Chapter 1

Millie

Great Aunt Millie died. Actually she was my Great-great Aunt Millie; dad always called her Great Aunt Millie, so I should really add the extra great.

She was ninety-four and had been in a hospice for over a week, so it wasn’t a big surprise. The family all gathered for the funeral, giving us a chance to meet cousins we hadn’t seen since Vanessa’s wedding. We needed an excuse for the whole family to get together as there were too many of us for casual meet-ups.

Millie had a big old house in the country near Aberystwyth, so the funeral service was in the village chapel, and we all went back to her place afterwards for a buffet and conversation. I grabbed a beer and started circulating. Noticing Uncle Keith bearing down on me with intent, I swiftly dodged into the garage to avoid twenty minutes of boredom at his hands. With a big house and plenty of time, Millie had accumulated a lot of stuff. Her immediate family had picked out the pieces they wanted, and they’d stacked the rest in the garage for the rest of us to look over for mementos before it went to the auctioneers. To make sure Keith didn’t see me I made straight for the back and poked around in the bric-a-brac there.

For some reason a clay statuette caught my eye. It looked African—Millie had spent some time as a nurse in Africa—about five inches tall. A man with a smile and what looked like a pregnant belly. Strange. He had a beard, so he was definitely male, but with a big belly as well. I decided he was silly enough to pick up, so I did. Perhaps he looked lonely? Lonely or not, he was heavier than I had expected for a clay figurine that size.

Emerging from the garage with my new acquisition in my pocket I saw that Uncle Keith had pinned cousin David against the wall and was boring him with whatever his current obsession was. Usually politics, but occasionally he picked something different.

Once most of the food had disappeared we decided we’d stayed long enough, so we said our goodbyes and left. Mum had stayed off the booze because she was driving. Dad sat up front, and I was in the back with my younger sister, Arwen. Yes, twenty-three and still living with my parents. Sad, but necessary. I’ve got a job, but it barely pays enough to cover rent, so I still live at home. I do pay them a little each week, but they don’t ask for much, which lets me save a bit. Arwen is twenty-one and at college, so they don’t charge her rent at all.

I never bothered with college as I didn’t want to end up with a load of student debt, and I’m not the academic type anyway. Even after college I would still be stuck in a low paying job, so I started work straight from school. Arwen’s smarter than me, so she’ll get a lot more out of college than I would have.

Back home I put my new acquisition on my ‘interesting bits’ shelf. I was glad to have something to remember Great Aunt Millie by. Whenever we’d visited as kids she always had sweets and a smile for us, and her big garden was wonderful for running around, climbing trees and getting muddy.

I carried on with my life while the statuette sat there on the shelf. Looking back, the first strange thing happened with Rana, one of Arwen’s friends from college. I didn’t realise it then, but it was probably a sign of what was to come. That afternoon she’d come back with Arwen, and they were in my sister’s room talking. I heard a knock on my bedroom door, “Gavin, can we come in?” Arwen asked. We were both careful not to barge in on each other uninvited.

“Yeah, sure.” I was lying on my bed checking my phone, not doing anything embarrassing.

The two of them came in. Arwen has been blonde for the last few years, good figure about five-six. We used to argue a bit when we were younger, but that’s all calmed down now. I’m lightish brown, rather than blond and three inches taller. Rana was this small Indian student, five foot nothing max, with long straight black hair and brown skin. Nicely proportioned with the standard Indian look, but shorter. Her nose was a little large, but not too much so, and she had a nice wide smile.

“Are Rana’s boobs too small?” Arwen asked. “We need an unbiased man’s opinion.”

“Why?”

“Tim dumped her, and he said her tits were too small. We think he was just saying that. So, what do you think?”

Rana was wearing a green v-neck top, and pushed out her chest, so I could get a good idea of their shape. I took a few seconds to ogle—very pleasant they looked too. No bra either from what I could see of her pointy nipples making little bumps in her top.

“Okay, Rana, you’re small, so your breasts are small as well,” I told her. “But they’re the right size for you. A pair of huge silicone footballs would look really silly on you.” She giggled at that. “They’re small, but definitely not too small. From what I can see they’re just right.”

Rana glanced at Arwen, reached down and pulled up her top. No bra and two very nicely shaped smallish, firm coffee-coloured tits with hard dark nipples. They jiggled slightly as they emerged into view. “Well?” she asked.

I took a couple of seconds to react, “Ahhh ... Yes, they’re perfect for you. With smaller boobs your nipples look bigger; really nice. Your ex is a moron. And thanks for the show.” I smiled at her.

She pulled her top down and grinned. “You can think of me tonight.”

Yes, I did think of Rana that night, and she was doing a lot more than just showing me her tits. Afterwards, I thought over what had happened. First, Arwen’s friends mostly ignored me, they definitely didn’t flash their boobs at me. And second, Arwen didn’t react at all to Rana’s display. In a way that was more surprising; knowing my sister, I’d have expected her to react more strongly. At the time I thought it was a little strange, but not too strange. Sometimes girls worried too much about their looks.

The next strange thing happened about a week later. I wanted to look at a fossil ammonite I had on my shelf. As I reached for it my hand twitched, knocking the statuette onto the floor. When I picked it up (after swearing at my clumsiness) I saw it had a chip out of the heel. Under the chip it was black, not clay, looking more like stone. I couldn’t be bothered to glue the chip back right then—it didn’t show from the front—so I put the statuette back with the chip next to it. I decided I’d fix it tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came. Well, it did of course, but I never fixed the chip. I didn’t fix it because I had a dream that night, a dream about my statuette. A bearded black man, not African black—which is really more of a dark brown—but black black, like black rock. He had mud smeared all over him. His lips didn’t move, but I got the distinct impression that he wanted the mud cleaned off. One thing about him, he certainly wasn’t pregnant, instead he had this huge stiff cock that reached up to his breastbone. It looked at least eighteen inches long, maybe more. ‘Hung like a horse’, though it definitely wasn’t hanging.

I remembered the dream in the morning, so I checked the statuette. Strange, it had a lot of small cracks in it, which I hadn’t noticed before. I was able to pull about half the clay away, and there was a black stone figure hidden underneath. That probably explained why it was heavier than it looked. From what I could see under the part-cleared clay it looked like the black man from my dream.

It was a work day, so I went into the office for another boring shift typing boring stuff into a boring computer. When I got back, there were more cracks in the clay, and I was able to clear most of the rest away. It was the man from my dream, big dick and all. It had been hidden under that ‘pregnant’ belly.

Another dream that night. The black man had much less mud on him, and I sensed a distinct ‘thank you’ from him. That morning I removed a few of the larger remaining pieces, and cleared a lot of smaller bits that had fallen off the statuette overnight. It looked as if it was somehow able to shed the leftover clay once I had taken off the main chunks.

That evening, as I brushed away the newly loosened clay, I thought of using a screwdriver to scrape the last bits out of the deeper parts of the carving. As I got up to get it from my toolbox I got the distinct impression that the statuette wouldn’t like that. Maybe metal might have scratched the stone? Perhaps the clay wasn’t significant, but the stone was? The man in my dreams was black like the stone, so the stone was probably more important.

I sat on my bed looking at the black statuette. There was obviously something very strange going on. My dream had showed me the stone statuette, big dick included, before I had cleared away the clay. I was getting some distinct impressions from it, both in my dreams: ‘clean me’, ‘thank you’ and awake: ‘no screwdriver’. Feeling rather silly, I talked to it, “Who are you and what’s going on?”

I got an answer! There was a definite ‘sleep’ in response. Perhaps it was easier for him to talk to me in my dreams than when I was awake?

We talked while I slept that night. Not a proper conversation, I talked and got thought-impressions in return. It took a few days to get the story, one night at a time. I was right about it being easier for him to talk to me while I was asleep.

The black man was a spirit called Ogushege. He had got into an argument with another spirit and needed to hide, so his shaman had disguised his image with clay to protect it. Judging by his reluctance to tell me exactly what had happened he’d come off second best in the fight. At some point Great Aunt Millie had picked him up and brought back with her to Wales.

He was a sex spirit and fed off sexual energy, which presumably explained his enormous dick. Millie’s house was very isolated, so after her husband, Great-uncle Rhys, died Ogushege wasn’t getting any human sex to feed off. Sheep, cattle and rabbits were enough to keep him alive, but apparently a very poor substitute for humans. By the time I’d found him, he was very weak. Here in town with plenty of people around he was gaining energy and feeling a lot better.

The good news was that he felt grateful to me for taking him away from the countryside to the town where he could feed a lot more easily and in return he would help me with my sex life. I definitely needed the help as I was between girlfriends—Rana’s tits were the most real excitement I’d had for far too long.

I woke up the morning after he told me half-expecting a queue of eager women outside our front door wanting to boff me, like in those iffy stories on the internet. Nothing. Oh well, maybe some of the women at work? Nothing there either; June did flash her cleavage, but she did that most days anyway.

The night after my disappointing day he gave me the bad news: I wasn’t going to get a huge harem. He didn’t want dozens of girls sitting round doing nothing, waiting for me to boff them. From his point of view that was a waste of good fucking time—why wait for me when they could be shagging someone else? He’d help me with a few women, but not too many at once. I could live with that, even one girlfriend would be better than none.

The other bad news was that he didn’t want to break up couples who were having lots of sex. That was a real downer. Top of my fantasy list was Mrs. Lloyd from next door. Twenty-eight, blonde, good legs, great figure and a nice personality: the whole package. Unfortunately for me, she was bonking Mr. Lloyd at least twice a night and more at weekends. There was no way Ogushege was going to break those two up. Basically he would only help me with women who were not in a relationship or whose relationship was not very sexual.

I’d have to resign myself to not having wall-to-wall girls. Just as well really, my room was far too small for a decent size harem, and there was no way I could afford anything bigger.

Judging by the late-night noises, mum and dad were at it more than usual. I didn’t ask, but I assumed that was his doing. I suppose he was helping Arwen as well, though again I didn’t ask. She certainly had a sex life, though she generally kept it away from home. I didn’t pry as we mostly respected each other’s privacy. The last time we’d done anything sexual with each other was when we were a lot younger and played Doctor.

Mrs. Wilson

I got home from work to find mum in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Wilson from down the road, with a hair-dryer on the table between them. “Gavin,” mum asked, “can you fix Mrs. Wilson’s hair-dryer? It stopped working.”

I’m not good academically, but I am good at fixing things. Better than dad, so I usually do the handyman stuff round the house. “Sure mum. Hello Mrs. Wilson.” She gave me a small smile as I picked up the hair-dryer and took it up to my room where I kept my tools. To my surprise Mrs. Wilson followed me; I’d expected her to stay downstairs talking to mum. She sat quietly on the bed watching me work at my desk. ‘Quiet’ was a good word for her, I’d always thought of her as a church mouse. Her husband, John, was loud, boring and overbearing—another Uncle Keith. He dominated every conversation and never let her, or anyone else, get a word in. All I’d ever heard her say when he was around was, “Yes dear.”

The problem was a loose wire in the plug, so I fixed it and got her dryer working again. “There you are Mrs. Wilson.”

She took it and stood up, “Thank you, Gavin. That’s very kind of you. Do I owe you anything?”

I was about to tell her no when I got a message from Ogushege: ‘Rana’. What did that mean? Rana had flashed her tits; surely Mrs. Wilson wouldn’t do anything like that? She was an average-looking housewife, about thirty or just under, light brown hair pulled back and reasonable calves below her dark green knee-length skirt. No kids, so her figure wasn’t too bad. Could I risk it? If I wanted Ogushege to help me then I had to start somewhere, so why not now?

“Yes, Mrs. Wilson. Would you take off your blouse please.” I regretted saying it as soon as the words left my mouth.

I watched her in a panic, expecting her to blow up. She didn’t, much to my relief. First she registered surprise, and then something that looked like mixed excitement and hope. “You want me to...”

“Take off your blouse,” I interrupted, trying to sound commanding. She hadn’t exploded immediately, so I decided I could push her.

She did it! First she turned to put the hair-dryer on the bed. As she turned back, her hands went to her neck and started undoing buttons. She wasn’t looking at me, but staring at the floor. What I could see of her face was pink with embarrassment, but she was doing what I had asked!

She looked up once she’d laid her blouse on the bed. Definitely embarrassed but also excited.

“And the bra,” I ordered.

She reached behind her, and the plain white bra joined the plain white blouse on the bed. She kept her hands at her sides, so I could see everything. Her breasts were relatively small and hardly sagged at all. With no children they hadn’t been affected by pregnancy. I could see her chest move with her breathing, her dark pink nipples were standing out hard.

I beckoned her to move towards me. As she approached, I raised my hands ready to capture her breasts. She moved in without pausing, giving me two warm soft handfuls, with her hard nipples boring into my palms. She didn’t say anything, but stood there breathing heavily and let me play, despite her obvious embarrassment. I tweaked her nipples, lightly pinching them, while running my hands around her smooth titty-flesh. Definitely bigger than Rana’s.

I was conscious that mum was waiting downstairs, so I pulled back. “Very nice thank you, Mrs. Wilson. You can get dressed now.”

She dressed silently, picked up the dryer, thanked me again and went downstairs. I heard her say goodbye to mum as she left. She’d obviously kept quiet about what I’d done as mum didn’t come storming upstairs to give me a bollocking.

I was very distracted over dinner that evening because I had a lot to think about; mainly that Ogushege’s promises were not just hot air. Even without the harem, I genuinely was living in a sexual fantasy. I had a lot of questions that were suddenly very real. Rana was unusual, but not impossible. Mrs. Wilson ... Well, she convinced me Ogushege could deliver what he said he could.

That night I started a long conversation with the statuette. He assured me that pregnancy wouldn’t be an issue unless we both wanted a child. Diseases would not be a problem either. He had long-standing arrangements with other spirits to take care of details like that. I could get away with a lot of things. Given half a chance he could make people not pay attention to what I was doing. The parents would notice me boffing Mrs. Wilson in the same room, but if we were upstairs in my room, they’d just think we were talking, so I only needed minimal discretion. He’d done this before, so he was ready with the answers to my questions.

He did have one temporary limitation; because he was still building up his strength he only had a short range. It would get better later, but for now he couldn’t reach out very far to help me; Mrs. Wilson’s house was still outside his range for example. It didn’t matter because she visited two days later.

I heard the doorbell and dad talking to a female visitor, followed by her steps up the stairs. She knocked and came into my room: Mrs. Wilson.

“Hello, Gavin. I wanted to thank you again for fixing my hair-dryer.”

She wanted to thank me ‘again’. That meant she’d enjoyed what we’d done and had come back for more. Ogushege couldn’t reach down the road to her house, so she must have wanted to come and see me without his prompting.

Was she wearing a bit more makeup than last time? I’m no expert, but it seemed to me she was. Today she was in a blue blouse with white collars and cuffs. I stared at it, not saying anything. She soon got the message and started to take it off. I decided that I wanted more from her today. My room was definitely within Ogushege’s range, so I could go further with her. I moved to my bed and sat on the edge, watching her. After she took off her bra, blue to match the blouse, she stood watching me, her nipples hard. I spread my knees apart and obviously looked down at the floor between them, then I looked back up at her. Again I saw excitement (and was that hope?) on her face. She began to move slowly towards me. I didn’t tell her to stop, so she moved faster. I got the feeling she didn’t want to do anything to annoy me, she wanted to do whatever I told her.

She knelt on the floor between my legs. I spent a few minutes fondling her breasts as I had before. Then I pointed a finger towards her mouth and moved it to her lips. She opened her mouth to take it in, moving her head forward and sucking on it. I could see in her eyes that she understood.

“Get it out,” I told her. Again the look of excitement, this time mixed with nervousness.

“I haven’t done that a lot. John doesn’t like it.”

Her husband didn’t like blowjobs! Obviously he was stupid as well as loud and boring. It fitted his personality though. According to him there was only one right way to do anything and all the other ways of doing it were wrong. Probably he only ever fucked his wife in the dark and missionary-style. That could explain why Ogushege had pointed her at me, because she needed more sex in her life. Well, that was definitely something I could help her with. “Just do your best,” I told her, lifting her hand to my belt.

She got my dick out and gave it a few strokes. Only the usual six inches, nothing like Ogushege’s monster. She was very tentative at first, pouting out her lips and touching them to the head of my dick. She looked up at me. I smiled and nodded at her; she was nervous and needed reassurance. Gradually she took the head into her mouth, swirling her warm wet tongue around it. I wasn’t complaining, she had the basics down well. She could only take in about three inches, the head and a bit beyond. It was enough. I looked down at this supposedly respectable housewife sucking on my dick with her naked tits jiggling below. My cock was disappearing into her face as she looked up at me. Yes, she was enjoying this.

I could feel the tingling building in my balls. “Do you swallow?” I didn’t want to frighten her away after one blowjob.

She gave a small nod, keeping me between her lips. Twenty seconds later I unloaded into her sucking mouth. Yes, she did swallow.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Wilson. Any time you want something fixed, I’m your man.”

She smiled at me as she settled her tits back into her bra. “I’ll remember that, Gavin.”

When I got back from work on Wednesday the next week, mum asked me to go over to see Mrs. Wilson after finishing my tea. Apparently her kitchen sink was slow emptying, so the drain needed unblocking.

I quickly shovelled down some bread and jam while sucking down a mug of tea before going down the road. In her kitchen, Mrs. Wilson showed me the sink. The drain was a bit slow, though it wasn’t a big problem. She’d bought one of those bottles of gunk from the supermarket, though I could tell she was using the drain as an excuse.

Today she was in a belted dress, a blue and yellow floral pattern on a white background. Again a respectable length, coming to her knees. After showing me the slow drain, she stayed in front of the sink with her back to me. That meant I had to reach round her to do anything. Well, if that’s what she wanted...