The Gift
         Submitted By A Holistic Wisdom Newsletter Reader

Jocelyn Stringer was not always a favorite around the high society party circuit. She was as cool as an Alaskan river and as crisp as a freshly pressed Sunday school shirt . She knew everyone and everyone knew her. She was held in the highest esteem by the ladies of Charity for Life, Gift Givings and many more of the wonderful causes she supported. Although not always socially adroit, her work went unmatched.

Today was a big day for her. She had enticed a large corporation into giving her millions of dollars for her latest charity drive for the homeless. She had just finished her speech and was claiming a well needed flute of champagne when she was surrounded by the Ladies of Hope, like a group of twittering sparrows. There were congratulations all around and a lot of mutual backslapping. They were a happy bunch.

A waiter appeared as if by magic holding a tray of canapés and the ladies burst into a frenzy feed. They all nearly choked, when the mayors wife stage whispered, “I bet that Paulo has something better to eat than these ghastly canapés.” The ladies gasped in unison and then burst into childish laughter. The mayors wife continued mischievously whilst eyeing his disappearing form, "Does he always do your events Mrs. Stringer?" Jocelyn Stringer felt a flush rising and excused herself immediately, finding herself a shady corner of the garden to cool down.

Whether it was the sun, the champagne or all of the excitement she didn’t quite know, but before long she felt herself drifting away, as the sounds of the guests rippled away into oblivion.

“And as I said! No one adores my wife more than I do.” Stanley William Stringer the Third, confessed to the gathering of colleagues at his and his wife’s twentieth wedding anniversary. There was a smattering of compulsory, polite clapping before the band struck up. What no one in that sea of diamonds and pearls could possibly know was just how he showed his adoration.

Of course there was the obligatory diamond necklace all the way from Africa, handcrafted by the best craftsmen De Beers could muster, a shimmering pond of dancing light, sure to make even the most hardened estate dame groan in orgiastic admiration. But there was after the party, an even greater gift, and one which she had ordered for herself.

As the last of the guests left, Stanley Stringer felt his blood tighten in his veins. His beautiful wife looked at him sternly, an edgy cast to her eye, and kissed him pertly on the cheek.

“Thank you darling…for a most wonderful evening.”

“As always it is my pleasure.” He said boldly taking her hand and leading her up the winding staircase in complete, distracted silence.

Opening the double mahogany doors to their bedroom he bowed, allowing her to enter, her cool blue eyes swimming in the dancing candlelight. Picking a single rose from one of the ten vases which held twenty red roses each, she sighed, “You’ve outdone yourself Stanley.”

Stanley Stringer felt his throat dry up. Fingering his collar he asked gently, “Are you ready?” He was eager for her to be ready. Eager to begin. He had never lost the nerves, even after all of these years. He had not made love to his wife in the last eight of those twenty.

Jocelyn freed her blond tresses from their tightly wound bun and allowed them to fall, like snow. Shaking her head lightly from side to side, she reached in and removed her brassiere. Unclasping one more button on her blouse had completed her look from staid, stable and comforting to that of soft, sultry and seductive. Stanley caught his breath as she leaned forward to lay the rose on the solid redwood dresser. Her full breasts hanging softly in the flickering candlelight, covered only by the most delicate silk. Her nipples raised, half erect, expectant. Her usually pursed, thin lips, soft, wet and full.

She sat at the dresser, picking up the antique silver hairbrush her grandmother had left to her. Turning to him, her eyes now glinting, determined. “Ready.”

Stanley reached into the inner pocket of his dinner jacket, his hands clammy, his heart knocking urgently at his chest. He watched her stroke her hair in the mirror before he held a red scarf across her mouth. She nodded and he pulled it across, forcing her mouth open, and knotted it tightly at the back of her head.

“Tight enough?”

She grunted, nodding her head, a trickle of saliva escaping to freedom and running a silver line down her chin. He watched transfixed as it made its way onto her neck, her eyes admonishing him in the mirror.

Stanley made his way to the en suite bathroom and cautiously opened the door.

Jocelyn sat watching him in the mirror, his rotund form cast into light from the bathroom. He stepped away and shuffled his way to the leather wing back chair in the corner. He had told her that Winston Churchill had once sat in it. She surmised that Winston Churchill might choke on one of his big fat cigars if he were here tonight.

She began to wonder what was taking so long, as the minutes ticked by into a state of uneasiness. The air felt hot and humid, the silence strangling the air. She was motionless, the brush hanging at her side, as she tried to make out Stanley hidden in the dark corner, only an occasional flicker of flame dancing off his shoes telling her that he was still there. She was about to remove the gag when there was movement from the bathroom.

She felt her stomach grimace with anxiety as he approached her. His thick black hair slicked back, two brooding eyebrows joined at the middle hooded his steely dark eyes. His jaw clenched at the sides as he stared into her eyes in the mirror. At his sides hung two powerful arms, and from one hand, like a poisonous snake, protruded a long blue silver blade. She tried to turn so as to look at him but he was upon her, panther like, his hand in her hair, pulling her head backward, so that her back arched, her breasts pushed tightly against her blouse, her nipples as sharp as stiletto heels.

With one swift movement he slit her blouse down the middle, the cold blade millimeters from her skin. He held the blade to her throat whilst one rough hand callously took turns at alternately squeezing her swollen breasts. Her neck was stretched backwards, the marble skin taught, her eyes bulging with the strain, as she tried to avoid being cut. He took hold of her wrists with one thick paw and raised her arms above her head. She was compelled to face him in the mirror as he ran the blade in circles around her nipples and down between her breasts to her stomach, the patience and indulgence with which he did this causing her to shudder with fear.

Stanley stared transfixed from his cocoon of shadows, his penis beginning to swell in his pants. His nerves gone now he was able to relax into a state of warm lucidity. As if in a dream he watched as the stranger pulled his lovely wife of twenty years to the bed and threw her down on it, his tight black clothes barely holding his rippling muscles at bay.

She lay on the bed, her heaving breasts exposed to the air, her skirt flung up to her thighs. He stood above her, like an eagle, his head cocked to one side before he pulled his T shirt off and over his head with one hand. She lay completely motionless, watching him, knowing that one move on her part would cause him to react, swiftly. She felt the danger spitting off him like sparks off of steel.

Her eyes traveled from his strong neck down to his chest, a sheen of sweat coating his skin like lacquer. His earthy aroma filled her nostrils as her gaze slid past his flat stomach onto the bulge at the front of his trousers. He tugged at his front and the buttons popped open soundlessly, as if in a dream. Her buttocks clenched at the sight of his pubic hair, his hand reaching in to pull his phallus out.

He held it in his hand, a swollen angry python, its skin shiny, dark olive, menacing as was the rest of him. He stroked it slowly, its head filled with pulsing purple blood. He looked directly into her eyes, a smile playing at his lips. Unconsciously she crossed her legs, her mind swimming with embarrassment. His smile broke then. Devious, calculating, cold, as he removed his trousers in one sweep.

Stanley watched as he stood before her, his tight buttocks shining like granite in the soft light of the room, his strong back rising up into broad shoulders cut with dark shadows where the muscles wrestled with each other. Stanley's zipper was open, his erection poking out like a nosy old woman from behind a curtain. His hand fiddled in his underwear as the stranger got on all fours over his wife, his balls hanging like two ripe peaches between his thighs.

Jocelyn gargled behind her gag. Her head shaking from side to side as to be rid of it. She felt the knife creep into her underwear like a cold hearted thief, its sharp blade slicing the elastic away with ease. He ripped them from her. His powerful manhood hanging over her like a malicious threat as he wound the panties around her wrists and bound them to the headboard. He forced her legs apart with both hands. She was surrendered now, her glistening flesh panting at his astonished eyes. She felt a small victory surge within her as she noted his shock at her bareness. No one in the world would have expected this of prim Jocelyn Stringer.

He stared intrigued for an instant before a greedy knowing washed over him. His stiff finger finding her entrance and sliding into its warmth with ease. He ran it the length of her before retracting it, tracing the outline of her lips, upwards and around in slow circling motions, never once touching her where it ached. Slowly, gently, around and around, swirling, dipping into her almost lazily until her hips raised with angst, before pulling out of her, his eyes riveted on her as she murmured into the gag, her eyes watering with frustration.

Stanley grew impatient now, his erection bobbing up and down like a cork on the ocean. He tugged at his sac with one hand and rasped his erection with the other. His eyes never leaving the scene. It was almost as though this beast had them both in his grasp, as Stanley felt himself rise, only to fall as if in spiritual bondage with his wife.

Jocelyn became aware that if she raised her hips to coerce him, he would continue to withhold his favors. With a firm resolve she relaxed her entire body, allowing him to caress her as he wished. He soon tired of her complicity and reached deep into her sending a sharp breeze up her spine. She hated how this peasant knew her so well, how finely he plucked at her strings. She longed to be rid of the gag so she could spit at him, but instead screamed at him with her eyes. Her hands were swelling, her wrists catching fire. He placed his thumb on her swollen jewel, whilst his finger arched inside of her, reaching that empty place, so foreign to men.

His gentle melding of the two causing it to slowly fill with a thick syrupy essence. She smelt the roses entwining their fragrance around his animal smell. She drew it in through flared nostrils, imagining herself a wild mare streaking through the fields as her master stallion gained upon her. With his free hand he pinched her nipple, twisting it slowly, agonizingly. She felt herself rolling, growing into a big purple ocean swell as he calmly stroked her soul with his fingers. His free hand tightening its grip.

She gazed at him now, as though from a shore across a misty bay, and she thought that she wanted to reach out and brush the one stray lock of hair that had fallen across his eye away, so that she could see it. His brow was slightly furrowed, no more the cocky, arrogant young bastard. He had found something, a buried treasure, and he was opening it gently so as not to disturb the beauty that lay within. She felt herself expanding, getting heavier, a gentle warm rain trickling down her spine, her nipple sending waves of blood red pain into her brain, until she burst, a spray of brilliant Jasmine exploding from within her, in a deluge of sweet release.

In the corner Stanley stoked his penis fervently, the heat rising within him. His eyes glazed over like an opium addict in a whorehouse, as he watched her liquid gush, from the safety of his chair.

She saw him come above her now, angry rolling thunder, as he picked up the blade and cut the cloth from her mouth, his engorged cock filling her, his buttocks pumping like steel pistons as he rode her. She clasped him to her, wrapping her legs around him, her nails slitting his flesh. His balls slapping into her, her juices sucking at him, her velvet lips worshipping him.

She was there now, rough hands tearing at her nipples, her flanks, her neck, and from afar she heard herself command him, to fuck her like a wanton slut, harder, deeper, harder!

He felt the knot come undone, his penis pumping, retracting, pumping, filling, squirting, as she cried out obscenities to him, her eyes rolling back in her head, rich plum stains bursting through her skin. And from the corner came a desperate cry as they all three crackled and spat like electric lightning in a summer sky, each lost to their own delirious frenzy.

She felt the slumbering heat between her legs as she arose dazedly from her reverie. She looked about sharply as someone grasped her arm.

“Are you alright my dear.” Stanley asked, his concern visible.

“I….I’m fine…I just got lost for a minute.” She stammered.

Stanley looked relieved and guided her with his hand.

“You should really get back to your guests, they’ll be missing you!”

As she left him to finish off a very long, weary day, he called out to her, a smile dancing in his eyes. “By the way, it is your birthday soon you know.”

© Luke Sumnore 01/02/2005

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