In the Picture
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Magic, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction, Time Travel, Humiliation, Rough, Spanking, Group Sex, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Voyeurism, Doctor/Nurse, Public Sex, Transformation,
Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This story is written across several different genres and is difficult to describe except in the sense it is historical, time-shifting, science fictional, romantic, erotic, fiction. The lead character is female and conflicted about her own sanity. Read carefully to determine what is reality and what is fantasy.
I understand the reason why I am here in the Nottingham Clinic for the mentally afflicted. When an attractive young female of upper class up-bringing is found walking around stark naked in public mumbling crazy lyrics that sounded more like “Gilbert and Sullivan” than any tune of current popularity, it is considered appropriate handling to ship her off to the nearest funny farm for sorting out in a formal environment. My photo in the paper was sufficient to prompt several relatives to come forward and own up that I was one of their clan and the arrangements were made without my consent because my eyes had a certain blankness that preempted any discussion.
You can call me Honey, but my real name is Patricia Westminster and for most of my adult life I was addressed as “Lady Patricia” by friends and strangers alike. I always felt a little foolish being called “Lady” because a lot of the time my thoughts about the males in close proximity to my person were decidedly on the sensual side and in some instances plain downright naughty enough to be censored by competent authority. At such times, I certainly didn’t feel like a lady in either thought or deed and would have been far more comfortable to be called “slut” or “cunt”.
I know it is totally bad form to use the “c” word out in public but I do my best to contain it to those setting where only females are present because we seem to take less offense at the usage amongst ourselves. It is sort of the same thing with dark-skinned people when confronted by the “n” word by total strangers. I certainly do not mean to offend anyone because I am at heart a shy and introverted thing despite my caustic mouth that often gets me in trouble that is caused completely by my own stupidity in spouting verbal garbage. I think I get that from my maternal grandmother. She was quite famous for annoying the high and the mighty with her down to earth comments on insensitive behavior and seldom was concerned with the aggravation she aroused in high-born quarters. The common folk loved her, of course, because she spoke the language of the streets and never pulled a punch for sake of diplomacy.
Please allow me to return to my explanation for my current residence in a sheltered institution for the mentally challenged. I tend to digress when my mind is diverted by thoughts of an erotic nature and that issue seems to be happening more and more as my opportunities at secretive coupling become less frequent under constant watch night and day.
I had read recently a fine written work by the Marquis De Sade describing his incarcerated musings and have to admit the stark images made me more susceptible to the urge for copulation regardless of the age or physical appeal of the masculine side of the equation.
In other words, if I could get the fellow hard enough to enter my territorial waters, I didn’t care if he was a Pirate or a Saint as long as he could get to the finish line without losing his hardened state and determined desire to make me take it like a “good girl” in complicit concert of action.
One of my wardens was a young lad called Hannibal and he was from a region in the northern part of the outlands that used a dialect that was all but incomprehensible to educated subjects of the realm. Despite his communication shortcomings, I grew quite fond of the lad even though he was almost a decade younger than I. He was one of those lower born folk that were more drawn to religious thinking than the hedonistic inclinations of the current society. I had been careful in my dealings with the institution employees to give the impression that I was basically a “fallen away” person of deep religious convictions and he often knelt next to me and “prayed” for the salvation of my guilty soul and redemption for my promiscuous past.
Several times, I noticed his hardness when he was in close proximity to my lower limbs and I pretended to faint and fall into his muscular thighs in a way that was certain to arouse him to immediate action to put us both out of our misery of unwanted abstinence. My pretense of semi-consciousness was good enough to encourage him to enter my distressingly tight vagina stretching me in a way that made me shudder with a multitude of orgasms and quivering whimpers of complete surrender.
I allowed him to take complete control of me and it was a revelation of a sort that made me a believer in submissive obedience as the fastest route to ultimate satisfaction.
It should have been enough to satisfy any normal female of ordinary urges, but my readings of the works of the Marquis De Sade convinced me it was the perfect opportunity to experiment with his peculiar attachment to matters anal in nature because the very thought brought a gush of female juices to my vaginal cavity that needed expression with raised buttocks spread wide for masculine exploration. He was a bit reluctant at first, but soon got with the program and buried his long hard shaft in my fundament right up to greedy core of my depraved needs in a way that showed me I had been missing on a lot of sensual pleasure just because of some church-taught propaganda against “unnatural” coitus. I could hear my pants of unmasked joy and knew the young man was inspired to dig deeper into my sinful pit of depravity because he spanked me with irrational abandon and told me,
“Get it up higher Miss High and Mighty and I will drill you until I come out your pretty mouth on the other end.”
That impossible thought actually made me overflow with my guilty juices and I knew he was more than satisfied with his success in taming me into complete surrender.
Hannibal was generally positive and happy in a way that dismayed me at first. I was so caught up in my fuzzy thoughts that it was all I could do to wipe away the cobwebs and pretend to be normal. There was no doubt the smiling youth was able to dispense solace to my physical needs and to some extent he was a plus for my mental state of mind because he managed to distract me from my dark and kinky thoughts of existence inside the pages of a lurid work of fiction that was thankfully not the least bit like the adventures of the Marquis De Sade.
It was an old Gypsy woman that broached the subject of “jumping” into the action of some creative work that fascinated a bored person with such tempting invitation that they transported almost without conscious thought. I had laughed at her suggestion thinking her to be both ugly and gullible to believe such superstitious nonsense. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name, but her face stayed pinned in my memory like a wanted poster of a criminal with an agenda for destroying my sheltered life.
The book was about a doctor with a background in doing scientific experiments.
It seemed a normal enough scenario until the horror of his experiments seeped out from the black and white words like a sleeping tiger ready to consume my flesh and my mind with terrible lack of pity. It was not difficult for me to get caught up in the intricate nuances of the plot and find that I was suddenly under the control of the less than sane doctor with his fixation on switching personalities like an actor changing costume for a new role.
For some strange reason, the erotic passages of the work of the possessed Marquis filtered through my thoughts and I played my role in the doctor’s scenario as a victim resigned to her degradation and complete loss of dignity in a feminine sense. I remember looking quizzically at my naked form in a mirror in the doctor’s bedroom wondering how I had managed to be a prisoner of the pages of a horror story of such terrible erotic passion and violence.
I was fortunate enough to have read the story before and knew without a doubt that in the next chapter I would be strangled without mercy in the grasp of the monster that haunted the recesses of the poor deluded doctor’s mind. The fact that I would be in the throes of a fantastic orgasm at the time gave me pause for a moment but the circumstances were such that any delay was decidedly unhealthy for my book transference adventure.
It was only my silly “wait until the last minute” philosophy of life in general that caused me to be walking the public streets sans clothing and unable to adjust to modern day speech without a short period of acclimation. I have to admit the “Lady Godiva” thing was a fantasy that often pushed my trigger at those times when I needed a little fantasy in my mind to help me down the homestretch of some carnal interlude. They pushed me into the wagon with absolutely no sense of decorum about handling my sensitive private parts and actually chained me to the interior wall with a confusing white jacket that restricted any movement of my limbs. For added measure they strapped a muzzle normally intended for training vicious dogs right on my mouth and chin and the taste of metal was on my tongue as I ventured a little lick to confirm it was really there. The fact I was still stark naked was distressing. The older gentleman with a paunch that unsuccessfully defied gravity fitted his front around my exposed rear end and gave me a preview of what I could expect from the guards in my new domicile at the Nottingham Institute for the Criminally Insane.
That journey to my new destination was an experience that stayed with me for a long time. It helped to form my suspicion of any guard that made a gesture of kindness to me because I sensed it was only to cause my compliance in satisfying his need for tasty new meat to give him physical solace in the dreadful surroundings. Most of the inmates were not “beautiful” like I and in point of fact, the guards were a motley bunch as well. The guards feasted on my flesh for quite a long time until my relatives showed up in force to claim me as one of their own. After that, they gave me space, only bothering me when we had complete “one on one” privacy and they had placed a hood over my head to prevent me from identifying my oppressor when questioned. It was a nasty circumstance, to be sure, but still a great deal better than the previous situation in which I was an orphan dish served up for any purpose.
I have been returned from the book about the wayward doctor for some months now and have visited the Institute a few times to renew my acquaintance with darling Hannibal. I knew the other staff was often watching our copulation process but the boy’s spirited degradation of my dignity was so intense and satisfying that it made no difference to me and I performed to the best of my ability keeping all viewers more than joyful about the visual outcome.
On a happy note, I have been announced recently as fully cured of my mental affliction and I feel quite relieved. Of course, the library door is still locked with a padlock to prevent me from getting too deep into some fictional novel with lust-driven pirates or some depraved knave with a liking for anything in skirts at any time of the day or night. Sometimes, I spy a forgotten novel on a table with a tempting title like “Lady Eve Learns about Love from the French Tutor” or “Schoolgirls in Paradise”. I know such temptations will cause my fall from grace and I do my best to avoid them.
Now and then, I find my hand drawn to opening the “Good Book” and I know that it will be a struggle to keep out of the pages of the Old Testament with the “begetting” and the “cleaving’s” on almost every page.