The Board

“The bastard! The rotten lousy bastard!” Ten years of marriage and he comes home and tells me he’s in love! Not with me, of course, but some slut in his office.

Do you know, he even cried: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, but this is the real thing, sob, sob. I’ve got to with her, sob, sob.”

He’d been with her all right. All those “Working late at the office, darling” nights. At least that was true, he’d been working, but not office work unless humping some woman on the office carpet passes for “office work”. My God didn’t he work! Slinking home at one in the morning! There’s devotion to the job for you.

“I’ll see you right, Ellie,” he whimpered. God he was a pathetic sight, and I’d make sure he’d see me “right”. Ten years of fidelity, keeping his home nice for him, opening my legs for him two or three times a week – not that there’d been much of that the past few months – and doing accountancy work for him at home. Oh yes, he’d see me right, the shit. Among other things I knew where the money was hidden away from the tax man, so he’d “see me right”, or else….

He was at least smart enough to know that if we went to the court for a settlement I’d take him to the cleaners. He’d be lucky to have a pair of underpants to wear when I’d done with him. So he settled nice and quietly. I’d always wanted children but we hadn’t managed it. Now I was glad we hadn’t.

He got the house and I got a nice pile of money and the beach cottage. I rented a nice place in town and contemplated offering my accountancy skills around, but decided to hold off for a while. Instead I took a run down to the cottage.

It’s a lovely little place about a hundred kilometres from the city, and still rather isolated. It had been a fisherman’s cottage, probably about a hundred and twenty years old. We heard about it being for sale because the last fisherman to occupy it had died and none of his relatives wanted it.

Mind you, I didn’t blame them. When we first saw the place it looked neglected and a bit tumbledown, but I’ve got an eye for that sort of thing and could see what it might be. So, a few thousand dollars later we had what people call, “A charming seaside cottage.” Very quaint but I also made sure the quaintness included all the Mod. Cons.

Some of the guests who had been with us over the years said they found the place a bit spooky. It didn’t affect me that way, but I heard from one of the locals that there was supposed to be a ghost haunting the place. Something about a young fisherman who had been in love with a girl and she went and married someone else with more money, so he hung himself from one of the beams that spans what we called “The Lounge.”

Prior to my going down to the cottage I had been so busy moving and organising my new life I had hardly time to draw a breath. Now, arriving at the cottage, everything seemed to come to a screaming halt. For the first time since Alec told me he was leaving me, I broke down and cried. As they used to say, “I let it all hang out.” I not only cried, I screamed, raged and cursed Alec to hell. After that I felt a bit better.

I had arrived mid afternoon and just at dusk I decided on a short walk along the beach. The tide was out and as the light faded little seashore birds skittered about seeking their prey and a couple of pelicans did a lumbering take-off to some night roosting place.

As I turned back towards the cottage the light had virtually gone and looking towards the cottage I thought I saw it ringed with an aura of light. I stopped and stared for a moment, wondering if I was hallucinating. I closed my eyes and shook my head, and when I opened then again the light had gone.

“You’re seeing things, Ellie my girl,” I told myself. “Must be all the emotional strain you’ve been under.”

I approached the cottage and for the first time experienced what others had called, “A spooky feeling.” This feeling was intensified when I saw a flash of lightening far out to sea. For some reason I felt apprehensive and hesitated to enter the cottage.

“Stop being so bloody stupid,” I told myself. “It was just lightening. There’ll probably be a storm tonight.”

I pulled myself together and entered the cottage, making sure I switched on plenty of lights. I hadn’t eaten so I set about preparing a meal. As I performed this commonplace task, I got the distinct impression I was being watched. I kept telling myself not to be so stupid, but never the less kept looking around to see if anyone was there. Of course, there wasn’t.

It was late when I finished eating and clearing away, so I decided on bed and a book.

The section of the book I was reading proved to be very erotic. Given that I had not had sexual intercourse for some time, certainly not since Alec went cold on me about three months before he left, it was hardly surprising I got that little throbbing feeling in my clitoris.

Even when I was having regular sex with Alec I loved to masturbate. One of my favourite techniques is to start by tweaking and pinching my large nipples. The touch on my nipples causes a sensation in my genital area and starts my juices flowing. I have large nipples and for that matter large breasts.

I then lie on the bed on my back in a reclined position. My legs are spread very wide and I massage with my second, third and fourth fingers making sure to get my clitoris nice and lubricated with my vaginal juices.

While massaging my clitoris in a circular motion and moving my hips to meet each stroke, I am simultaneously sucking and biting my nipples and fantasising. As my nipples get larger and harder, my clitoris gets larger and longer with increased sensitivity. As I feel the wave of the orgasm building harder I hold my breath and I have an intense ejaculating orgasm.

I put aside my book and began to gratify myself. I can clearly recall my fantasy. I had been abducted by four handsome youths. They had tied me down on a bed and as I lay helpless they enjoyed my body. It was their fingers in my vagina, their lips and teeth biting my nipples, and although they were raping me, I was revelling in it.

I like to hang back from orgasm for as long as possible, and it must have been for about ten minutes that I was lost in my paradise of surrender when I suddenly felt dragged out of my sexual Eden. Someone was watching me again.

I lay, my fingers still in my vagina, hand on my breast, but unmoving. I looked around the room. There was nothing – no one. I whispered apprehensively, “Is anyone here?”

There was no answer, but I heard what sounded like a rustle and a sigh. For a moment I think I was paralysed with fright, but an even bigger fright overtook me. Through the window I saw a nearby flash of lightening followed almost immediately by an immense clap of thunder.

The storm that had been creeping in from the sea had arrived and it seemed in an instant the wind sprang up into a howling gale, and rain lashed down on the cottage roof.

Lightening and thunder followed in quick succession, shaking the cottage as if it would carry it away in the shrieking wind.

I lay still for a while, telling myself that my previous idea that I was being watched and the rustling sound and sigh, had been the first touch of the storm round the cottage.

While everything seemed to rage outside the cottage I recommenced my masturbating. Fantasy returned to me, but it was not one fashioned by me this time. It seemed to somehow come to me from outside myself, unbidden, invading me.

The four youths had gone to be replaced by one. He was tall and dark and very handsome. I was no longer tied down, but still in a posture of surrender, open to my fantasy lover.

At first he stood beside the bed, naked, an immense phallus, beautiful with a light brown shaft and a purple crown glistening with pre-cum, stood upright, engorged with blood and throbbing with every heart beat.

I entreated him, “Take my, my love, take me.”

At that moment, with the storm raging outside, a storm began to rage inside me. At first like the distant stroke of lightening and soft rumble of thunder I had seen and heard as I walked back to the cottage, my orgasm began as both threat and promise of exquisite pain and ecstasy.

My fantasy lover came between my legs but before the joy of penetration could occur, the full force of my orgasm struck with a power I had never felt before. I seemed to be discharging lubricant like a male ejaculation of sperm, and I screamed and writhed, wanting to stop but at the same time wanting the agony to go on forever.

Wave after wave of shaking orgasmic spasms shook me until I thought I might faint, but then the frenzy of my climax began to calm and as if in sympathy, the storm outside began to move away.

I was exhausted and despite the power of my experience, I felt that something was missing. I tried to determine what it was that left me with the vague sense of dissatisfaction, and then it hit me. Of course, my fantasy lover, for a moment he had seemed so real, more real than any of my previous fantasies.

In past masturbating I always knew my fantasies were fantasies, this time it had seemed real, and only at the point of penetration did that reality break down. I had so much wanted that penetration, so desired that large blood swollen organ to enter me, that now I felt it as a loss, a deprivation.

I was tempted to go straight to sleep, but I had made such a mess of myself and the bed I had to get up, change the lower sheet and take a shower.

As I returned to bed I felt the sense of being watched again, but this time I felt no apprehension. I told myself it was my imagination enhanced by the emotional turmoil of recent weeks, and the amazing reality of my phantom lover.

When I got into bed and had turned off the light, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

When I woke next morning I could here the sound of the breakers on the beach. “Tide’s in,” I thought. “I might do a bit of fishing from Annie Rocks.”

After the storm of the night before the morning was clear and bright, everything looking newly washed. I breakfasted and taking a hand fishing line and an old kitchen knife I made my way to Annie Rocks, a sort of rocky ledge jutting out a little into the sea, with deep water on three sides when the tide is in.

In fact the tide was beginning to recede, but I knew I could get in a couple of hours fishing before it had ebbed too far out.

Using the knife, I prised clams off the rocks to use as bait. I twirled the line three of four times then let it go to splash out some distance into the water.

Annie Rocks was the only place near the house convenient to fish from, but past experience had taught me that the fishing was more an exercise in optimism than the reality of catching anything. It was therefore with delighted amazement that after the line had been in the water for only a couple of minutes, it started to indicate with spasmodic jerks that something was on the hook.

I hauled in, and I’d caught a beauty. I took it off the hook, rebaited and cast out again. Another few minutes and I hauled in another fish.

I looked out to sea where, at a little distance for the shore, two or three small boats were anchored, their occupants fishing. It was hard to see properly, but there were no signs that they were catching anything.

After about twenty minutes I had caught four fish, and decided to call a halt. “No point in catching more,” I thought, “there’s only one person to eat them.”

I wound up my line and stretched out for a while on the rock, dozing in the sun. In that half awake half asleep manner a mental image of my phantom lover of the night before hovered in my mind. “If only…if only…”

The vision of my lover intensified and I jerked awake. “Dreaming the impossible dream, Ellie,” I scolded myself.

I gathered my catch and line and made my way back to the cottage, and then it was cleaning and filleting the fish, three to be put into the freezer and one for the evening meal.

In the afternoon I decided to have a bit of a clear up round the cottage. All sorts of things had accrued in drawers and cupboards over the years. I sometimes have the strong impression that they breed while we aren’t watching them.

Once I started I got a little tearful as I saw things that reminded me of the times Alec and I had been here together. The old teapot with the broken spout that was always going to be mended one day but never was. A broken fishing rod from the time Alec caught a “whopper” and he refused to cut the line.

I came across the old ouija board that we had had fun with when we’d had guests at the cottage. At least, we’d had fun until one oversensitive female guest became hysterical and started to see spirits all around her. “We’ve called up Satan” she screamed. It took us nearly half a bottle of another sort of spirits to calm her. After that we never used the board again.

I sorted things out, some went into a big plastic garbage bag for disposal at the dump some four kilometres down the road, and the rest was tidied away.

I always find it a bit of a bore cooking just for me, but having, like some skin clad female of Stone Age times, caught my own supper, I was not going to pass up on it. So prepare and cook I did.

It was getting dark when I finished eating and clearing up, and seeing it was such a calm and tranquil evening, I sat on the small veranda for half an hour, listening to the distance hiss of little wavelets on sand and watching the occasional swoop of a bat in search of its supper – or would it be breakfast for a bat?

Going inside I noticed I had left the ouija board out, so placing it on a table I got a glass and putting it on the board, sat with my finger on the upturned glass. I wasn’t sure if the thing was supposed to work with only one person using it. In any case, I’d never believed it worked. It was just a bit of fun, and I accepted that one of the participants was pushing the glass, but pretending not to.

After a while I started to slide the glass over the board without thought of asking a question. About half a minute of doing this and I began to feel as if I was being watched again. I stopped pushing the glass and I glanced round the room. There was no one, yet I felt a presence intensely. Perhaps our hysterical guest had been correct, and you could actually call up something with the board, but what?

I gave myself a mental shake and told myself not to be silly. I was letting my imagination run away with me.

I decided to put the board away, but before I could do so, a voice behind me said, “You’ve come to me at last, Ellie.”

I whirled round, and standing there was a tall young man.

I am not sure now whether I wanted to scream with fright or protest at him entering my cottage uninvited. Perhaps I was about to do both, but I suddenly felt a wave of tranquillity pass over me. I had no fear of him, and he had a perfect right to be in the cottage. I had no need to ask how he knew my name; of course he knew it, as I knew his, Aaron.

“Yes, darling,” I said, “I’ve come to you at last.”

Not only was he tall, but also very powerfully built in a beautifully proportioned way. His complexion was dark, and he was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen.

“It has been a very long time, Ellie,” he said.

“Yes darling, too long a time.”

I moved to him and putting my arms round him, stretched up to kiss him. His lips were soft and warm and as I opened my mouth his tongue flickered in and quickly we were almost eating each other.

I was rotating my hips, grinding my lower belly against his crotch, and I could feel his hard manhood pressing against me.

“Take me to bed, darling, I whispered.”

He swept me up into his arms without a word, and carried me to the bedroom. He undressed me very tenderly as if relishing every new exposure of my body.

When he had done, and I was completely naked, I began to undress him. He was clad only in shirt and trousers, but the trousers especially seemed somehow out of date. Instead of a zip fastener they had buttons and the cloth was rough and heavy.

Standing before me naked, I could see his massive penis, hard and throbbing at my touch; then I knew; he was my phantom lover of the previous night.

Still standing I touched the crown of his penis with my fingers letting them become wet with his pre-cum. Then I put my fingers into my mouth to taste him.

As if by some reciprocal agreement his fingers touched my vagina, letting them soak for a moment in my lubricant, and then placing them in his mouth as he tasted me. Then we kissed as if to mingle our fluids in each other’s mouths.

I was lifted on to the bed and he knelt beside me. His hands began to explore me. They were large and well shaped hands, and amazingly gentle in their touch. He began with my hair, running his fingers through it then traced the shape of my face rather like a blind man. At one point he bent to kiss my lips, not in wild passion but very softly.

We seemed to be in no hurry and Aaron’s hands continued to explore my body almost as an act of reverence, as if I were some sort of holy place.

He cupped both my breast, then leaned over to kiss my nipples. His eyes seemed to look deep into me as if he would penetrate my very soul.

I reached out and took his penis into my hand and began to flip the foreskin over the crown, and for the first time he gave a groan of pleasure.

I had to release his organ as he put his hands under my buttocks and with seeming ease raised them up so my vagina was exposed and elevated, then he bent forwards to kiss it, his tongue exploring my entrance, then licking my clitoris.

“Oh my dear love,” I whispered, “Won’t you take me now? We’ve waited so long.”

I felt him open my legs and come between them. I reached down and felt his crown as it probed to enter me. Its size seemed immense, yet I felt no fear; I knew he would never hurt me.

I was soaked with lubricant and he slid into me easily and groaned, “Oh my dear love. I’ve waited all these years for you.”

I felt him penetrate into my depths, the thickness of his sexual organ pressing against my vaginal walls. I gripped him with my vaginal muscle, and this elicited another groan of ecstasy from him.

He began to move in me, and just as he had explored my body slowly and reverently, so his movements were slow, as if he wanted to relish every stroke.

I felt the vibration of my approaching orgasm and was fearful of its potential power. Aaron was moving faster and more deliberately now, and I knew we were going to come together. I wanted to beg him not to make me orgasm, not to unleash that agonising and delicious pain in me, but no words would come, and I was chiming in with his rhythm.

It was almost upon me and Aaron gave a mighty thrust heralding his ejaculation.

I was crying out, “Oh my God, my God, spear me to the heart my dear love…”

I woke with a jarring start, my head hanging down as I sat in the chair, my hand still on the glass. Oh, dear God, I’d fallen asleep. There had been no Aaron, no reverential love, no coming orgasm, and yet….

I could feel the warm wet discomfort in my panties and between my thighs. I was still in a state of extreme sexual arousal. I fled to the bedroom and masturbated, weeping as I did so for my lost Aaron.

I ended my mad self-relief, but was not relieved. I descended into a pit of self-pity berating myself, my deserting husband and the universe for my wretched state. I asked a question that millions must have asked over the centuries; “Why have we been given such powerful emotions, and then are denied their fulfilment?”

A quotation came into my head from high school days. We had battled our way through Shakespeare’s play, “King Lear”. I think I found it dreary at the time, but now words came back to me; “As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.”