Helen:
Helen hesitated, opened the lid, breathed, and there they were. Bright tall pink strong stalks. Her first forced rhubarb of the season. Reaching for it, she slid her hand along the firmest stalk until she felt the tender base, the bit where the stalk met rhizome, then pulled. Her fingers felt a thin wet jus lining the stalk: the same thin mucus that lubricated his straining shaft last night as she straddled him, squatting on his sweating chest, stretching him to the very limits of her indecency.
'Reaching for you, baby,' she'd said.
Helen slid her soft hand along his turgid stalk until she felt his tender base, the taut bit where his stem met his heavy sac, then pulled. Her fingers caressed his rigid shaft eagerly brandishing the root, rubbing his shoot, squeezing the tender fresh growth until thin jus oozed out: his slick mucus coating his stiff gland, soiling him.
Dampening the palm of her soft, smooth, deft hand, she continued, 'Stretching you, stretching that stalk of yours, imagining you're my blade and I'm your sheath. Sheathing you as you spurt your thick fertile seed inside me, covering me in your seeds. I'm pretending you're licking my flesh, tickling, teasing me, your teeth tearing out my veinous pliant leaves.'
Helen slid forward, squatting on Ben, cute enough not to cover his nose, wanting to nurture not drown him. Sealed, he couldn't speak, groan, moan, whelp, plead, or cry inside her, only lick and taste her warmth, satisfy her craven lust, Helen's insatiable pled demands for lambent, forceful, flickering, ticklish tongue.
'Caress my soft breasts as I come, if you like,' she said, 'Stretch me, shunt me, baby, shunt me to my limits.'
Best part, Ben found, was when he lay comfortably on his back being ridden by her: all sweaty, dripping wet, hair all slick with wet, teats erect, her slick slit all splayed, oozing her jus, arching her body upwards. Best part, he found, was when she raised herself, came, and fell in love with him.
Helen continued reaching and pulling until she'd gathered eight healthy sticks. Once the harvest was over, she straightened, stretched, rubbed her hands, replaced the lid, and saved the rest. There was little more for her to do. The allotment was dug over, weeded, manured, planted out with early shallots, broad beans, the compost heap was full. Nascent buds were opening into tender leaves on a few of the raspberry canes. Helen had even managed to reinflate the flat tyre on her wheelbarrow. Other than the village church bells ringing for matins the place was devoid of life. A sly lean fox crept past her destined for an Italian's hen coop. Robins pecked around her blackcurrant bushes for redworms.
Helen stood back, admiring her handywork. Only then did she feel the intensity, the bitter cold of winter permeate her thick fleecy woollen sweaters, woven shirt, vest, and bra. She shivered.
For Helen, her allotment provided a safe means of escape, a sanctuary, a peaceful haven where she could reflect on her life, hopes and aspirations, her unfulfilled dreams. The novel hadn't gone as well as expected. She had crashed into writer's block. Felt she'd failed. Failure, in her warped mind, led to pervasive mood swings, discontent, seasonally affected disorders, abysmal bouts of maniacal depression, her inevitable complete and utter ruptured heartbreak. At least, the fresh rhubarb had given her renewed heart to carry on. The numb tingling sensation spread out of the crown of her head, burning the sides of her face, her neck, coursing through her nervous system until it reached its extremities.
Helen's vision went blurry then failed. She struggled to breathe. A sharpish pain stabbed her chest. Her tummy bloated. Scared, in a blind panic, she staggered as far as her manure compound and fell in a heap on the hard mud. She didn't recover her senses or find a way back to her bronze ecoboost car until nightfall.
She simply had to tell someone as soon she'd returned to her little flat, washed and prepared the rhubarb, tuned the central heating, changed into warm clothes, thrown her soiled panties in the wicker creel. Feeling her old self, she sank into the soft-down bed, logged onto her tablet and messaged Livia.
Livia:
Heavily pregnant Livia dwelt in Maine with husband Andy and toyboy Tom. Helen suspected Livia wasn't her real name, her men didn't exist, and she didn't live in Maine. As she wrote to her she pondered. What colour is her real skin? What shape and size is she really? How sweet is she to taste, feel and touch? How strongly does she smell of musk, scent, cigarettes, and (judging by her wild moods) bourbon?
Helen:
At night, Helen changed. Changing identities, behaviour, mannerisms, and appearances opened a world of untold opportunities for loners like her. She had no real family to speak of. Her family had died prematurely, victims of a mysterious ague. Writing smut introduced her to intriguing new friends, voyeurs mainly, but writing controversial characters in different genders lost her the old ones. Those friends who survived the ague expressed little honest sentiment or goodwill towards her in their e cards at Christmas. Increasingly her friends were her characters, and Ben, of course, she could always rely on Ben to love her.
To enter her fantasy world, she only had to log in to her tablet, usually sipping off a faded fishes-in-a-faded creel mug of coffee, oat milk, chewing flame raisins, or sucking chocolate. Unlike her modest, meagre lifestyle, Helen's fantasies were filled with excitement, thrill, risks. She thrived online as several very different personalities.
There was: Helen the round-faced, dark-haired brunette wearing bright pink lipstick, smiling, smooching men cheek-to cheek with her eyes closed. Helen's flushed face in close-up biting a man's nose. Helen wrestling naked with the fighting girl in her filthy novel. At other times, her as a blushing teenager wearing a short denim shirt in a darkened amusement arcade, as the redhead with straggly hair dressed in a bust revealing basque.
Whenever she appeared in her dream for her creator, she was always called Helen, and the man being smooched and bitten on the nose by her was always Ben. Those, for the sake of an insane grip on her rapidly diminishing perception of reality, were her rules.
Though inside Helen's outrageous fantasy world there were no rules only her hot exhilarating sexual encounters with girls like Daisy, twenty-seven-years old, bisexual, daring, neurotic, shy, the girl she met and fell head-over-heels in love with surfing the net for love.
Daisy, the divine straw-haired blonde with pale skin, firm round breasts, spindly legs and arms, and tightly clefted buttocks, who always appeared taking off her lacy black bra, her breasts tantalisingly exposed, her cute little arse just showing through, shining out of her scanty see-thru black lace pants.
Helen's ague grew inside her mind: emotionally unstable, brain-damaged, risqué, grew harder for her to control, for her to shake her fantasied, demented, fake, self out of her tormented mind. She finished supping her drink, placed her empty mug on a cracked glass coffee table, lay back on the unkempt bed and sank her weary, bleary, dreamy, girlish, foxy head into the soft pillow. He'd left her a to-do list on her tablet:
Helen, I do want you, too, but I'm busy mounting Sara tonight trying for her baby: Write me a story about your flirtation with Daisy. Find a filthy image of you and Daisy having sex. Post it for me. Get yourself banned from social media. Record your and Daisy's soft voices making love for me. By now, the bedroom felt stifling hot, her skin felt all clammy, wet, sticky with her perspiration. She pulled her tee-shirt off over her head and wriggled out of her tight gym shorts. Underneath she was wearing her finest sheer black lingerie: her lacy bra, soft panties, perfect attire for sex.
'Sure,' said Helen quietly to herself as she wrote, 'I can manage that for you. Sweet dreams.'
Helen and Daisy:
I came across Daisy, twenty-seven, single, a bisexual, lonely girl living on an adult chat site. I liked her, followed her, wasn't surprised when she followed me back.
'Hi, it's Daisy,' she said, 'I was taken by you. Thanks so much for following me. Looking forward to getting to know you. Do you enjoy posts on your page?'
'I do.'
'I'm going to post you a little happy then. If you don't like it please just delete it, okay?'
'I'm sure I'll love it.'
