush, as I received the mind fuck; the massive blast
of energy, the overload of image and memory, the crushing
intensity of my double ended orgasm as his sperm rushed up my
cervix and his mind rushed up my cortex.



"Connie? Connie? Can you hear me?"

"Yes." I croaked.

"Are you alright? You had some kind of seizure."

"Yes; I'm fine."

"I'm not sure what it was, you had me worried. Are you sure
you're ok? Can you see clearly? Do you have any history of
epilepsy?"

"I'm fine, doctor. It happens to me sometimes when I have a very
intense sexual experience."

He looked at me unconvinced.

I took his hand, and felt his genuine concern; "Don't worry, It's
just when I'm with someone the first time." I added.



As before, I could barely move afterwards, but I was getting more
accustomed to the power of experiencing another person. I was
weakened physically for some days, but I could carry on as if
normal.

My mind was spinning with my lover's education; it was the first
time I'd attempted to gain really useful but very difficult
knowledge through sex. I failed to retain a lot of it.

So I was happy when he called, and asked if we could meet again.

I was the "Most incredible fuck on the planet" as far as he was
concerned [he didn't say it out loud]. He liked me. I was too
young; if I'd been just ten or fifteen years older, he'd have
asked me to marry him. He was a sweet man.

He took me out for a lovely romantic dinner; then took me to his
apartment.

I watched his face as I slowly stripped for him. Without physical
contact, I didn't know what he was feeling, but I enjoyed reading
his expression like other people do. I sat with him naked,
exposed and vulnerable. He stroked my face and told me I was
beautiful. I sat on his lap like a little girl, and kissed him
for a little while as he toyed with my naked body pleasantly,
stroking me lightly with his fingertips.  It was sweet to be so
vulnerable, yet know I was safe.

I wanted to please him. "Let's take a shower." I suggested.

He took off his own clothes as the water ran hot and steam filled
the small room. He had a trim fit body for a man of his age, I
noticed; strange that I hadn't before. Then I realized the thrill
of not touching; of feeling my own desire instead of his. Of
finding him sexy and desirable because he was, instead of feeling
desire by proxy.

"Lie down in the bath." I told him.

He smiled at me and did as I'd asked. I stood over him; the drain
was open, so there was no water in the tub. He took my ankles in
his hands, and then I could feel his mood again. Sexy sexy sexy;
I pursed my lips at him and thrust out my pelvis slightly.

I'd prepared myself, I was holding a full bladder. I released it
onto his hairy chest.

His fingers gripped harder suddenly, and I could feel his thrill
feeding back through me. I increased my abdominal pressure and
pushed farther forward, so the stream traveled up to his face.

He twisted his head from side to side, as if to escape the
humiliating assault, but actually only succeeding in drenching
his entire head in my urine.

He stared up at me with an expression of such wonder and joy,
that I laughed out loud; it really was a pretty funny trip.

I washed him off and shampooed his hair before we went to the
bedroom.

He was mine, then; he was completely infatuated. The intensity of
it was a bit frightening; I didn't want that kind of
responsibility. But lord, it made for tremendous sex!

Later, when at last he was inside me again, I could feel him
deeper than before. I knew he wasn't for me, not in the long
term. I squeezed and bit him, growled at him, and met his
energetic thrusting with my hips.

His strong middle-aged dick felt wonderful as it penetrated my
body again and again, his warm friendly hands clenching my
shoulders were strong and masculine, his mouth and tongue tasted
sweet, his ass in my hands was strong and lean.  But it was his
brain that was really turning me on.

How I love sex, how I long to feel that feeling whenever I can;
the smell, the taste, the emotion of it. That feeling of being
coupled with another, of strong arms around my thin body, holding
me tightly while a stiff hot penis fills me with that exquisite
joy, my mind spinning with our combined pleasure.

And then the inevitable onslaught; the great blast I wanted. The
joyous rush of his essential being flooding through me.

My lovely middle-aged doctor filled me and thrilled me, he
lubricated my vagina with his sperm and my mind with his
knowledge.



We dated for a month, and then lived together for several more,
until I graduated.

Sex with Jeremy was incredible, but then sex always is for me.
It's the feedback thing; the more I please my lover, the more I
please myself. And I always know exactly how to please. I know
how much pressure, and where to apply it. I know if a sound I'm
making is sexy to him; I feel it all in real time, and adapt
myself to what he needs and wants, until his tension explodes
mine, and we come together in another blast of knowing.

He was loving and nurturing; he was a man who knew the value of a
hug. I loved to feel myself in his arms.

I learned to find myself beautiful through his eyes; my long thin
body could be sexy if I wanted it to. I learned to dress more
attractively, accentuating my assets. He appreciated my
intelligence, but I wasn't really as smart as he thought I was.

Before I left him, I engineered a reconciliation between him and
his wife. I still visit them sometimes, and we're all good
friends.

I did my Psychology degree "by hand", that is, like everyone
else. But I left college at 22 with a complete knowledge of
medicine as well.



I was recruited by the FBI.

They had read about the experiments, and requested my professor
to ask me if I'd like to work for them [as in all such
experiments, the identity of the subjects had been confidential].



They were skeptical at first, but not one agent was ever able to
slip even the smallest thing by me. Truth, part truth, lie. I
never failed.

I sat in on some interrogations; it was very exhausting for me.
The suspects were all Bad; selfish, deceitful, and hateful
people. And for the most part, so were the FBI agents.

Of course I couldn't provide evidence that could be used in
court; but the investigators were able to clear cases and find
admissible evidence through normal procedures very quickly when
they took advantage of my talents.

I only worked there for a few months. It ended when they refused
to drop the case of an innocent man.

He was a colored single man of 22, unemployed, and charged with
rape of a minor. I was afraid to touch him at first; that type of
perpetrator gives me cold sweats. But when I did, I knew
instantly that he was innocent. There was hardly any malice in
him.

"He's guilty, Constance." My boss told me, "You're wrong on this
one."

"I'm never wrong, Ken, you know that."

"There are witnesses!"

"I don't care. Let me meet them, I'll tell you if they're lying
or just mistaken. That man never hurt anybody."

But they refused to drop the case; they didn't let me check the
witnesses. They convicted him, because they could.

That type of case is very hard to solve, and the bureau is always
under huge pressure for a result. They wanted my help in
convicting criminals, not in absolving the innocent.



I took a lot of different jobs after that; I spent some time as a
clinical Physiologist, and I was happy to be able to help people;
but dealing with illness and psychosis is very abrasive to me. I
feel their suffering and confusion too closely to stay unaffected
by it. I worked for a financial house for a while, and was
earning very well, when Ken from the bureau called.

"Remember me?" he asked.

"Sure, Ken. How's the boys?"

"You were right about Johnson." He said.

"I know. How did you find out?"

"DNA. He got a new appeal, and the case was thrown out on DNA."

"When was that?"

"A few months ago."

"So he was in for eight years."

"We need you Constance. Your country needs you."

"Spare me the patriotic rap, Ken. I'm in a good job, earning good
money. Why should I work for you?"

"You know why, Constance."

He was right. It was October 2001, and what had once been the
world trade center towers were still a smoking ruins on the
ground in Manhattan.



I'd been busy in the intervening years.

I'd had many relationships, but only a few full sexual partners.
The intimacy was too intense for me, I always feared my very
personality would disappear.

Once I let a man go all the way with me, into my body and mind, I
couldn't stay with him for more than half a year. I'd feel a
growing claustrophobia [for lack of a more specific phrase], and
split up.

They all thought they loved me, but deeper in their minds, I
found other things; desire for other women, misconceptions about
me, strange perversions they didn't want me to know about.

I'd had several child lovers.

For me, they were the best; their minds had less corruption than
adults, and their bodies were beautiful and energetic.

I took the virginity of a sixteen year old; he was such a lovely
boy, his desires and dreams so basic and untainted.

I met him on a crowded bus; I like riding like that, picking up
the random signals of humanity. I felt him next to me; a fresh
mind, very young yet fully mature. He was very horny, filled with
unreleased sexual energy. I enjoyed his powerful vibes for a
minute, then turned to look at him.

His skin was clear and healthy, his eyes bright, his teeth
straight and white. He jumped a little when I took his hand,
feeling him up through his fingertips.

His energy caused a fun little pulse in my groin, a hot sexy
pulse. I smiled at him, and decided to take him home.

Normal people could never do that safely, but I could. I could
tell he was a good boy, healthy in his body and mind. I needed
someone to help me get over a lover I had just broken up with,
someone who could wash away the corrupting influence of a
powerful psyche.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"Gregory." He said, exquisitely excited.

"I like you." I informed him. "How old are you, Gregory?"

"Sixteen." He managed to say.

"Well I'm twenty eight, but somehow I think you don't mind."

There were several people who could hear us, but I didn't care at
all. I didn't feel guilty about what I was doing, not in the
least.

"I'm getting off at the next stop, Greg." I told him. "You will
come with me, won't you?"

I stripped for him in my apartment; gently removing my business
suit, shoes, and stockings.

Naked, I turned around slowly, displaying my body to him as he
sat on my couch grinning with adolescent excitement.

"What do you think?" I asked him, "Do I excite you?"

"Yes." he managed to say.

"You excite me, too." I said, "Will you take your clothes off for
me?"

"OK." he said.

He took his shoes off, and then stood up to undress himself.  I
walked around him slowly, like a predator.  I brushed my fingers
across his naked shoulders as he fumbled with his belt.

His young cock stood straight out in front of him, stiff and
vital.

He was slightly shorter than I am, his shoulders wider than mine
though.  I stood a couple of feet from him, and we began to touch
each other with our fingertips.  The boy was very sensual, he
followed my lead perfectly.

His young fingers traced across my body; my small firm breasts
and my flat belly, my face and hips. My fingers traced across his
shoulders and arms, and at last his young penis.  It was such a
pleasure to feel his pleasure, to know his primal joy. I was a
fantasy come true to him, and older but attractive woman to teach
him about sex, to take his cherry in return.

We were naked in each others arms in short order, his incredible
excitement washing away the cobwebs that had formed in my brain.
The touch of his smooth young flesh drove me wild, the touch of
his sweet young mind filled me with new energy, the heat of his
young dick against my belly filled me with happy anticipation.

Breaking away from his embrace, I took him by the hand and led
him to my bedroom.

I do enjoy giving head; it's so friendly and nice, yet safe. I
often wish I could just give a guy the blowjob of his life,
without all the complications before and after. Blowjobs are just
pleasure to me.

Jeremy had a fabulous organ, so big, smooth, and hard; I was
surprised at how exciting I found it to know it was his first
time. It was very special to him, and that made it even more
special to me.

His young dick was pristine, unspoiled.  It hadn't been inside
anyone's body yet, it was fresh like the rest of him.  Ready,
willing, waiting for the woman who would take him and make him a
man.

He relaxed on my bed as I took him in my mouth, the exquisite
pleasure of the boy greater for me than himself.  I loved having
him in my mouth; it was so pure and perfect a feeling.

He came prematurely, as I knew he would, filling my mouth with
his juice as I hummed encouragement and pulled his young balls
for more. I looked into his clear adolescent eyes as I swallowed,
holding his young body by his cute little ass as he shivered with
the intensity of his lovely sweet orgasm; his first with a woman.

He stayed hard, as I thought he would. I rolled onto my back and
pulled him on top of me.

He was so thrilled, so happy to be having sex for the first time;
he thought me beautiful, wonderful, the very persona of his
fantasy of an older lover.  His admiration for me was inspiring,
and very flattering of course.  I could barely wait to feel his
young dick inside myself.

We kissed, the energy of his youth filling me with a gleeful joy.
I held his lovely young penis in my hand, and guided him to where
it was needed.

The great thing about deflowering a virgin is that each time I do
it, I experience the incredible joy of first sex all over again.

The hot wet pressure of my vagina against his cock was unlike
anything he'd imagined.  Euphoria filled his young brain with
pure joy.

I held his face in my hands.

"This feels very good." I told him, and kissed him.

I put my hands on his hips, signaling him on how to move.  Young
people learn quickly, and my young lover was soon pounding me
with that wonderful energy of youth.

He did it to me for a half an hour without a break, half an hour
of steady smooth young energy, of the most wonderful shared
pleasure. I came three times [take a young lover if you dare],
and then we both came in a deluge of primal delight, his sperm
shooting sweetly inside me as I held him close, my hands on his
perfect round ass, my legs tight around him, my mind absorbing
him as happily as my body.

He didn't want much from me but sex at first, which was very
pleasant after all the men that had wanted to bind me to
themselves one way or another.

He couldn't get enough; the boy wore me out physically, but
charged my mental batteries. When he began to fall in love with
me, I gently disengaged from him, and found another.



My work was easier than before, but boring. I was one of a team
checking out terror suspects that had been rounded up. None of
the ones we interviewed in the first 10 months knew anything;
they were just normal people, just young Arab males. They were
scared and wanted to go home.

My colleagues became more and more respectful of me though, as I
always caught out the suspects on small things that were later
confirmed. But as before, they never wanted to release them on my
say so; every story was laboriously checked by hand first.

Finally, we actually interviewed a man who had terrorist
connections. I caught his lie immediately, and the case
snowballed into one of some significance. It was very exciting
for me, I felt that I was doing something useful at last.  I
suppose it's not surprising that the higher ups took notice.

Impressed, they transferred me to Guantanamo Bay



That's where I met the man that would be my undoing.

Mustafa, he was called.  No one had even realized his importance.
 They just thought he was stubborn.  He had virtually refused to
speak since his arrival.

"Are you an Al-Quada member?"

He refused to answer, but I could tell he was.

"Do you have any knowledge about terrorist attacks?"

He did.

But he wouldn't speak.



There was a lot going on, lots of interrogations and
brainstorming between the agencies.  The cooperation was
apparently unprecedented.

No one paid too much attention to Mustafa; but I knew.  I knew he
was hiding something of vital importance.

"Ken, I have to talk to you."

"Of course, Constance.  Sit down, what can I do for you?"

"Did you ever wonder how I can tell whether someone is lying?"

"Of course."

"I'm psychic, you know."

"It's the kind of thing we prefer to work around, Constance.  We
prefer to just think of you as a talented interrogator."

"I know, Ken.  And normally, that's fine.  But there's some heavy
shit going on down here.  The thing is Ken, there's a way I
can... interrogate a suspect completely."

"Go on."

"There's a way I can find out everything about a person."

"We've been working together for a while now Connie.  I'm
listening."

"It happens whether I want it to or not.  It happens when I have
sex."

Ken's a pretty hard-boiled guy.  He just stared at me, trying to
figure out if he wanted to take this seriously.

"I tell you what."  I said, "A simple test; think of something
really obscure, a phrase or something."

"Okay."

"Now I'm going to kiss you."

"You're what?"

"This isn't romantic, Ken.  Just think of something specific and
obscure."

I walked around his desk, took his head in my hands, and kissed
him.  Of course he was turned on; Ken is an overweight man of
about 50, faithful to his wife; that doesn't mean he doesn't have
fantasies.  He'd had some of me.  He thought I was too thin.  Ah;
"There is no word in the English language that rhymes with
orange." I said, breaking away.

He stared at me in the real shock.



A couple of Marines strapped the man we called Mustafa to a cot.
I was left alone with him. Ken was listening through an audio
link, but I didn't allow anyone to watch.  What I intended to do
was horrible enough without my colleagues seeing me do it.

Mustafa spoke fair English, when he chose to speak.

I sat next to him in a chair, and took his hand.  He didn't mean
me any harm at that particular moment; but his malevolence caused
a burning sensation in my fingers on his hand, as if I was
touching a lit light bulb.  The level of hatred and fear in the
man was almost more than I could bear.

I began to talk to him, as a psychologist would.  I asked after
his health, whether he was being treated decently by the Marines,
if he had been allowed to pray and if he was confident that his
meals were Halal.

Slowly, he opened to me slightly, telling me that he had been
badly mistreated by the men.  I made sympathetic noises.

He was a Bad man; not all of the men that were confined there
were, but he was.

Some of the detainees were simply believers; they had committed
terrorist acts, they had killed people.  But in their hearts they
weren't worse than any other soldiers.

But Mustafa was filled with hate; I'd never touched a human being
who was so close to being utterly evil.

I shuddered internally at what I was going to do.

On the surface, I smiled and tried to appear concerned about him.

"Are you married?"  I asked him.

"Yes.  I have two wives and four children."  He answered proudly.

"Four children?  I'm impressed."  I said, switching on my
sexuality.

He looked up at me with undisguised hunger.  I looked back at him
with feigned hunger.

I began to stroke his wrist, his hand gripped mine.  I shivered
slightly, struggling to find the strength within myself to
proceed.  I bent and kissed him.

Bitch fucking bitch white whore, he thought; he wanted to hold me
by the hair and slap me, then have sex with me.  He wanted to
show me what a real man was, and suchlike nonsense.  He wanted to
rape me, he wanted to kill; he didn't want to kill me
specifically, he just wanted to kill someone. Someone white and
Christian, preferably American.

 I shuddered with fear and loathing.  Then I untied the
drawstring of his trousers. Gingerly, and with much trepidation,
I put my hand on his cock.  It was warm but soft at first, it
hardened and grew quickly as I rolled it between my palms.

He was stiff and hot in my hands, he bucked in his restraints.

"Does this feel good?" I asked him.

He grunted in an affirmative manner. "Why don't you untie me?" he
asked.

"I can't do that. But I could do something to make you feel a
little better if you like." I said sympathetically.

I stroked his cock gently as I cradled his balls; I smiled at him
kindly.

He was a very attractive man physically; he was strong and lean,
he had a certain fire in his eyes, even here in his prison. His
penis was large and stiff.

But to me, he was horrible beyond description, a monster. I'm not
particularly a patriot, it wasn't because he was on the other
side. It was because he was evil, he enjoyed destruction and the
pain of others. He had no regard for life, he was a killer, and a
very competent one.

I lowered my mouth to his swollen cock; with great foreboding, I
applied my lips to the tip.

The contact seemed to burn me, like capsicum. I steeled myself,
and allowed the terrorist organ between my teeth, allowed it to
enter my mouth.

I held the pulsing organ there, holding myself steady against the
storm of his malice as it howled around me. I sucked gently,
pulling more of him out; I could hear his thoughts and see the
surface of his mind.

He was not a stupid man, and he knew that I had ulterior motives.
He thought I was a whore, and that I'd been hired to have sex
with him to gain his trust; the FBI must be pretty desperate, he
thought, but they'll never crack Mustafa.

I took my mouth from his burning hot cock; I was as ready as I
would ever be, and so was he.

I reached under my skirt and removed my underwear.



I straddled him, and held his member against myself, kneeling on
the cot above him.  It burned like acid against me.  I moved it
back and forth, feeling his desire and disgust for me.  I forced
myself down against it, forced myself to admit it into my body,
into my person.

Violence; that was his most pervading characteristic.  There was
a thrill in violence, a primal thrill similar to that of sex, but
one most of us choose to avoid.

He did well with women; although he had two wives, he enjoyed
other women when he was in the west and away from the eyes of his
colleagues.

He was more than willing to enjoy himself with me.  I held his
hair in my hands, pushing my body back and forth over him, as his
large uncircumcised penis burned against my interior.  I looked
into his eyes, trying to get the better of him, trying to
overpower him.  I was strong, I tried to tell myself, I could
handle it.



I had chosen to couple myself with this man, this murderer of
innocents; and as disgusted as I was, I couldn't avoid his
pleasure, I couldn't remain unaffected by his desire. His cock
filled my body, his terrible powerful hatred flooded into me, his
pleasure at his [supposed] conquest of me shone through it all. 
The wonderful feeling of sex was just as pleasant to him as to
any other man. Perhaps even more so; there was something primal
about Mustafa, a touch of insanity.  My hands on his face felt as
pleasant to him as they felt unpleasant to me.  Through him, I
could feel the delightful squeeze of my warm body against his
erect penis, I couldn't ignore the sexual thrill, although it
distressed me, I couldn't avoid the normally welcome sensation of
my partner's excitement.

He was powerful. More powerful than anyone I'd known. His malice
was nearly too much for me; I needed him to ejaculate. I wanted
his secrets from him with a minimum of pain, but he wasn't even
close yet.

It was the position we were in; he hadn't had sex for months,
since before his capture, but he was a man who liked to be in
control. I knew if I freed him from the restraints though, he'd
be too dangerous.

Fighting back the nauseating disgust I felt, and the possibly
more nauseating sexual excitement growing within myself, I kissed
him deeply, searching for a way to bring his excitement level up
so he might climax.

"Your cock is huge;" I told him, "the best I've ever had." That
excited him, so I continued.

"Western men are mostly impotent. That's why they fear you. I
want to feel your seed in my body, give it to me, give it to me!"

Sitting above him, his cock burning inside of me, I held both his
hands; he couldn't move them, as his wrists were shackled to the
bed frame, but he could grasp my fingers with a grip like iron.

I shifted my pelvis back and forth, I bounced up and down, I
tried to look at him as I raped him; his eyes burned back at me,
the wild eyes of an animal.

It's almost worked, but it wasn't enough.  I felt the wave of his
orgasm slipping backwards again. I pulled my dress up over my
head, and threw it to the floor.  I unhooked my bra, and threw it
after my dress so I was stark naked. I leaned down against him,
pushing my breasts into his chest, scraping my nipples across his
breast.  Then I kissed him again, playing him with my tongue,
tasting his mouth, feeling his evil.

Once more, his arousal level was increasing.  I pushed my naked
body back and forth against him, his penis was quivering inside
me, he wanted to come, he was ready to come.

I could feel his excitement, it was flowing through me like a
river.  I tried to hold myself, but it wasn't possible.  There
was no way I could make him come without joining him, without
allowing myself to come with him.

His arousal level was shackled to mine; it had never been a
problem before, it wasn't something I'd ever needed to consider.
I'd never had sex before with someone I despised. Good thought, I
thought; what am I doing?  I was afraid, terrified.  But I
continued, knowing that this was important.  A matter of life and
death for many innocents.

I writhed against him, my skin on his skin, my nipples on his
nipples, my tongue on his tongue, his cock deep in my vagina, his
overwhelming wickedness penetrating me deeper than his cock.

It worked; He stared up at me wide eyed as I felt his orgasm
approach, and I almost choked with fear at what would come with
it.

His being exploded inside me with more violence than one of the
bombs he had set off in his youth, and caused a similar level of
pain and destruction. There was no way I could avoid an orgasm of
my own; I didn't want to, but I was forced to acknowledge the
primal thrill of him, of his strength, the very evil of him. The
primeval thrill of knowing his power, his lust, his greasy
ejaculate.

I felt a terrible burning in my womb as his poisonous excretions
invaded my body, as we both groaned in simultaneous climax,
shuddering in synchronized sensation, his hairy balls contracting
in my hand again and again as stream upon steam of terror was
injected into me, overwhelming me, striking fear into my hitherto
gentle and innocent soul.

Through his burning eyes, I could see the world as he saw it,
feel his motivations; his love, his hate, his fear, his orgasm.
His being was being copied into my mind, his memories adding to
the many I was already holding there.

And despite the intensity of our combined physical pleasure, the
primal delight of sex, the explosion of orgasm, I knew the agony
of being him.





I came to consciousness in a clean white hospital bed, the pain
in every muscle of my body eclipsed by the pain in my head. Ken
was sitting next to me.

"Tape recorder." I said.

"What? Are you all right?"

"Tape recorder." I insisted, too weak to explain.

I spoke in Arabic at first, not wanting to miss any details by
translating it myself; there were others whose job that would be.

Names, addresses, phone numbers, bank account numbers, schemes,
and plans.

I spoke through my intense pain, the pain of knowing that man;
his agony was now my agony, I could see his dead mother, I had
witnessed the death of his brother to an Israeli bullet. I felt
his anger and hate grow with each atrocity committed against him
and his people, his lack of remorse as he reciprocated, violently
rising through the ranks of al-Quada by killing and organizing
more killing, drug smuggling and money laundering.

The horror of his life was nearly overwhelming me; I fought it,
but it wouldn't go away. I was in fear for my very self.



"But Connie, if you could just interrogate another suspect the
same way, you could save thousands of lives."

"I've done my part, ken. I've done more than my part. You don't
understand what it does to me."

He looked at me for a long moment; "I'm sorry, Constance. You're
right, and I had no right to ask it of you. We have a lot of
material to work from, we'll get the rest the hard way."

"I need to get somewhere. As soon as possible."

"Where?"

"India. Dharmasalla."



I needed to understand my cursed gift, and I needed help with the
terrible forces that the terrorist had left inside me. It was
time to go and meet the masters; to find someone with the
knowledge and power to help me.



Dharmasalla is a little town in the Himalayas, where the Tibetan
government in exile stays. It's home to the Dalai-Lama and a lot
of famous Tibetan monks.

I had a letter of introduction to one of them; a man I'd met at a
convention had told me that this monk had The Knowledge. It was
worth a try; I was proof of something, but I didn't know what.

His name translated as "great lightning". He had a secretary, an
Englishman who dressed in rather silly orange robes. He was so
arrogant, I nearly went away; but he made an appointment for me
to meet his master a few days later.

I waited in my hotel room in my lonely agony, trying to hold
myself together; madness seemed to be raging in my brain, just
below the surface. Primal urges, and death and violence. I took
some drugs, rested and waited.



"Great lightning" Rimpoche was a tiny man, with thick coke-bottle
glasses, sitting on a cushion in the usual Buddhist orange robe.

If you saw him, you would see a weak old man; about three grey
hairs on his otherwise bald head, his boney hands clutching his
beads. You might notice his bright eyes.

But what I saw was completely different; I saw a being of great
knowledge, power, and peace. A very old being, hundreds or even
thousands of years old. I could feel this without even touching
him physically, just by being in the room with him.

I sat down on the cushion in front of him; he didn't speak for a
moment, he just looked at me in silence.

He spoke in Tibetan, and a young man sitting off to one side
translated for us.

"You have demons." He said.

"Yes." I said.

"You have some power, I see."

"Yes."

"You should have come to us sooner, child."

"I know."

We sat in silence; but there was an exchange going on, we were
feeling each other out. I could feel his persona touching me,
feeling my soul. And it was wonderful; soothing and cooling, like
water on the fires raging within me.

He reached out his hand; I reached out mine, and we touched.

I felt a current flowing between us, running both ways. I looked
into his eyes, and felt a comfort such as I'd never known before,
a feeling of love and acceptance of everything I was. A feeling
of home, although I was a stranger here.

He released me, touched me, then released me again, making and
breaking the physical connection like a child playing with a
light switch. He began to laugh.

There was something contagious about the old man's laughter, it
seemed to fill the room with his mirth; I began to laugh with
him. It was the first time I'd laughed since Cuba, the first time
I'd felt anything like relief.

He said something to the translator.

"His holiness has asked me to leave you now, and to give
instructions that he is not to be disturbed for the rest of the
day." He said, rising. He looked quite surprised I thought.

"Thank you." I told him.

The old man patted the floor directly in front of him. I sat
there cross legged, so our knees nearly touched. He held out both
his hands, palm upwards; gingerly, I took them.

I could feel him now, he was opening himself. A shiver ran
through me; he was beautiful inside, exquisite. He was a man, and
he couldn't help but see me as a woman. He knew I could see him,
right through him, but he didn't try to hide anything. He had
true compassion, a desire to help me, to ease my pain first, and
then to share what he knew with me if I wanted him to.

I looked into his eyes; he could see me, too. Not as deeply as I
could see him, but he had sight. His eyes widened as he realized
how I shared knowledge; through sex. He started to laugh again.

As we calmed down, he informed me that he wasn't sure if he could
still perform sexually. He hadn't done so in many years. He did
this without speaking, we were communicating directly somehow.
I'd been able to hear other people's inner dialogue before, but
I'd never met anyone who could hear mine in return.

I informed him that I didn't mind if he couldn't, it was blissful
just to sit with him like this, sharing our thoughts.

It was something new to me, I'd never met another person who had
sight like we did.

Neither had he.

For an hour or more we sat like that, silently sharing an
intimacy that I can't describe; slowly showing each other our
inner selves, layer by layer.

I was beautiful, and he would like to try.

He was also beautiful, and I would like that as well.

I reached forward, and opened his robe. He had a tee-shirt on
underneath, and I pulled it from his body. I ran my hands over
his naked chest, exulting in his strength, the strength that only
I, perhaps in this whole world, could feel so directly.

I crept forward, onto his lap. He was smaller than me, and I
clamped his face between my hands and bent my head down to kiss
him, to join my lips to his wrinkled old lips. His kiss thrilled
me; thrilled me like no one had before. On the outside, he was
small, old, and weak. But the being I was kissing was his spirit.
Huge and powerful; wise, passionate, and generous. Attractive
beyond measure.  I was kissing light, bright powerful light.  I
was absorbing it through my mouth.

The case was spiritual, but it had a physical effect as well.  My
groin was pulsing with desire for him, with need to have him. 
Nothing else mattered, nothing was important except this; this
desperate need to have sex with this small ancient man.  To have
his penis inside my body so that I might know him.

He wouldn't be staying much longer in this body, he thought; it
was time to leave. But it would be a good thing if he could first
share with this girl, even if it killed him.

That frightened me, but he was quite happy to proceed. It would
be an epic way for him to go.

After a short time, I reached down to his genitals; his pleasure
was as great as any man's at my touch.

I inhabit a male body, he thought; it responds like any other.

I kissed his lips lightly, stroking and pulling at his ancient
cock, which began to stiffen, for the first time in many years.

I stood and stripped myself naked. Pushing my new teacher to the
carpeted floor, I laid myself out on top of him, face to face.

What lovely smooth pale skin I had, such long legs; like a
mountain antelope, ready to spring and jump just for the joy of
the action. What big clear eyes, and what a lovely spirit! He
wondered who I really was, he was surprised he hadn't already
recognized me. He was sure he'd know soon.

I sucked his cock, causing waves of ecstasy to wash across us.
The old dick bulged with life, responding to my tongue and lips.
The old man laughed in amusement as he watched me eagerly fill my
mouth with his cock. He felt so good, his gnarled old thing was
the most wonderful thing I ever tasted.  The pleasure of sucking
him was making my head spin, it was intoxicating.  After a while,
I climbed above it, holding it steady in my hand against myself.
I squatting over his prone form, I looked into his eyes;
suddenly, I had doubt. What if I was wrong, what if this was just
some kind of trick? I was holding the stiff penis of a man who
must have been 80 years old, holding it against my moist ready
vagina, stimulating my own clitoris with it.

He smiled encouragement to me, and I knew I had no choice in any
case. He was my only hope of survival.

Having sex with the terrorist had been extremely stupid.  Before
Mustafa, I had rarely even touched a person unless he was fairly
devoid of evil.  I had sheltered myself.  But then I thought I
was strong enough, wise enough, to take what I wanted from him
and leave the rest.

I was wrong.

His malicious thoughts were spinning in my brain; his pain, his
suffering, and his viciousness were raging just below the surface
of my mind.  Before touching him, I had never known suffering. 
But since allowing him to ejaculate inside me, I'd know nothing
else.

So I lowered myself over the ancient one's willing penis, feeling
it slide into myself.

It was cool and sweet in my passage; like vanilla ice cream, just
smooth and friendly and good. The sensation was physical as well,
of course, his old dick filled me just as any other did. It
filled me with the strength to go on, the confidence that I would
be all right, that I had the power I needed to heal. I squeezed
against it, feeling its surprising potency.  The old man grinned
up at me, his cock pulsing its return greeting.

As I've told you, sex is always an extremely intense experience
for me; it isn't frivolous fun. Fun, yes, but not frivolous.

But with my monk lover, I experienced a pure joy that I'd never
known before.  He was perfect, a perfect man; there were no evil
thoughts in him, not even a glimmer that I could detect.  Another
woman might have seen his ancient shriveled body as a defect, but
to me it was irrelevant.  In his mind, he was healthy, strong,
and good; his only wish was to share everything he had with the
world. And believe me, he had treasure within him.

We were in no hurry. We kissed and groped each other, his penis
stiff within me as our hands and lips touched and kissed,
reveling in the sheer pleasure.

There wasn't a shred of guilt in him about what we were doing;
that's a Judeo-Christian thing.  Some schools of Buddhism
advocate self-denial of physical pleasures, and some don't.  It
isn't about sin or shame, only about the best way to advance
one's knowledge.  Some say pleasures of the flesh are
distracting, and others believe denying one's basic urges are
more distracting.

We rolled over, so my beautiful little lover was on top.  The
feeling of his ancient penis within my body was excruciatingly
wonderful; the waves of pure pleasure more intense than I'm able
to describe.  I looked into his wise old eyes, and saw my own
carnal pleasure reflected back at me.

He hadn't had sex for about 20 years; making love with someone so
young and beautiful was greatly pleasurable to him.

And then I could see something deeper, something wonderful and
frightening; the other women he had known, not only in his life,
but in his previous life.  In several previous lifetimes that he
had clear memory of.

He fucked me, his tight old ass rising and falling between my
long legs, his still potent penis connected me to the cosmos, to
the joy of being coupled with such a being.

The pain I had been suffering since joining myself with the
terrorist leader was by then completely gone; I still knew of it,
but no longer suffered from it.  The old man suckled my young
breasts, and I held his head there, enjoying every sensation he
provided me. I was proud to be able to give him this pleasure, to
be able to give him the joy of my young body in return for the
priceless gift he was soon going to allow me.

I stretched my neck towards him, and he moved up slightly; we
kissed again, our tongues communicating in their common language.
 I stroked his back and ass with my fingertips, exulting in the
feel of him, the priceless pleasure of him, this thin penniless
old man to the rest of the world, the world's greatest lover to
me, the richest man alive.

He stopped to rest, his life giving cock warm and stiff inside
me. We looked into each other's eyes, just looked and smiled at
the pleasure of being together in this way.

Slowly, gently, we made love; savoring the magnificent energy of
our unique coupling. Touching, caressing, kissing, experiencing.

I stroked his ancient body, shuddering at his pleasure. He poked
me with his stiff little dick, shuddering at mine.  We wallowed
in pure physical ecstasy; master and student, man and woman, old
and young, Tibetan and American.

After a time, he was beginning to tire; I was naked on my back,
and he was on top. He began to do it to me harder, faster.

I held his ass tightly in my hands as he shuddered and began to
ejaculate.

Of course I was frightened; the hot icy rush blasted through my
abdomen, caused my heart to stop, and then filled my skull with a
bright light that illuminated but didn't burn.

Wave after wave of pure pleasure washed across me, his holy semen
washing away the muck that had been left inside me by those who
had come there before. I held his small frail body tightly,
gripping him with all my strength as his orgasm blasted against
the roof of my brain, lighting up the dark places in there with
his radiance. His old eyes were shining at me, seeming to glow
with an inner brightness as I passed out.



I awoke in a warm bed in a cold room, alone.  It was light
outside, the light of dawn.  I could hear cocks crowing, and the
cry of a vendor selling the fresh bread that he carried in a
basket on his head.

I lay silent and still, examining my inner self; exploring my new
knowledge.

I didn't know what he knew.  That would have been far too much to
learn in less than a whole lifetime.  But I knew THAT he knew; I
knew he was perfect.

And I knew that he knew me now, he knew who I was.  We had known
each other before, several times. We were old friends; in fact, I
had many friends here.  Soon, I would meet them.



My training is going well; I sit with my new master for hours
every day, absorbing his wisdom.

Several times a week, we join together sexually, so we may wallow
in the ecstasy of the flesh.  And of course it helps me
understand the mysteries.

Every time we're together it seems more intense than the last;
when I hold him in my arms, when I feel his old cock inside my
body, I feel his incredible inner strength. A strength that
normal people will never know of. When I tease him to orgasm, and
we explode together, I gather another morsel of him to myself.
When we kiss, when we touch, we are communicating on a level that
perhaps no other living humans can understand. People often laugh
to see us together, my master is so small and frail compared to
me. We don't tell anyone that we have regular sex, but we don't
go to great lengths to hide it, either. We are not the type of
beings that care very much about what others think of us.

I love my teacher with an intensity that few people will ever
experience, yet it is not a romantic love; it isn't about making
a life together and having children. It's a love of respect, a
love for what we share together. A love without normal
attachment.

Many men had loved me, or thought they did. But I knew their
thoughts, I knew that they didn't really know me.  They loved a
person they invented, the woman they wished I was.

But my master is different, he can see me as clearly as I see
him. He loves me as a daughter and a student; we have great sex
as well, but it's more therapeutic than conjugal.

I'm always careful with his ancient bones, he is very frail.  We
tend to do it very slowly and gently; often in a seated position
with one of my legs under his ass and one of his under mine.  He
grins at me through his two remaining teeth, his eyes sparkling
through his thick glasses as we gently rock forward and back, his
old cock the most exquisite thing I've ever known, stiff inside
my body.

It's so unfortunate that his body is fifty years older than mine;
when he comes, he hardly ejaculates at all.  He laughs out loud
when I compare him to the 16-year-olds I'd been with only a year
earlier.  Simple innocent creatures who could fuck like machines
and come like fountains, but knew nothing.

His ancient eyes sparkle with laughter as I suck his cock, his
old body shivers in pleasure; he enjoys himself tremendously.  My
mind explodes in an orgasm of light each time we come together,
the most amazing sensation I've ever known.  When I feel his
feeble excretions seeping gently into my womb, the joy I feel is
greater than a team of adolescent boys could provide.

The sun shines brighter in the Himalayas as I float serenely
through the dirty streets of the mountain town.  I feel light, I
have an incredible energy, I no longer feel burdened or alone. 
For the first time, I'm truly strong.

Soon, my master will depart this world. He will choose his own
time; we do not fear death.  But he's promised he won't leave
just yet, not while life is so interesting.

Ace, 2004
Please send feedback; if you do, I'll  likely write some more.
storyace@hotmail.com

The rest of my stories are at; http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/aceinthe_hole/www//
and; http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/aceinthe_hole/   [in plain text]
There are lots of them.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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