OK, I'm going for the last place prize.
The night hung over me like a cloak. Not that I need the dark to hide in for I'm as formless as the clouds; but, like a cloud, I do exist. My preferred hunting grounds are places where a lot of you gather -- Shopping malls; office blocks; sports stadia, anywhere there's a crowd and plenty of choice. I let myself drift. A row of modern, recently built terraced houses drew me. I sensed someone there who'd be useful to me. I found her.
A few feet from her and I watched. The tingle came to me in a rush. She was just what I wanted.
The naked woman lay on her bed with a small but angrily buzzing finger-sized vibrator pressed against her clitoris. She was obviously close to coming. Her spare hand mauled at her breasts while her breath came in pants and her flushed face contorted in a grimace of intense concentration.
I moved closer to her and kissed her mouth. She felt nothing of me for I have no corporeal body and she was so lost in her agonising quest for sexual release, but she instantly absorbed my essence. Immediately I knew everything.
Belinda Masters, thirty-seven years old, is a teacher. She teaches English to reluctant sixteen year-olds. Recently divorced after ten years of marriage she's in search of an elusive orgasm. Vibrators, large and small, only give her a brief respite from her body's cravings. What she needs is a living, throbbing cock inside her; preferably attached to some well-muscled, well-hung fireman. The fireman is optional, any rugged example of masculinity will do. He doesn't have to be clever, witty, or charming, all Belinda is interested is that feeling of being filled ... Down there ... In that insistent, demanding place between her legs.
She was the one. I knew I could use her. I'd take this staid, frustrated, epitome of middle-class Englishness down to a place she'd never dreamed existed. Others like me prefer violence. They seek out the type who can be moulded into perpetrating what seem to be random acts of murder, occasionally mass-murder. A loner suddenly goes berserk, finds a gun, and then starts shooting in McDonalds... Those people are harder hunting, more difficult to manage, and I prefer the easier pickings of sexual perversion -- I especially enjoy taking women like Belinda on little ...
excursions
. I'd play with her for a few hours, days, or weeks; as the mood took me.
The vibrator buzzed like an angry hornet. Belinda cried out and then moaned when her climax burst out of her in waves. The epicentre of her release was the papilla of her clit, the joy radiated outward in toe-curling ecstasy.
Eventually she sighed, twisted the cap of the silver finger, and dropped it onto the bed beside her. Despite her climax Belinda's sex clenched in an insistent rhythm. Desperate to fuck.
***
Summer holidays, there's no school, and Belinda Masters lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The clock on her mobile showed the time at nine-thirty. "Today is going to be different," she muttered. "I'm going to do something wild today." There was a determination in her tone.
She flung back the covers and went downstairs to find a piece of fruit and drink a glass of water. Yoga next -- Forty-five minutes of breathing, bending, stretching, and ignoring her growling cunt. Then she bathed. She took her time and pampered herself. Belinda shaved her legs, trimmed her pubic bush, oiled and lotioned, and then chose her clothes carefully. Eventually, after applying subtle make-up and teasing her short, blonde hair into chic untidiness, she dressed in deference to the warm weather. She pulled on her black, knee-length, boots -- the ones she felt so sexy in -- checked herself in the long mirror by the front door, and ventured out into the unknown.
Belinda felt the warmth of the summer sun on her face and bare shoulders. Today would be different. Feeling sexy and confident, Belinda strode down to the station with her boot heels clicking on the pavement. On the train into London, while she stared out at the back gardens of suburban Wimbledon and the tower blocks of Battersea, Belinda tried to ignore the insistent throb of her sex.
Patience, Belinda, she thought to herself and stepped down onto the platform at busy Waterloo. She saw him on the South Bank and knew he was the one. The man, not a fireman as she'd hoped, but a Rasta complete with a bulging tea-cosy hat and insolent strut, slouched alongside the river in the direction of Westminster. Belinda watched him pass and then turned back to follow him. She kept a short distance behind the man, using tourists as a shield, and with no plan in her head she let the Universe guide her. To Belinda's surprise the man led her along the route she'd just taken and then down into the catacomb of the London Underground at Waterloo. With her heart hammering in her chest and with trembling knees, Belinda left the glorious July day behind.
Benji, as he called himself, noticed the white woman looking at him. She wasn't the first, Benji rated himself highly. He grinned to himself and turned to face her. She was sitting half way along the carriage, while he stood, with one hand loosely holding the rail above him, by the doors. He'd let her see the ridge in his jeans. Let her get a good eyeful of Benji's promise. He grinned again when he saw her eyes flick down to check out his bulge. Her eyes widened, Benji knew she'd noticed. He lifted his other hand and casually hung off the bar; he knew she'd be checking his lean, muscular arms as he pretended to ignore her. Then, turning away from her, he let her get a good, long look at his tight ass.
"Yeah, baby," he muttered to himself in his Jamaican patois. "You be lookin' at Benji boy. You be seein' what a fine man he is." He turned again to give the white bitch another look at his bulging jeans. Check it, honey, he thought.
Belinda felt her insides melt when she saw the tight-bodied black man in the jeans, tee-shirt, and tea-cosy hat practically thrust his enormous package at her from twenty feet away.
Dear God! She thought and forced herself to look away. Has he got a pair of socks stuffed down there? She looked towards him again. Shit! He was looking right at her. He'd seen her staring... Belinda flushed with embarrassment but couldn't resist another look. He was grinning at her. A flash of light sparked from the man's eye-tooth. Damn him. Damn his confidence and his cool, Rasta assurance. Flaunting himself and mocking her with his gold-capped smile... What an arrogant bastard.
...And wasn't he just what Belinda was looking for? Her sex clenched with desire.
The train rattled and swayed into Vauxhall. Belinda watched the man. Was he getting off? He was. The train jerked to a halt, the doors slid open. He looked at Belinda and to her surprise jerked his head.
Belinda recognised the gesture for what it was and, ignoring a flutter of fright at what she was doing, followed the man out of the stifling carriage.
A day earlier and Belinda -- the English teacher, sexually frustrated but too timid to do anything -- would have stayed glued to the seat. No way would she have followed a total stranger into the badlands of South London...
Minding the gap, Benji stepped down onto the platform. Despite the heat, he was cool. If she came, OK; if she didn't, OK. He loped towards the stairs. Before he ascended he paused and casually looked back just as the train doors slammed closed.
"Yeah, baby," he grinned when he saw her. "Come to Benji, baby. Yeah, mon."
Belinda's legs barely supported her. She was sure she would fall in a heap on the platform. Her hands trembled and her stomach tightened in knots as she walked to the grinning man.
His eyes raked her up and down. He wore a huge grin and his tooth glinted evilly in the subterranean depths of the tube.
"You want somethin' from Benji, your Highness?" he mocked.
"I..." Belinda paused. What the hell could she say?
Benji laughed. "You tell me your name, sugar. Then we can walk. I got a place just round the corner. We walk a little an' then Benji can show you heaven. You say?"
Belinda nodded. "Yes, OK, all right."
"Wooh!" Benji flashed his perpetual grin again. "Listen to you all educated. Sweet." He nodded his approval and pursed his lips. The 'sweet' came out in one, long drawl. "But you still did'n tell me yo name." Belinda told him. Benji nodded again. "Less walk," he said.
They emerged into bright sunshine. Traffic crawled past while people stood in doorways and fanned themselves, desperate for any respite from the sultry heat of Vauxhall. Benji, seemingly oblivious to the warmth, led Belinda along the pavement and ignored everything and everyone around him. After a short walk he stopped.
The entrance to heaven was somewhat less than the pearly gates. Instead it seemed to be a scarred and faded blue door wedged between a pizza shop and a bookmaker's. Although the door was battered, Belinda noticed it was sturdy enough and also sported a lock that looked to have come from the Bank of England. Benji selected a key from a bunch in his pocket -- Belinda also noted, despite her trembling anticipation, that the bunch of keys wasn't what caused the black man's jeans to bulge. It's all cock in there, she thought. He must be fucking enormous! A dribble of lust seeped from her body and Belinda blushed. No knickers, there'll be a puddle on the pavement if he doesn't get a move on!
He slid the key into the mortise. "See how that key just slid in there all easy?" He winked at Belinda. "You just think on about Benji's key. How it gonna feel slidin' in."
Oh my God, Belinda thought. He knows exactly what I want. What am I doing? I must be insane. This is madness...
But she followed Benji through the blue door.
Inside, Belinda saw a narrow flight of stairs. Benji was already half-way to the landing when she swallowed heavily and stepped onto the first tread of the dingy-carpeted stairs. The place smelled musty and Belinda again questioned her sanity. She was surprised to find herself on the landing; she'd climbed without realising.
Benji held the door for her. "Welcome, your Highness."
The flat surprised her. Clean and tidy, not at all what she'd expected given first impressions downstairs. Belinda stood in a small kitchenette and looked around curiously. No dirty pots, everything clean, she could even smell a lingering trace of disinfectant. Moving beyond the kitchen counter, Belinda saw a neat living room. Everything about the place was colour. An iconic poster of Robert Nesta Marley adorned one wall, while on the opposite side of the room a huge Jamaican flag was tacked into place. The three-piece suite -- a two-seater settee and two chairs were covered in bright throws, while the remaining furniture consisted of a small, scarred but clean coffee table, with an ash-tray dead centre; a fan on a tall pedestal; and a gargantuan stereo, like a block of granite, that lurked in the corner like an Easter Island statue.
Benji strolled across the room with his typical, easy stride. He flicked on the fan and next the stereo. The heavy bass and thump of Bob Marley and the Wailers filled the tiny space. Waving a hand to a chair, Benji found a pack of Rizla and a pouch and began to roll a smoke.
