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Message-ID: <50630asstr$1110017402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Hand (solo anal bi ScFi)
Lines: 284
Date: Sat,  5 Mar 2005 05:10:02 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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HAND
by Carlos Malenkov (writing as Kien Reti)
Word Count: 2088
Copyright (c) 2005 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archive rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



The phantom hand was fondling him again.

"Damn it, Dan! Can't you pay attention? Another couple of inches and you
would have driven right over me!"

"Sorry, Jeannie. Must have been daydreaming."

It had long since passed the point of being a pleasant distraction. It had
become a dangerous nuisance.

A forklift operator can't afford lapses of concentration. They're liable
to result in rather unpleasant consequences. Like running over your boss.
Who also happened to be a good friend. And a former lover.



It had all started innocently enough.

Dan was in the shower stall that one evening, rinsing off and bending
down to adjust the water temperature, when . . . _he felt something
goose him right between his buttocks_. He must have jumped a foot into
the air. But, no, there was no one in there with him. He had broken it
off with Jeannie the previous week and he was all alone in the apartment.

All alone. She had been a hot one one, that Jeannie. Insatiable. Couldn't
get enough of him. Four times a night on those rare occasions when she
could sneak away from her husband to sleep over. And that was the problem.
Her husband owned the company. And Jeannie was only the junior partner.
The junior partner who'd be totally frozen out in a divorce. Even a
divorce based on total absence of marital relations. So, it made sense
that she'd choose financial security over sexual satisfaction. Yeah,
he could certainly understand that. But, it was poor consolation for
being alone.

Must have imagined it. Or maybe bumped into the handle of the sliding
glass doors. Yeah, that was it. Bumped into --

Hey! Something was _fondling his crotch_. Damn it, there was nothing
there! Nothing but soap suds and pubic hair, but now he had a raging
erection and it sure as hell felt like a hand jerking him off. Damn,
that was starting to feel nice! Then, the touch was gone.

It came back in the night. A week later, he awoke from a sound sleep to
the feel of something gently stroking his back and buttocks. A hand.

Dan became accustomed to the nightly "visits." The by now familiar
feminine touch of the caressing hand took the edge off his terrible
loneliness, and relieved the built-up sexual tension. It was infinitely
more satisfying than masturbation. When he came in that soft comforting
grip, it was as if he were emptying every one of his fears and tensions
into the Vagina of the Dark Unknown.

_Vagina._ He could have sworn that when the hand enveloped his member, it
_became_ a vagina. It had the exact same feel as a female vulva lubricated
by the juices of sexual excitement. And, in the exact same way that the
organ of a woman in heat would, it squeezed and milked his cock.

_Cock._ He thought for a moment that he might have sensed a warm penis
pressing against his buttocks just at the split-second that he shot his
wad into the _vagina_. No! It couldn't be.

But, who could say? This whole damn thing was so fuckin' crazy. Phantoms
in the night. Phantom hand. Phantom pussy. Sure, why not phantom cock, too?

Now, would _that_ be so horribly disgusting? What if the Phantom decided
to _fuck_ him? Well . . .

Dan had on occasion entertained fantasies of what it might feel like to
. . . take it in the ass. Hey, it could even be interesting. He dimly
recalled what it had felt like when his mom had given him an enema and
had taken his temperature rectally. Warm. Cared for. Loved. But, no.
That sort of thing was for _queers_, damn it!



Another night. The _hand_ was caressing him. His cock was hard. Achingly
hard. He needed . . . needed desperately to relieve the pressure, to spill
his seed, to _come_ in a gloriously cascading fountain, a triumphant shout
of _I am_! Not yet. No, the hand still stroked, stroked his balls, stroked
his shaft, but denied him relief.

Now! Now his cock was moving in the _pussy_, the mysterious pussy that
accompanied the hand, the slick and pulsating pussy, the magic pussy,
the pussy that always . . . But, still he couldn't get relief. Couldn't
come. His balls felt like they might explode if they didn't empty. His --

There! Something was gently poking against his . . . against the entrance
to his _ass_. And he somehow . . . somehow _wanted_ it. He had a sudden
powerful urge to have his ass _fucked_. And he yielded. He relaxed
his sphincter and opened up his ass. And the hard phantom cock entered
into him.

What was happening to him? This mysterious phantom was taking him over.
It had become something he couldn't live without. And it was even
intruding into his waking life. Something had to be done.



Dan came to me in desperation. As a psychologist, I'd thought I was
familiar with just about every variety and aberration of human behavior,
but this was something new. Of course, I took him on as a client. I even
lowered my hourly fee so he could afford my services.

"You don't believe any of this, do you, doc?"

"It's not my function to pass judgment on what you tell me, Dan, just
to listen and help you make sense of your experiences. In other words,
if it's real for you then we'll treat it as valid."

"But what can I do? This damn thing is taking over my life."

"What would you like to do about it? Rid yourself of the phantom and get
on with your life? Sure, but wouldn't that leave a hole there? Loneliness,
your need for physical closeness, sexual relief?"

"You're saying that if I get a girlfriend then this _hand_ will just go
away? Vanish back into the darkness?"

"Maybe not, Dan, but what I advise clients of mine in a difficult
situation is to try altering one of the variables and see what happens.
At the very least, it'll be a learning experience. Until our next session,
then . . ."


I don't believe in the objective reality of ghosts and phantoms, of
course. Modern psychology is a _science_, and as such it purports to
deal with measurable, reproducible phenomena, things that can be studied
under laboratory conditions. But I had read enough about psychic and
supernatural happenings to suspect that they couldn't _all_ be dismissed
as figments of the imagination.

Dan was getting desperate. He had finally managed to get a woman to
come home with him, but just at the moment that they were undressing
for bed, she had cried out in terror. Something was _touching_ her,
she screamed. And, right out the door she went.

"Well, Dan, if you'll permit me, I'll spend a night at your apartment,
and perhaps we can get to the bottom of this."

I wasn't expecting to see or hear anything, but I brought with me a
portable videocam and a sound recorder sensitive into frequencies far
beyond human hearing. Just in case.

Dan and I shared a microwave dinner and watched a recorded movie on his
DVD player before retiring. I made myself comfortable in an impromptu bed
on his sofa as I listened to Dan's rhythmic snores in the bedroom. Nothing
out of the ordinary had happened, and no phantoms were in evidence. I
started to drift off and --

I was up like a shot. I had felt a _hand_ on my thigh!

The sound recorder had recorded only my shout. Nothing else. The
videocam's memory card was blank. Whatever it was had left no evidence
behind.

The rest of the night was uneventful. Dan enjoyed a good night's sleep,
undisturbed by ghosts, phantoms or other denizens of the nether realms.



"Doc, whatever it is you've done -- or these sessions have done --
it's worked. No more phantoms. Nothing. I've been living a more or less
normal life these past couple of months. I even have a girlfriend now,
and we're _very_ physically compatible, it turns out."

"Yes, Dan, psychology provides insights into what troubles us and helps
us heal and enrich our lives. I'm gratified by your progress and don't
think you'll be requiring my services any longer."



I'm glad his therapy sessions helped him with his problem. Unfortunately,
it's _my_ problem now.

The _hand_ has been "visiting" me. Haunting me. Almost every night I
awaken to its caresses. It stirs my senses and maddens me. This phantom
visitation somehow gives me a greater depth and intensity of sexual
satisfaction than I ever received from either of my ex-wives or any of
my girlfriends. And, this disturbs me profoundly.

It's apparently some sort of displacement mechanism, where the neurosis
that had been afflicting the patient transfers to the therapist.
Occurrences of this sort have been well-documented, but, damn it, why
did it have to happen to _me_?

Lately, it's taken a new twist. Like Dan's phantom vagina, the _hand_
seems to have transmuted into a sheath . . . or orifice. In this
particular case, it's playing to my own secret vice, though. Instead
of being brought to climax by a _hand_, my organ is being enveloped by
a phantom _anus_. I'm being treated to anal sex by an epiphenomenon,
for Freud's sake!

It's all there -- the tightness, the pulsations and contractions, and even
the characteristic faint _odor_. It's as realistic as a simulation can get,
and it's scaring the hell out of me because I'm finding it increasingly
difficult to hold fast to my scientific faith that there's some logical
explanation for all this.

What to do? Well, I believe in the power of therapy after all -- _talk_
therapy. Would it hurt to try _talking_ to this phantom? At the very
least I'd be giving expression to my own thoughts -- as an alternative
to being passively fondled by the invisible _hand_, or being milked by
the dark _anterior passage_.



I talked to the phantom. And . . . the phantom answered.

It wasn't a voice, exactly, but then I hadn't expected it to be. It was
more akin to thoughts being projected _into my head_.

"What are you?" I had asked.

_The Author._

"How's that again?"

_The author of the story._

"Story?"

_Story! This is a story, and you're a character in it._

"So . . . you're real, and I'm not?"

_Correct._

"I'm a just a fictional creation, and you're a real person???"

_You got it, doc._

"Hmmm . . . I'm not sure if I'm suffering delusions, or if my delusion
is the one suffering delusions. No doubt a worthy topic for a writeup
in the Annals of Abnormal Psych-"

_Still don't believe it, do you? Well, then, try to recall a few of your
memories from the distant past. What high school did you attend? Who
was your first girlfriend? When did you lose your virginity? What was
your mother's maiden name? What street did you live on when you were ten?_

"I, uh -- "

_Can't dredge up those memories, can you? That's because you have none.
None, except those I've endowed you with._

"I -- "

_And now I'm wondering how much more depth to give to your character
. . . how much more space to devote to you in this story. Come on guy,
give me a clue. If you can._

"Wait just one damn minute, here! I'm a behavioral scientist and I
refuse to accept this contrived tale of solipsism, warped metaphysics,
and despair. I believe in what my senses tell me. I believe in the
material universe and bedrock reality. I believe -- "

_It all comes down to a belief system, doesn't it? But, what if you're
wrong? Totally full of shit?"

"All right, then. Let's take your argument to its logical extreme. If
_I'm_ a character in a story, well then, how do you know that you,
Mr. Phantom Philosopher, have any objective existence yourself? That
you're not a character as well? Might it not be that this is a story
within a story? Maybe we're _all_ characters."

_Good point._

"And, while we're on the subject, what about the _readers_? The readers
of this so-called story?"

_Isn't it obvious by now? They're characters, too. Well, maybe not figments
of *my* imagination, but of some greater Author's._

"So, you're saying that when this story ends, then for me it's -- "

THE END

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