WARNING: THIS IS A FANFICTION, IF YOU HAVE NOT SEEN SHERLOCK OR WANT TO, I SUGGEST YOU DO NOT READ THIS BECAUSE IT DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS. IF YOU DON'T CARE, THEN READ AWAY.

"Dad, can you tell Sherlock to please calm down?"

"He's not going to listen, instead he'll become an even bigger thorn in my ass."

"I'm not worried" Sherlock announced as he walked into John's living room. "I just want things to go right."

Rosie rolled her eyes and took another sip of soda from her Coke can. John crossed his arms and watched as Sherlock skimmed the house, probably doing calculations on how high each banner and balloon should be. Ironically enough, that was exactly what Sherlock was doing. Measurements and numbers zoomed across his mind and what part of the decorations he was looking at. There was one banner that particularly irritated Sherlock, and that was the banner hung on the staircase that was close to the front door.

It was centered poorly, and there were two deductions he couldn't shake off. If the banner was placed higher, the strong breeze of people opening and closing the front door would off center it even more. If it was placed lower, the people coming in would skim it or trip over it causing it to tear.

"Rosie!" Sherlock shouted.

"I'm right behind you, there's no need to shout" she answered, already feeling irritated.

"Can't we move this somewhere else? If we keep it here and move it up-"

"Sherlock," Rosie sighed. "Please just leave it there. I know that it's crooked and it's driving you mad, but I'm not moving it."

He turned around with a perplexed look on his face. She just gave him a “please-just-stop” look and took another sip of her soda. Sherlock had never grown used to Rosie's impertinence, it was too much like Mary's. In fact, Rosie herself looked too much like Mary. The same round head and sharp jaw, as well as soft blonde hair. Her bright smile and eyes could make any head turn and give her their full attention.

There were small differences though, it’s something that actually fascinated Sherlock. Rosie’s eyes were both green and blue, she had been born with heterochromia. On top of that, she preferred to keep her hair longer, a little below her breasts. During that day, Rosie threw it up into a messy bun and walked around in an old t-shirt and sweatpants. That also bothered Sherlock.

“Why aren’t you dressed? Guests will be showing up in two hours!” He said.

Rosie smiled. “I’ll get dressed soon, don’t worry.”

Sherlock started to become more and more impatient. There he stood in his nice button up purple shirt that hugged his skinny and fit chest a little too tight and black trousers, ready for this party. Then there was Rosie, who looked like she was about to go to sleep. “If you’re waiting for Andrea to come round, she’s going to be late. She lives on the other side town and it’s Saturday which means traffic is particularly bad today. You’re waiting for her to arrive at two, but she won’t be here until two thirty. The party starts at three and you don’t want to be late so I suggest you start getting ready now.”

Rosie stopped sipping her Cola and blinked once. “Alright then, thank you for that break down.”

As she made her way toward the stairs, Sherlock was waiting for the perfect time to move the banner elsewhere. By the time she reached the top, he already began taking it down.

“Leave the banner where it is, Sherlock!” Rosie shouted from upstairs.

He groaned and stopped trying to take it down. His name was called from the kitchen, it was John. Upon entering, chips, fruit, and all sorts of snacks as well as different drinks were set up on the marble kitchen counter. Cups, paper plates, napkins were placed everywhere for everyone to pick up. John had just finished setting them up and was already dressed in his blue jeans and a nice button up shirt which Sherlock noticed were ironed particularly well. He was trying to make a better impression on Rosie’s friends, but God knows how she’ll react to it. To Sherlock, it was quite clear John had called him in to talk about something, most likely give him a lecture.

“If you're going do nothing but give me a headache, then please just stop now” Sherlock said.

“No,” John retorted while pointing his index finger at his best friend. “Please listen to Rosie and I. You're worrying too much and causing too much of a fuss. You know that she wants this to be a bit more casual because she’ll be going out tonight to dinner with her fr-”

“Yes,” Sherlock rudely interrupted. “And there two boys will try to win her over which will make her slightly uncomfortable and want the night to end. One boy she’s torn between just friendship or kicking his arse out the door, and the other she had already developed feelings for. Andrea will sit next to her rooting for the two of them while the other boy stabs into his food angrily. Doesn't sound like a great birthday to me, which is why I want to make this perfect.”

John balled his hands into a fist and groaned. “Sherlock, promise me you won't tell her that. Just let her have this day.”

Sherlock rose an eyebrow. He was actually confused at what John had said. “Why wouldn't I tell her? This is her big party after all.”

“Just please don't, alright?” John asked. Sherlock nodded and turned around to leave the room.

“One more thing,” John called after him.

Sherlock felt that he was on the verge of tearing his messy, curly hair out of its roots. “Yes, I know, don't be a massive cock to her friends.”

[Author's Note]

Criticism is appreciated on this, I'd love to hear some thoughts on it. Also, if you guys liked it and want me to post the entire one-shot, please to comment and tell me. Thank you all for all of the support, you're all amazing. x

Do you remember when you were four years old,

When you didn't care about how your body looked.

When you didn't know how it should look.

You didn't care about what you ate or what you weighed.

You didn't even know what perfection was.

You were just purely you.

Who even told you what flaws were?

Who told you what was beautiful,

And what was not?

Who had the audacity to ruin your perfect self image.

And start a world of impossible standards.

Who created the demon inside of you?

The demon that has now taken over your life.

The one that made you care more about the number on the scale,

Or the blemish on your face,

Then your self worth.

The demon screaming inside of you,

Hammering in the message that you will never be loved,

Not unless you meet an impossible list of "perfection".

A list filled with thigh gaps, tiny waists, big eyes and perfect skin.

A list that will tear you apart.

The demon hollows out your insides,

Taking away any joy you had left in your body,

Until there is nothing.

Creating an abyss that will never be filled.

It makes it so all you can think about is everything you are not.

You'd rather starve than eat.

You would rather cut your arms,

Than look at yourself in a mirror.

The demon will not stop until you hate yourself.

Until you loathe your very existence,

And cry yourself to sleep.

It will keep on growing and growing,

until you fade away to nothingness.

You have to take away its power.

Look away from that magazine,

And step away from that scale.

Stop thinking about what your not,

And embrace who you are.

Stop caring about a space between your thighs,

Or a timepiece like figure.

And start caring about you.

Your body is your only home.

Stop treating it like its broken,

Or messy.

Stop trying to clean and fix your already perfect house.

The only one who can kill the demon

Is you.

Gasping for oxygen and praying for life is something no one expects to go through. Pain so powerful that it blinds you for a couple of seconds, and in those seconds you wish for death. You want to die. Claire Saint did too, she wanted it all to end. She watched the pleading in her brown eyes in the bathroom mirror, but would then make contact with his brown eyes.

Jayden, the name that shook her to her core. All of the "I love you's", all of the apologies, all of the lies that would spew out of his mouth and then rot where they landed. Never was one good promise kept, but others involving beatings and verbal and emotional torture were. Claire's swollen black eye was flooded with tears as well as the other one which was in proper condition. Jayden twisted her wrist behind her back, all she could hear was "crack, crack, CRACK!" Claire screamed for someone to help. Instead, Jayden released her long brown hair and covered her mouth and said,

"I thought you were supposed to be clever, Saint. You're the best detective there is, right? Well how did you not anticipate me, you worthless bitch?!"

He was right, she didn't anticipate him. In fact, Claire loved him so much he thought his hate and beatings were apart of it. All of the times she let his bullshit slide made her livid. She hated herself for it, she felt so useless and stupid. All of these though swirled around her head, and she started to notice that it wasn't just her tears making her vision go or of focus.

It was also the cut off of her oxygen supply. Her wrist kept bending in ways it shouldn't, and she kept screaming into Jayden's hand. He loved doing this to her, he liked the rush he felt when he hurt her. It was sick and twisted, something happened to him to make him this way. Claire wasn't sure if she wanted to stick around and find out what it was.

"You know, I always enjoyed seeing the look on your face whenever you caught me cheating on you" Jayden hissed into Claire's ear. "But I enjoy doing this even more."

More tears came flooding into Claire's eyes, she began to panic even more. Her fidgeting turned even more violent as she tried to escape his grasp. Claire tried to get ahold of his jeans or his plaid shirt, to perhaps rip it enough for him to be distracted. For her to make her move towards the door of her apartment. Claire's heart pounded and begged with her to survive this.

"What do you think your doing you piece of shit?!" Jayden shouted and released Claire only to greet her with a punch square in the nose.

At that point, Claire couldn't feel anything anymore. Blood poured down her mouth and chin, creating a small puddle below her. Before Claire even had the time to collapse, Jayden snatched her by her already ripped black dress and white cardigan. He threw Claire onto cold, hard floor of her bathroom. Her head made a fast and painful impact with the bathtub, and by then she couldn't see clearly at all. Every sound became more and more distant the more and more her vision went dark.

Jayden huffed and caught his breath, and then started crying. "What have I done? Claire, I'm so sorry."

She felt a tug at her heart, she wanted to believe him so badly. Her mind fought against its reminding her of all of his broken promises. Of his unfaithfulness. Of his malicious intents.

He began to sob and covered his face with his hands. "I'm being bad, I know I am..."

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, she just wanted to be left there to die. He would become even more angry and do worse.

"Claire, I love you."

Those last three words echoed in her head as the world around her spun.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

She blacked out, left to bleed and die.

No, Claire's mind wandered, no you don't.

 I often sarcastically remark, "I wish all could be as smart as me!" and imply I am the most brilliant, insightful human alive. This morning, however, I woke up with knowledge- encased in a pounding headache- the certainty that I was now the most intelligent person alive. It hurt.

As figures arranged and calculated themselves in my head, my toes curled and cramped. As philosophies swirled, I hurled- retching over and over. As complex chemical recipes of mass destruction weapons were illuminated, my shoulders hunched in muscled knots. Questions of humanity were asked and answered, twisting my belly.

"Oh, God," I murmured. Just as quickly, a piercing in my chest robbed me of a belief in a Higher Power and replaced faith with fact. I ran to the kitchen and splashed water on my face. I was about to pour myself a glass when the process of plumbing, and residual deposits suddenly made it unpalatable. I reached for an apple from the bowl on the counter. Knowledge of farming pesticide chemical components swam in my esophagus and threatened my gag reflex.

I ran to the bedroom. Walking suddenly became useless and unproductive. Once there, I laid down and tried to collect my thoughts. But they just swam in my head, multiplying and unable to be contained. I picked up my phone. Every number I thought to dial, however, became a beginning to a complex math problem. What was the number divisible by. How much is the square of that number. And so on. Oh, my head!!

I looked at the newspaper on the bedside table. A headline about President Trump. Now, my head pain was excruciating!! I folded the paper in half, no more Trump. Palms pressed to temples, I shut my eyes. Sleep wouldn't come. Instead, trigonometry and modern art battled for attention in my thoughts. (They are amazingly dichotomous!) My eyes searched the room. Surely, with all this knowledge, peace wouldn't elude me. Peace couldn't elude me. Could it?

I could tell you how the universe started, but could no longer entertain the question- Who started it? I could tell you the circumstances around Jesus' birth. I could explain, scientifically, all that many espouse as miracles. I could define for you the tenets of the world's religions. But, none provided the solace I used to receive.

Underneath that folded newspaper on my bedside table is a single drawer. It was haphazardly assembled in a factory several countries away from lumber cut from a tree in Maine. One of a depleting population of trees. I'll spare you the number and get back to the point. In that drawer is a gun. Again, I'll spare you its specifications, production, assembly and bullet velocity. I opened the drawer. Beside the gun, unloaded (even before all this, I wasn't a moron!), was a box of bullets. I opened the chamber and loaded a single bullet. Solace.

I put the newspaper, open, to my right temple. Raising the gun, I pulled the trigger. Bang. The bullet went right through Trump and into my skull. Two birds with one stone. Solace.  

This is from ENDLESS (a 3/4 finished vampire love story)

---------------

When I was fifteen years old my father spoke of marrying me to a man who lived in London. He was a gold dealer and much wealthier than we were, I knew there was little point in my arguing with the decision so I just obeyed my father. I had great respect for him and loved him dearly, I trusted him.

I´d always thought I´d marry some rich young man, someone handsome, but it wasn´t to be so, the man, Walter Frobisher was fifty two years old and had been married twice before. It was arranged that I go to the city to wed him, so I sadly bid farewell to my friends in the woods and garden and left the clean air of Gloucestershire for the putrid stench of London. I loathed the city, to me it encouraged the very worst in human nature to thrive. The cruel hunted down the innocent, the greedy fed off the poor and the debauched languished in its hedonistic culture. It was indeed an ungodly place, not a city, but a gathering of the filth and the wanton.

We the well-off never allowed our feet to touch the common ground, we rode everywhere in coaches, we were kept for most of the time well away from the true version of London. We had curtains on the coach windows so we could simply ignore the horrifying images outside of our invented lifestyles. We had areas in which we could walk obliviously, such as walled gardens and parks, perfect nature enclosed in spaces where only we were allowed to venture.

The city held the poorest of people and the richest of people, two extremes never meeting, never interacting. Its streets ran with human excrement, the cobbled roads stained with blood, urine and faeces, its skies blackened by soot and smoke, choking anything and everything. I hated looking out of the coach window, but I always felt compelled to look beyond the curtain at the people in the streets, haggard and ill fed, the unwashed and unwanted strewn around. I cherished my rose scented handkerchief, without it I would have died from the sickening stench. This was London, a so called jewel, but really it wasn´t, it was nothing more than a mixing pot for the greedy and immoral seeking wealth and fulfilment and the misguided looking for a better life.

I longed to return home, I prayed that the wedding would happen sooner than later so I could maybe persuade my new husband to allow me to live in the countryside and breathe it´s clean air once more.

Walter seemed a kindly man, he wasn´t attractive, he was rather large and sweaty. His health wasn´t very good, the slightest exertion caused his head to resemble a rather large beetroot. He drank to the extreme and ate beyond it, he liked the finer things in life and enjoyed displaying them. This meant we attended many gatherings so he could show me off, I was after all an asset and proof that money could indeed buy anything...even a precious young daughter from her loving father.

After six months of being engaged the marriage finally came about. Fortuitously my marriage to Walter did not last long as the day we married, he became ill, I spent our wedding night by his bedside holding his hand. I must admit I was not upset by his passing, it left me a very free and wealthy young lady. I returned to the countryside as soon as his grey corpse was set in the ground, this also came to be the right choice as London was soon struck by the plague, I was lucky to have left before contracting it.

London no longer smelt of horse manure and human waste it now stank of decomposing flesh and fires.

My father stayed away from the city as many of his business acquaintances were dying or had died, the disease did not discriminate between rich or poor. Even King Charles II of England removed his family and his court from the city to Salisbury, moving later on to Oxford. There was a great exodus from the city and it was sealed off, no one could leave and no one wished to enter. Trade almost died off along with hundreds of thousands of people and my father's wealth began to diminish.

He dare not venture there and the tales he would regale of what he had witnessed chilled us to the bone, horrified us as nothing had before. He´d seen corpses laying outside houses as if they were nothing but rubbish to be disposed of. “Humans treated no better than dead animals” he´d say, “It´s now a much uncivilised place, no better than hell itself”. When he spoke of his once beloved London his eyes would water as he held back the sorrow. So many of his friends had fallen to the sickness, people once held in high esteem were thrown onto the backs of death wagons and carried to great holes in the ground. There they would rot alongside beggars and the fallen, waiting to be set on fire or buried, my father no longer knew his place in polite society as it had fallen to pieces.

His business suffered immensely, without that he felt useless, unable to provide for his family as once he had done so well. Being a proud man he would not accept my help, instead he allowed his mind to spiral into a deep dark, lonely abyss, most days he would not even leave his quarters.

I on the other hand, I grew stronger mentally and physically, I became the lady of the house. I had my late husband's fortune and the plague did nothing but increase it. Gold never decreased in value, the need for it never waned and so my wealth was never fettered. The rich had fled London while most of the poor had no option but to stay, as soon as the rich felt safe, they began to move back into the city and buy yet again. Business was booming so to speak, London was trying to get back up on its feet. Sadly the great fire happened and it put back the great giants’ recovery somewhat, though I believe in the end it benefited greatly from it instead. New laws were introduced, from the ashes came new ideas and new buildings and a sudden flair for life grew among its people.

I was merely sixteen years old when my father sadly passed away, my mother already unstable from the time Thomas had died, grew even more so. In time I had no option but to house her in a facility better equipped to care for her. At first I employed a nurse to tend to her, but mother became violent and became a danger to herself and those around her. It wasn´t long before I owned everything that my father had left, which was just the house and its land. I had paid off the few debts he owed while he was on his death bed so that he could pass away peacefully and unashamed.  

________________

© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.

Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent

and any written material is owned solely by the above named.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.

From boy to man...wry oh wry, oh wry!

A somewhat strange, eccentric, extravagant, fantastical, odd, outrageous, peculiar,  preposterous, ridiculous, rude, unconventional, unusual, weird, emotional, action packed, romantic, sensual, dramatic and whimsical tale of one young mans life!

Recommended for adults only, due to strong language and sexual content.

Chapter 1: Fork In The Road                                                                         (1 of 42)

Every Tuesday I would sit here on this same park bench watching two local women play tennis.

I watched them not knowing who they were or caring for that matter, they were perfect, perfect in every way, with their knee high socks, tight white tops and pleated tennis skirts.

One, a blonde with fine golden hair scooped up into a bun, she was very tall, the other a shorter more rounded woman with long dark wavy hair, which every now and then she´d blow out of the way of her eyes.

I would sit there hiding behind my newspaper pretending to read it, but really lurking, drooling and gripping the paper to my chest hoping to see a flash of their panties, as they athletically reached to hit the ball. Now and then their pert breasts would bounce a little pleasing me even more.

I was an amateur pervert and I knew it, my paper was there for one reason and one reason only and that was to hide little Elvis from the outside world. Even though I’d taken to carrying the Financial Times, I never actually read it; I merely used it as a prop in my debauched insignificant life, I thought it made me look more interesting and innocent. More like a young man just sitting reading, catching up with the stock market prices.

In reality I know that I was known as ´that man´, I’d hear parents say “Don’t play near that man” or I’d hear old ladies whisper “It’s that young man again”, then they’d scuttle past like small fat dung beetles.

Sometimes I just wanted to scream at the top of my voice “My names Kevin, Kevin Bradstock” but I never did, I also wanted to flash my little Elvis at every living female on the planet but I never did that either. I just sat doing nothing, not interfering with anyone but myself through the lining of my trouser pocket.

I was indeed sad and lonely, a dirty old man mentally but in reality a twenty-year-old version of one.

I´d been born here in Bournville and had hardly ever left, it was something like being trapped in a time warp.

Built to look like an old village but tagged on to Birmingham a very modern city, it had village greens and duck ponds, but it also had vandalism and spray painted scrawl.

On warm days it smelt of chocolate from the Cadbury factory as it wafted in the air, on other days of newly cut grass and dog poo. It was a town built by someone who held strict family values and morals, which to them meant blocking out the future, freezing time and pretending that the outside world never existed, when really it always had.

I felt like the human version of Bournville being hidden away from the big wide world, but by my mother, my own creator. She´d made me feel different from other boys of my age, from other young men, as if I was a dainty little thing, so precious. As a child I enjoyed the feeling of being protected and guarded, but as I became older it made me feel lonely, it made me seem odd to other people.

Things had to change, so I decided after today I wouldn’t sit here anymore. Something inside me was telling me that there was indeed more to life, more exciting things to do, I just had to try a little bit harder, reach for the things I wanted out of life.

If I was lonely I had to do something about it and not just sit on a bench hoping that a women would notice me and speak to me. It was never going to happen, so I had to make it happen, just not today, maybe tomorrow because it was nearly tea time and I loved Tuesday tea times.

Every Tuesday, Aunt Violet would always visit my house.

On her arrival she used to kiss me and when I say kiss me I don’t mean in a normal aunt kisses nephew sort of a way.

If I was lucky and mother wasn’t about Aunt Violet would slip her tongue in and squeeze her enormous bosom against my chest.

Hopefully you have gathered by now that she is not actually a blood relative, she is just a woman my mother used to go to bingo with for many years. I´d grown up calling her Aunt as children do.

For her age she wasn´t in bad nick, I remember her being quite pretty when I was a little boy and considerably slimmer. She was now mutton dressed as lamb but still not bad to look at, she reminded me of one of the starlets from the old black and white films, just an older version.

She would often just wink at me and whisper “You know Kevin I am not really your auntie”.

I’d always wondered why she said this time and time again, and then I figured it out, it was because the dirty old bag fancied me and wanted me bad.

So I set off back home.

When I got in mother asked if I had been to college, same thing every Tuesday “Yes mother I have been to college and the tutors say “I have a really good chance of being entered in the final exam this year”.

Same day, same lie, it had been like that for the last three years, afterwards mother would smile at me and give me a cream doughnut to nibble on while she prepared tea and every time I’d sit having crude thoughts about the doughnut.

Oh God how I wanted to stick little Elvis in its hole and waggle it about in the cold fluffy cream!

But what can I say, I never did.

Instead I sat waiting in anticipation for Aunt Violet, with little Elvis fidgeting eagerly in the safety of my very tight y-fronts. The doorbell rang and mother shouted “Kevin darling could you get that for mummy, my hands are full”.

Like a whippet I sprang from my seat hoping that today my hands would be full too, but with Aunt Violets ample bosom.

I opened the door and Aunt Violet stood there in all her glory, all 14 stone of her. I stared at her and gave her my ´come to bed look´ to which she would always reply “Kevin my sweet boy come give your Aunt Vi’ a snuggle”.

Then would come the best bit of all, she’d pull me in to her large heaving chest and kiss me.

She smelt strange sort of a mix of wool and lavender but I didn’t care, she was a female and she had a pulse and she had breasts, huge mesmerising breasts.

Oh yes! and she did it, she slipped her funny little pointy tongue ever so quickly into my awaiting mouth, little Elvis went wild as I hung in her arms like a fly stuck in a Venus fly trap, unable to move, gasping for breath, dying ever so slowly of happiness among her cleavage.

“Oh Kevin you naughty boy” she said then she waddled off like an egg bound duck to find mother.

I in the meantime ran off to the bathroom for a quick wank while little Elvis was in the mood.

Three minutes later I sat back in my armchair grinning, mother came in carrying a tea tray and said “Kevin go wash your hands before you eat”. Looking at her I wiped my hands down the front of my jumper, it was as if she knew. My mother had a sixth sense, she could I was sure detect whenever I´d been for a wank!

Then sulkily I took my place at the table, as usual I sat opposite Aunt Vi, just so that I could watch her chest jiggle inside her brown cashmere cardigan as she laughed.

Her tits were wonderful to watch they used to remind me of two plump seal pups bouncing about oblivious of the world around them.

That day my visit to the bathroom hadn’t been enough for little Elvis, he perked obstinately while I gnawed at the corners of my cucumber sandwich.

I could feel the wetness of the cucumber on my tongue, its saltiness, I’d read enough porn to know that this was a good thing.

Quietly I sat thinking about how I longed for the normal things in life.

I wanted a girlfriend, the sort that mother wouldn’t approve of, the sort that did not come with a safety valve and a puncture repair kit.

I wanted sex twice a day with someone other than myself; I wanted to get a job, leave home, to wear shirts open and without having to wear a vest.

As I ate slowly I visualised myself naked, surrounded by beautiful women all fondling my dangly bits, but then my vision abruptly came to an end when mother stood up and announced that it was time for her to go feed father upstairs. This normally took her around twenty minutes as first she had to go and liquidize his sandwiches and de-lump his rice pudding, so that left Aunt Vi and myself alone.

For some reason that day, I felt different, it was as though a wind of change had blown in, or maybe that was the cucumber sandwiches taking effect, who knows, all I know is that from that moment on my life would change forever.

With my head lowered I waggled my feet beneath the table and looked at Aunt Vi through my fringe, well not at her more, at her gigantic tits.

That was when I remembered a story I had read in “Big Jugs Weekly”, the one where a man had used his feet to touch a woman up while having dinner in some fancy restaurant.

As soon as I had thought that I could hear little Elvis goading me on “Do it, do it…Oh God please do it”.

I kicked off one of my suede hush puppies and flexed my toes. Then I sloped a little into my chair, I felt something hard but that was just the table leg, I reached a bit more and touched Aunt Vi´s shin.

She jumped a little so quickly I rubbed up and down, still peering through my fringe I slid my foot a touch higher.

I gave her my manliest look, then strained to reach her thighs, but the fricking table was too long so I slouched lower.

Finally I reached her upper legs, I felt her move her legs apart for me and so I went right in there, I felt undergarments, thick ones, so like a terrier digging in a tunnel my toes edged their way in. I rubbed slowly at first in no particular fashion, but then I had the bright idea of rotating my foot round and round.

I thought of next doors Cocker Spaniel, it always went mad if you rubbed her back in a circular motion, before long in a Cocker Spaniel type way Aunt Vi’s right leg started twitching up and down.

Aunt Vi moaned and said “Oh Kevin, oh Kevin yes”, I tried to lift my head to see her face but it hurt my neck, so I just carried on judging only by the sheer sounds of pleasure coming from Aunt Vi.

My foot felt sticky and hot, extremely hot actually, maybe I shouldn’t have been doing this?…Aunt Vi after all was no Cocker Spaniel, she was come to think of it, more like a Bull dog.

Then all of a sudden I heard mothers voice, she was coming down the stairs, in fright I kicked back to get myself up at the table. In doing so I catapulted Aunt Vi backwards in her chair, hitting her head on the dresser. Her breasts now flopping up into the air almost out of her cardigan.

“Oh dear mother of God, what’s going on?” mother shouted as she heard the crash.

I scrambled up and announced “Quick Aunt Vi’s had a funny turn, I will go and get her a glass of water”.

Limping with one shoe off and one shoe on I proceeded into the kitchen, sniping to myself “Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”.

I came back in to find mother helping Aunt Vi over to the sofa, I handed the water over sheepishly, mother grabbed it and helped Aunt Vi to drink it.

What had I done?

I couldn’t believe what I had done, poor Aunt Vi I had traumatised her and ruined mothers best dinner service in the process. I felt like a dirty, disgusting little boy, but I also felt a little smug with it.

Like a thief in the night I took off up the stairs to take refuge in my bedroom, I felt safe there surrounded by my many centrefolds from “Big Jugs Weekly”.

At last I heard the front door open then close and mother called up the stairs “Kevin it’s alright Aunt Vi’s gone home to rest, she looked quite flushed, poor dear”. I sighed with relief, thank the Lord she hadn’t said anything about what I had done.

I got undressed and into my night-clothes then slipped under my duvet, I suddenly felt quite pleased with what I had finally done. At long last I had touched a womans ´moomoo´, really felt what it was like, well almost felt what it was like (I really must remove my sock next time, that’s for sure).

As I cuddled into my bed I could have sworn that I heard little Elvis calling to me from inside my pyjamas…”Use the force Kevin, use the force”. I ignored him and turned on my side clutching my teddy Edward, oh how I loved my teddy, he had given me many hours of pleasure over the years.

Three hours later I was still awake, I lifted my covers and sure enough ´he´ was awake, the little bugger just wouldn’t settle. “Bastard, Bastard go to sleep” I shouted under my covers, but little Elvis stood proud. So that was it I had to go on to my computer, in a last attempt to calm the beast beneath my bed covers.

After surfing around the net for two hours I finally found some free porn, well actually it was a picture of a woman with huge black circles blotting out her pink bits, but “ahhhhhhhhhh” it did the trick, at last little Elvis would rest now.

Then I made a mental note once again, to ask someone how to turn off the child-proof settings on my pc.

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