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 Carnal knowledge; the Psychic Agent by Ace
Author: storyace, ace
Title: Carnal knowledge; the Psychic Agent
Part: 1 of 1

   Summary: the life of a woman who has intense psychic experiences when
she has sex.
Keywords: M/F, m/F, psychic





   A note about this story; It's quite different to most of my other work,
it's the only thing I've written with some spirituality thrown in.  it's a
bit of a thriller, too.

   I'd very much like to hear opinions about it, good, bad, or other.

   Thanks, Ace

   The rest of my stories are at; /~aceinthe_hole//
and; ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/aceinthe_hole/ [in plain text]



   Carnal knowledge; the Psychic Agent

   I was always different, and I always knew it.

   I grew up knowing a lot of things innately; when I was a baby [I'm told]
there were some people who I would never let near, and others that I'd
gurgle along happily with all day long.

   It happened when someone would touch me; I can feel them.  I can feel if
they're bad, and more or less how bad.

   Very rarely, I've had the privilege of touching a good person.  Good
people are few and far between.





   My parents were not perfect, I could feel their areas of guilt and rot;
but for the most part, they aren't Bad.  I know they love me.  I always
knew it, even when I was an adolescent.  I just had to hug my dad, and I
knew he would give his life for me.  The extraordinary thing was only that
I KNEW it; I could feel his emotions through his skin.  That assurance of
support and protection is what kept me strong enough to keep my sanity
despite my curse.





   Because it is a curse; how can I ever have a relationship?  Who could
possibly pass my test?

   It would be fine in the first weeks, when a boy would be all hormonal
over me.  He would be all happy to see me, and it would make me feel good
in turn when I held his hand.

   The first time I made out with a boy, I was 14.  We kissed and groped,
and I could feel the incredible energy of his excitement stronger than my
own.

   But when we started to really kiss, when I let his tongue into my mouth;
something strange happened.

   It was like an electric shock, it was a terrifying rush.  I could feel
more than his basic emotion, I could glimpse his very thoughts.

   And his thoughts weren't pretty, not to me.  He was thinking nasty dirty
things, things that would seem sweet if I'd been an adult, but to me as a
14 year old girl were horrifying.

   I broke away from him and ran home, to hug my mother until my confidence
returned.





   I avoided a repeat performance for a while.  I still went out with my
boyfriend, and I didn't mind holding his hand, but I wouldn't let him kiss
my mouth again for a long time.





   The next pivotal event was about 6 months later.

   We were in the process of buying a house.  My parents were both really
happy with a property we were looking at.

   "What do you think, Constance?" my dad asked me.

   "I don't like the guy who's selling it." I told him.

   My parents didn't know about my curse; but they knew I had extraordinary
instincts about people.

   "I don't think we should buy it." My mother said.

   "Don't be silly, honey!" Dad said, "We don't want to go into business
with the guy, we want to buy his house..."

   I wandered off, leaving them to argue about whether to make such a
decision based on logic or on intuition.

   The seller was sitting in the kitchen; a balding and slightly overweight
40ish man.  I had shaken his hand when we'd met, and I knew he was
deceptive; not evil, but not an honest man either.  He was hiding
something, and if I didn't find out what it was, my father would make the
mistake of buying the place for us.

   I had never actively tried to gain information from someone like that
before, but this was important.  I put my hand on the top of his head.

   I knew I was right; he couldn't hide from me.  But I needed specifics to
convince my father.  And I knew how to get them.

   I grabbed his face between my hands, bent, and kissed the man on the
mouth.

   The man thought it was sexual, of course; but it wasn't, not in my mind.
I was attacking him.  He was threatening my family, and I wasn't going to
let him hide whatever it was he was hiding.  He was frightened of
discovery, but thrilled and aroused at this very unexpected event.

   His sexual arousal was affecting me, making me hot between my legs yet
utterly disgusted simultaneously.  All I was getting from him was sex; I
needed to get deeper.  I pushed my 14 year old tongue into his middle aged
mouth.

   I shivered with the conflicting desires; the desire to find him out and
the nauseating act of kissing him.  His hands couldn't help but fondle my
little breasts as I held my mouth steady.

   His desire for me was intense, it filled his entire consciousness.  He
was imagining me naked, my long thin body stretched below him as he pushed
against me with his stiff penis.  He was imagining the intense pleasure he
would feel; and that I would feel if such a thing were to happen.

   His fingers pinched my nipples, toying with my immature breasts.  He was
excited, extremely excited yet afraid.  Afraid of my father, so close by.

   Then I knew.

   I let go of his head and ran back to the safety of my parents.

   "Ask him about termites." I said to my dad.

   "Termites?"

   "There's termites in the foundation."

   "How do you know?"

   "I just know."





   I was sick for several days afterwards.  The man's energy, his sick
lust, affected me.  As an adult, such a simple interrogation wouldn't
bother me; with time, I became accustomed to the terrible hungers of men.

   But I had glimpsed his thoughts, the memories of real sexual acts that
he had thought of in those few moments of our contact.  I was still a
virgin, but I knew what a man felt [for what he remembered feeling] when he
had sex with a woman.

   My father had the foundation checked; after that, he knew I had some
extra sight.  I've never told him the painful part.  I've never told my
father what it is I have to do to get true knowledge of a person.





   Boys, young boys; they're so sweet and innocent, compared to men.

   After recovering from my trauma with the house seller, I began to enjoy
making out with my boyfriend again.  His dirty little thoughts were like
those of an angel compared to the older man's.  I wallowed in his sweet hot
desire, allowing it to light mine.

   We didn't have sex; just the innocent touches and childish kisses of
kids, enjoying the taste of forbidden fruit without actually taking a full
bite.  But as we thrilled each other with our little experiments, I could
see every thought he was having, every image in his mind.

   And so when he had cheated on me, I knew.

   I suppose normal girls would also find out, in their normal ways; but I
knew immediately.  I knew every detail, emotional and physical.  And it
hurt; I was just a 15 year old virgin, but my first love hurt just as much
as my last.





   I knew better than to ever tell anyone the full truth, but my friends
knew they couldn't lie to me. They just thought I was smart.

   I didn't let anyone close again for a while; I was a tall skinny girl,
and it wasn't like the boys were camping on my lawn anyway.

   It's hard to see into someone's head; what you see there is hard, sharp,
and unforgiving.  I began to kiss all the boys I could at times like
Christmas and new years day, when it could be done just the once with the
appearance of normality.  I didn't find one I was willing to kiss twice
until I was 17.

   By that time, I was the oldest virgin in town [don't forget that they
couldn't lie to me].

   His thoughts were like mountain snow; clean and smooth.  The images from
his brain were soothing.  He asked me out; it was good to have a boyfriend
again, like a normal girl.

   I had filled out some, but my body has never been voluptuous.  I was
tall, boney, and a bit angular. My eyes are brown, so is my hair.  I never
dressed to attract attention either, so I could just be thankful that a
nice boy like him would ask me out.

   I didn't notice that he was short and spotty; that was never the part of
a person I looked at.

   Jim was happy to have a girlfriend, and never pushed me to go all the
way with him, but I knew his thoughts; he was desperate to make love with
me.  His desire was to please me as much as himself, so I didn't mind his
lust.

   But I was afraid.  I could feel a person with a touch, I knew their
thoughts if I kissed them.  What would happen if I were to make love with
someone?

   I was 18 the first time I dared.  My fear was not misplaced.





   Sex for me is a massive experience; I feel my partner, I feel him as he
feels me.  I see myself through his eyes, looking back at myself.  I feel
my own ecstasy, as well as that of my sexual partner.

   I had very short hair at that time; I wasn't a girl who fussed over her
appearance.  I felt an incredible pulse of pleasure as I fished Jim's penis
from his trousers; I kept my lips on his, and shivered with shared delight
at the sensation.

   I fondled him for a while, and I knew he wanted me to suck it; his
desire was so strong, it became my desire.  It was time; he'd been a
gentleman, he'd been patient.  Kids our age in this age just don' t date
for months and months without doing it.

   His penis was warm, friendly, and non-threatening.  I kissed down his
belly, and took it into my mouth.

   A hot rush flooded through him, and through me.  He stiffened, and I
stiffened.  I saw myself then; I could see me sucking his cock.  I could
feel his delight, I could feel how it felt to have me sucking his cock, and
it was phenomenal.

   In my own mouth, I could feel the throbbing of his warm live organ,
taste his flesh, take pleasure in the beautiful texture of his sweet young
penis.

   And through his nervous system, I could feel what he felt, the warm wet
friendliness of a tongue and lips around his organ, the thrill of being
hard nearly to the point of pain, the ecstasy of a blowjob.

   I shuddered in fear and bliss; my big brown eyes looked up at me in a
narcissistic overload.  I looked like a boy, I realized; a very attractive
boy sucking a lovely phallic male organ, feeling both ends at once.

   Conscious thought slowed down in both of us; there was just the pure
carnal pleasure of my mouth and his penis, his penis and my mouth.

   Feeling his every sensation and desire, I was able to achieve what
others could never hope to; I was able to drive him to a height of rapture
that he'd never known.  And might never know again.

   My fingernails across his stomach, around his ass, sent shivers through
us both.  I stroked his balls gently, I ran my tongue around the head of
his cock.

   He was shocked by the intensity of pleasure, nearly as shocked as I was.
I looked into his eyes and stopped for a moment, so that he wouldn't come
too soon.  I resumed, experimenting, finding what I could do to his penis
and balls with my lips and tongue, finding how to please him; and through
him, myself.

   For half an hour or so, I stroked, licked, and sucked him; until neither
of us could handle any more.  Then I speeded up, bobbing my head over his
dick, pulling his balls, until I felt him go over the edge, and I knew he
was going to come.

   When he came, so did I.  Despite the fact that my vagina was still
untouched, I came in sympathy with him, his flood was my flood, his sperm
was mine before he even released it.

   His pleasure was so intense as his hot cream flooded into my mouth, that
I could only find it delicious; I held his dick in my mouth as I swallowed.





   We had regular intercourse after that; for me, it was as incredible as
the blowjob.

   The pressure against his hard penis mirrored the pressure from my
unspoiled vagina walls, the sensations multiplying like images between two
parallel mirrors; the hot wet joining of our bodies, the coupling of his
soul to my consciousness.  He moved within me, threatening, penetrating,
invading the sanctity of my body and my psyche.  Yet I knew he meant me no
harm, I knew that he was as concerned for me as he was for himself.

   The pleasure was intense, more so than I'd ever suspected was possible;
but when we came, something else happened.

   When we came together [and feeling him come couldn't help but make me
come too], I knew everything about him.

   Not just what was in his mind at that moment, but everything that he
knew, every memory he had, all the knowledge he possessed.





   "Connie?  Connie, are you alright?" Jim's face slowly sharpened in front
of me.

   "I think so." I told him.  "It was...  my first time, and...  It was
pretty incredible."

   It took a while before I realized the enormity of what had happened; I
knew every book he'd read.  I understood higher math.  I knew what he'd had
for breakfast, what his aunt had given him for Christmas when he was seven.

   I knew he was gay.

   It was a bit depressing; that a gay guy should have found me attractive.
He was trying to be hetero; he really did like me, but would never love me
in a romantic way, I was sure.

   I had his knowledge, but he didn't have the benefit of mine.  He didn't
know what I did.

   In one way, it made my experience with Jim the most intense I've ever
had; I'm attracted to men, too.  He saw me as semi-male, especially when I
gave him those monster blowjobs, and that's what I saw through his eyes as
we did it.

   We had a lot of sex for a few months; I needed to feel those things
again, but I clearly couldn't indulge in the kind of promiscuity that my
friends did.  I thought it would be suicidal.

   Later, I found out that I wouldn't retain everything unless I used it
somehow; like math, French, and some other things I learned the sudden way.

   I filled myself with Jim above and below, testing my strange ability to
absorb another human being.

   I ran my first secret experiments, writing down what I knew of Jim, and
then asking him questions to be sure it was so.  After all, how else could
I be sure I wasn't simply psychotic?

   I enjoyed myself, and I enjoyed the incredible rush I get from sex; I
didn't pass out again though, since there was only a fraction of new
information each time.

   I was able to keep his interest sexually, by knowing exactly what he
wanted.  I acted very masculine [for a skinny girl], kept my hair short,
and wore men's clothes.  I sucked his cock for an hour at a time, my
pleasure at the act even greater than his.

   But it was not a battle that could be won, nor one I wished to win.  It
was learning in a safe environment while passing the time before college.





   I was unsure what to do with my life; I was a walking lie detector, but
I needed some physical contact to be reliable, and no one would necessarily
believe the results.

   Another thing I always knew about people was when they were sick, so I
took biology, thinking I would like to take medicine.  But it takes a
decade to become a medical doctor, and I got sidetracked by psychology.

   Psychology fascinated me, and it was knowledge I needed to be able to
withstand the onslaught of other people's thoughts.

   Sex was too good to give up, yet too frightening to indulge in.  What if
I went nuts?  What if I got overloaded with someone else's personality?

   And no, I didn't do it with my professor; that would have been too
weird. I did do it with several of the other professors before I graduated.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.

   In my final year, I confided in my professor; I didn't tell him
everything, just a little.  I felt I owed it to science to give it a
chance.

   He ran a bunch of standard tests; impressed, he ran more detailed ones.
A curiosity, he concluded; I must be somehow detecting the slight changes
in skin resistance they used in polygraph testing.  We all ignored the
little problem that I had a 98% success rate [and frankly, I believe the
other 2% was experimental error; I know what I know].





   I had several boyfriends through my college years, and each was a whole
story by himself.

   Each experience taught me more about myself, my strange abilities, and
about the human mind.

   I didn't actually have full sex with most of them; what happens is just
too intense, and too frightening.  Besides, there are ethical issues.  I
enjoyed kissing and making out, though, and listening to their internal
dialog [humans are mostly schizophrenic].  When I knew they were getting
too frustrated, I relieved their pressure with oral sex; the pleasure is
immense, without the frightening intensity and real danger to my
individuality and sanity of full carnal knowledge.

   I started to wear makeup, and grew my slightly hair longer, since that
turned on my boyfriends, and by extension myself.  I loved to look into
their eyes as I sucked their dicks, seeing myself at the same time, feeling
the intensity of their hard young cocks.  The orgasms were always
wonderful, but we all liked the wind up best.

   The professors; well, yes...

   How could I resist?  Their minds weren't full of drivel, like the boys.
I didn't know how many times it would work.  Perhaps I would become
"normal" after a while.  Maybe I could be a genius...

   As it turns out, it doesn't work that way.  I get their memories, I know
things they know, but I don' t get the brain power.  I can't figure out new
things like they can.  That Physics guy left me with a head full of weird
shit, I tell you.

   But doing it with smart guys is an extra kick; an incredible blast of
brain-orgasm that I call "Mind Fuck".

   The trick to seducing professors is to not tell them you're a student.
They run a mile if they know you're a student.

   I had let my hair grow out, and I did some things for my appearance; not
too much, that just isn't me, but I put on a pair of tight trousers, a nice
blouse, some earrings, and a little makeup.  I knew where they hung out,
and who I was interested in.

   Sciences, please; no offence arts people, but sciences was what I
wanted.

   A finger on a man's arm always gets him going; usually, that's a pain in
the ass, since I'm just checking him.  But in the professor's bar, it
worked both ways very well.

   I chose a Med guy.  He was good looking and young for a professor,
married but separated.  Most importantly, he wasn't Bad, and he was fairly
honest with his pick up rap.  I suppose a professor of medicine doesn't
have to lie to get laid.

   He was twice my age; generally, I'm very particular about older men,
since they have a lot of shit in their heads by then.  But I wanted his
knowledge; I knew I wouldn't be a doctor in the morning, but I would learn
much from him.

   Picking up men is so easy for me.  As I said, I'm not a true beauty; but
I know what turns a man on. I know exactly which little look or manner
appeals to whomever I'm talking to, and which don't.  It's equally useful
for getting rid of people I don't like.

   Jeremy was an ego freak, and he was into younger women [almost all men
are], as long as they didn't bore him.

   Long adoring looks into his eyes, while listening attentively stirred
his juices.  I held his hand, but didn't go home with him.  He wouldn't
have respected that, and neither would I.  I gave him my number.

   I kissed him for a long time on our first date, and knew he was not
dangerous to me.  On our second date, I went home with him.

   He was the first lover I had with a kink; I knew it early on, and I
wasn't bothered by it.  I felt his excitement every time the image of me
peeing on him came into his head.

   But that was for later; nice straight sex, that was first.  Straight
full mind fuck sex, I'd decided.

   The semester was over, and I had a week to recover in, so I wanted to
get started.

   He wanted to turn me on; I felt his need to please.  He was turned on by
my modest breasts; he had had many lovers, and I could see all of their
breasts passing through his mind while he compared mine to theirs.  Big
ones, small ones, fake ones.  My tits were nothing special, yet he
appreciated them as much as any others.  It made me glad.

   Great legs; long delicate shapely legs.  Yes, I had those.  Cute feet,
he thought; kissable mouth. Nice smell, natural smell.  Flat stomach, like
a fertile field waiting to be planted.  Don't forget the condom, Doc.

   "Forget the condom, doc." I told him.

   "What?"

   "I don't like them.  I need to feel you when we do it.  Don't worry, I'm
on the pill."

   "I believe in safe sex, Constance."

   So do I; but then I don't get the full knowledge.  And you have to
remember, I can feel illness in others when I touch them, so I knew he was
uninfected.

   I stroked his stiff hot cock and waiting eager balls; "I'm healthy,
doctor.  And I want to feel you shoot your hot stuff inside."

   Was it fair?  I knew exactly how to penetrate his resolve.  I knew which
words would trigger his basic instinctual desire to leave his juices inside
me.

   If life were fair, we'd all be up to our knees in mud as we planted
rice.

   I licked him and sucked him, exactly how and when he wanted me to.  He
marveled at my ability to please.  He licked me back, the first man I let
do that.  It isn't that great for me; it's nice, but two dimensional, since
it's secretly not really pleasant for the guy.  I could taste myself in his
mouth as he did it; it made me a little uncomfortable.

   And then, at last, we were coupled; I lay on my back with my long young
legs spread wide as he put his lovely cock against me; the rush began as he
pushed his member into my body.

   I suppose sex is special for everyone, but I know that it's more special
for me.  I don't do it a lot, as I said, I don't think it would be healthy
for me.

   But when I do it, it's GOOD!

   The wonderful pressure of his penis entering my body caused me to
stiffen, a feeling of myself against him, the taste of my young body in his
mouth, my thick hair in his hands, my firm little breasts against his
chest.

   His hands, his mouth, his penis.  I was getting flooded with his
persona, I could feel his inner being.  His thrill, his desire, his joy,
and his guilt.

   His good hard penis, his firm tight ass, his thrill for me, mine for
him, the lubrication of my juices, the pressure of my vagina, the power of
his cock as he penetrated my thin young body again and again and again.

   He still loved his wife, and there were two teenaged children he hadn't
told me of.  I reminded him a bit of his daughter, the dirty bastard.

   Then the Big Rush, as I received the mind fuck; the massive blast of
energy, the overload of image and memory, the crushing intensity of my
double ended orgasm as his sperm rushed up my cervix and his mind rushed up
my cortex.





   "Connie?  Connie?  Can you hear me?"

   "Yes." I croaked.

   "Are you alright?  You had some kind of seizure."

   "Yes; I'm fine."

   "I'm not sure what it was, you had me worried.  Are you sure you're ok?
Can you see clearly?  Do you have any history of epilepsy?"

   "I'm fine, doctor.  It happens to me sometimes when I have a very
intense sexual experience."

   He looked at me unconvinced.

   I took his hand, and felt his genuine concern; "Don't worry, It's just
when I'm with someone the first time." I added.





   As before, I could barely move afterwards, but I was getting more
accustomed to the power of experiencing another person.  I was weakened
physically for some days, but I could carry on as if normal.

   My mind was spinning with my lover's education; it was the first time
I'd attempted to gain really useful but very difficult knowledge through
sex.  I failed to retain a lot of it.

   So I was happy when he called, and asked if we could meet again.

   I was the "Most incredible fuck on the planet" as far as he was
concerned [he didn't say it out loud].  He liked me.  I was too young; if
I'd been just ten or fifteen years older, he'd have asked me to marry him.
He was a sweet man.

   He took me out for a lovely romantic dinner; then took me to his
apartment.

   I watched his face as I slowly stripped for him.  Without physical
contact, I didn't know what he was feeling, but I enjoyed reading his
expression like other people do.  I sat with him naked, exposed and
vulnerable.  He stroked my face and told me I was beautiful.  I sat on his
lap like a little girl, and kissed him for a little while as he toyed with
my naked body pleasantly, stroking me lightly with his fingertips.  It was
sweet to be so vulnerable, yet know I was safe.

   I wanted to please him.  "Let's take a shower." I suggested.

   He took off his own clothes as the water ran hot and steam filled the
small room.  He had a trim fit body for a man of his age, I noticed;
strange that I hadn't before.  Then I realized the thrill of not touching;
of feeling my own desire instead of his.  Of finding him sexy and desirable
because he was, instead of feeling desire by proxy.

   "Lie down in the bath." I told him.

   He smiled at me and did as I'd asked.  I stood over him; the drain was
open, so there was no water in the tub.  He took my ankles in his hands,
and then I could feel his mood again.  Sexy sexy sexy; I pursed my lips at
him and thrust out my pelvis slightly.

   I'd prepared myself, I was holding a full bladder.  I released it onto
his hairy chest.

   His fingers gripped harder suddenly, and I could feel his thrill feeding
back through me.  I increased my abdominal pressure and pushed farther
forward, so the stream traveled up to his face.

   He twisted his head from side to side, as if to escape the humiliating
assault, but actually only succeeding in drenching his entire head in my
urine.

   He stared up at me with an expression of such wonder and joy, that I
laughed out loud; it really was a pretty funny trip.

   I washed him off and shampooed his hair before we went to the bedroom.

   He was mine, then; he was completely infatuated.  The intensity of it
was a bit frightening; I didn't want that kind of responsibility.  But
lord, it made for tremendous sex!

   Later, when at last he was inside me again, I could feel him deeper than
before.  I knew he wasn't for me, not in the long term.  I squeezed and bit
him, growled at him, and met his energetic thrusting with my hips.

   His strong middle-aged dick felt wonderful as it penetrated my body
again and again, his warm friendly hands clenching my shoulders were strong
and masculine, his mouth and tongue tasted sweet, his ass in my hands was
strong and lean.  But it was his brain that was really turning me on.

   How I love sex, how I long to feel that feeling whenever I can; the
smell, the taste, the emotion of it.  That feeling of being coupled with
another, of strong arms around my thin body, holding me tightly while a
stiff hot penis fills me with that exquisite joy, my mind spinning with our
combined pleasure.

   And then the inevitable onslaught; the great blast I wanted.  The joyous
rush of his essential being flooding through me.

   My lovely middle-aged doctor filled me and thrilled me, he lubricated my
vagina with his sperm and my mind with his knowledge.





   We dated for a month, and then lived together for several more, until I
graduated.

   Sex with Jeremy was incredible, but then sex always is for me.  It's the
feedback thing; the more I please my lover, the more I please myself.  And
I always know exactly how to please.  I know how much pressure, and where
to apply it.  I know if a sound I'm making is sexy to him; I feel it all in
real time, and adapt myself to what he needs and wants, until his tension
explodes mine, and we come together in another blast of knowing.

   He was loving and nurturing; he was a man who knew the value of a hug. I
loved to feel myself in his arms.

   I learned to find myself beautiful through his eyes; my long thin body
could be sexy if I wanted it to.  I learned to dress more attractively,
accentuating my assets.  He appreciated my intelligence, but I wasn't
really as smart as he thought I was.

   Before I left him, I engineered a reconciliation between him and his
wife.  I still visit them sometimes, and we're all good friends.

   I did my Psychology degree "by hand", that is, like everyone else.  But
I left college at 22 with a complete knowledge of medicine as well.





   I was recruited by the FBI.

   They had read about the experiments, and requested my professor to ask
me if I'd like to work for them [as in all such experiments, the identity
of the subjects had been confidential].





   They were skeptical at first, but not one agent was ever able to slip
even the smallest thing by me. Truth, part truth, lie.  I never failed.

   I sat in on some interrogations; it was very exhausting for me.  The
suspects were all Bad; selfish, deceitful, and hateful people.  And for the
most part, so were the FBI agents.

   Of course I couldn't provide evidence that could be used in court; but
the investigators were able to clear cases and find admissible evidence
through normal procedures very quickly when they took advantage of my
talents.

   I only worked there for a few months.  It ended when they refused to
drop the case of an innocent man.

   He was a colored single man of 22, unemployed, and charged with rape of
a minor.  I was afraid to touch him at first; that type of perpetrator
gives me cold sweats.  But when I did, I knew instantly that he was
innocent.  There was hardly any malice in him.

   "He's guilty, Constance." My boss told me, "You're wrong on this one."

   "I'm never wrong, Ken, you know that."

   "There are witnesses!"

   "I don't care.  Let me meet them, I'll tell you if they're lying or just
mistaken.  That man never hurt anybody."

   But they refused to drop the case; they didn't let me check the
witnesses.  They convicted him, because they could.

   That type of case is very hard to solve, and the bureau is always under
huge pressure for a result. They wanted my help in convicting criminals,
not in absolving the innocent.





   I took a lot of different jobs after that; I spent some time as a
clinical Physiologist, and I was happy to be able to help people; but
dealing with illness and psychosis is very abrasive to me.  I feel their
suffering and confusion too closely to stay unaffected by it.  I worked for
a financial house for a while, and was earning very well, when Ken from the
bureau called.

   "Remember me?" he asked.

   "Sure, Ken.  How's the boys?"

   "You were right about Johnson." He said.

   "I know.  How did you find out?"

   "DNA.  He got a new appeal, and the case was thrown out on DNA."

   "When was that?"

   "A few months ago."

   "So he was in for eight years."

   "We need you Constance.  Your country needs you."

   "Spare me the patriotic rap, Ken.  I'm in a good job, earning good
money. Why should I work for you?"

   "You know why, Constance."

   He was right.  It was October 2001, and what had once been the world
trade center towers were still a smoking ruins on the ground in Manhattan.





   I'd been busy in the intervening years.

   I'd had many relationships, but only a few full sexual partners.  The
intimacy was too intense for me, I always feared my very personality would
disappear.

   Once I let a man go all the way with me, into my body and mind, I
couldn't stay with him for more than half a year.  I'd feel a growing
claustrophobia [for lack of a more specific phrase], and split up.

   They all thought they loved me, but deeper in their minds, I found other
things; desire for other women, misconceptions about me, strange
perversions they didn't want me to know about.

   I'd had several child lovers.

   For me, they were the best; their minds had less corruption than adults,
and their bodies were beautiful and energetic.

   I took the virginity of a sixteen year old; he was such a lovely boy,
his desires and dreams so basic and untainted.

   I met him on a crowded bus; I like riding like that, picking up the
random signals of humanity.  I felt him next to me; a fresh mind, very
young yet fully mature.  He was very horny, filled with unreleased sexual
energy.  I enjoyed his powerful vibes for a minute, then turned to look at
him.

   His skin was clear and healthy, his eyes bright, his teeth straight and
white.  He jumped a little when I took his hand, feeling him up through his
fingertips.

   His energy caused a fun little pulse in my groin, a hot sexy pulse.  I
smiled at him, and decided to take him home.

   Normal people could never do that safely, but I could.  I could tell he
was a good boy, healthy in his body and mind.  I needed someone to help me
get over a lover I had just broken up with, someone who could wash away the
corrupting influence of a powerful psyche.

   "What's your name?" I asked him.

   "Gregory." He said, exquisitely excited.

   "I like you." I informed him.  "How old are you, Gregory?"

   "Sixteen." He managed to say.

   "Well I'm twenty eight, but somehow I think you don't mind."

   There were several people who could hear us, but I didn't care at all. I
didn't feel guilty about what I was doing, not in the least.

   "I'm getting off at the next stop, Greg." I told him.  "You will come
with me, won't you?"

   I stripped for him in my apartment; gently removing my business suit,
shoes, and stockings.

   Naked, I turned around slowly, displaying my body to him as he sat on my
couch grinning with adolescent excitement.

   "What do you think?" I asked him, "Do I excite you?"

   "Yes." he managed to say.

   "You excite me, too." I said, "Will you take your clothes off for me?"

   "OK." he said.

   He took his shoes off, and then stood up to undress himself.  I walked
around him slowly, like a predator.  I brushed my fingers across his naked
shoulders as he fumbled with his belt.

   His young cock stood straight out in front of him, stiff and vital.

   He was slightly shorter than I am, his shoulders wider than mine though.
I stood a couple of feet from him, and we began to touch each other with
our fingertips.  The boy was very sensual, he followed my lead perfectly.

   His young fingers traced across my body; my small firm breasts and my
flat belly, my face and hips. My fingers traced across his shoulders and
arms, and at last his young penis.  It was such a pleasure to feel his
pleasure, to know his primal joy.  I was a fantasy come true to him, and
older but attractive woman to teach him about sex, to take his cherry in
return.

   We were naked in each others arms in short order, his incredible
excitement washing away the cobwebs that had formed in my brain.  The touch
of his smooth young flesh drove me wild, the touch of his sweet young mind
filled me with new energy, the heat of his young dick against my belly
filled me with happy anticipation.

   Breaking away from his embrace, I took him by the hand and led him to my
bedroom.

   I do enjoy giving head; it's so friendly and nice, yet safe.  I often
wish I could just give a guy the blowjob of his life, without all the
complications before and after.  Blowjobs are just pleasure to me.

   Jeremy had a fabulous organ, so big, smooth, and hard; I was surprised
at how exciting I found it to know it was his first time.  It was very
special to him, and that made it even more special to me.

   His young dick was pristine, unspoiled.  It hadn't been inside anyone's
body yet, it was fresh like the rest of him.  Ready, willing, waiting for
the woman who would take him and make him a man.

   He relaxed on my bed as I took him in my mouth, the exquisite pleasure
of the boy greater for me than himself.  I loved having him in my mouth; it
was so pure and perfect a feeling.

   He came prematurely, as I knew he would, filling my mouth with his juice
as I hummed encouragement and pulled his young balls for more.  I looked
into his clear adolescent eyes as I swallowed, holding his young body by
his cute little ass as he shivered with the intensity of his lovely sweet
orgasm; his first with a woman.

   He stayed hard, as I thought he would.  I rolled onto my back and pulled
him on top of me.

   He was so thrilled, so happy to be having sex for the first time; he
thought me beautiful, wonderful, the very persona of his fantasy of an
older lover.  His admiration for me was inspiring, and very flattering of
course.  I could barely wait to feel his young dick inside myself.

   We kissed, the energy of his youth filling me with a gleeful joy.  I
held his lovely young penis in my hand, and guided him to where it was
needed.

   The great thing about deflowering a virgin is that each time I do it, I
experience the incredible joy of first sex all over again.

   The hot wet pressure of my vagina against his cock was unlike anything
he'd imagined.  Euphoria filled his young brain with pure joy.

   I held his face in my hands.

   "This feels very good." I told him, and kissed him.

   I put my hands on his hips, signaling him on how to move.  Young people
learn quickly, and my young lover was soon pounding me with that wonderful
energy of youth.

   He did it to me for a half an hour without a break, half an hour of
steady smooth young energy, of the most wonderful shared pleasure.  I came
three times [take a young lover if you dare], and then we both came in a
deluge of primal delight, his sperm shooting sweetly inside me as I held
him close, my hands on his perfect round ass, my legs tight around him, my
mind absorbing him as happily as my body.

   He didn't want much from me but sex at first, which was very pleasant
after all the men that had wanted to bind me to themselves one way or
another.

   He couldn't get enough; the boy wore me out physically, but charged my
mental batteries.  When he began to fall in love with me, I gently
disengaged from him, and found another.





   My work was easier than before, but boring.  I was one of a team
checking out terror suspects that had been rounded up.  None of the ones we
interviewed in the first 10 months knew anything; they were just normal
people, just young Arab males.  They were scared and wanted to go home.

   My colleagues became more and more respectful of me though, as I always
caught out the suspects on small things that were later confirmed.  But as
before, they never wanted to release them on my say so; every story was
laboriously checked by hand first.

   Finally, we actually interviewed a man who had terrorist connections.  I
caught his lie immediately, and the case snowballed into one of some
significance.  It was very exciting for me, I felt that I was doing
something useful at last.  I suppose it's not surprising that the higher
ups took notice.

   Impressed, they transferred me to Guantanamo Bay





   That's where I met the man that would be my undoing.

   Mustafa, he was called.  No one had even realized his importance.  They
just thought he was stubborn.  He had virtually refused to speak since his
arrival.

   "Are you an Al-Quada member?"

   He refused to answer, but I could tell he was.

   "Do you have any knowledge about terrorist attacks?"

   He did.

   But he wouldn't speak.





   There was a lot going on, lots of interrogations and brainstorming
between the agencies.  The cooperation was apparently unprecedented.

   No one paid too much attention to Mustafa; but I knew.  I knew he was
hiding something of vital importance.

   "Ken, I have to talk to you."

   "Of course, Constance.  Sit down, what can I do for you?"

   "Did you ever wonder how I can tell whether someone is lying?"

   "Of course."

   "I'm psychic, you know."

   "It's the kind of thing we prefer to work around, Constance.  We prefer
to just think of you as a talented interrogator."

   "I know, Ken.  And normally, that's fine.  But there's some heavy shit
going on down here.  The thing is Ken, there's a way I can...  interrogate
a suspect completely."

   "Go on."

   "There's a way I can find out everything about a person."

   "We've been working together for a while now Connie.  I'm listening."

   "It happens whether I want it to or not.  It happens when I have sex."

   Ken's a pretty hard-boiled guy.  He just stared at me, trying to figure
out if he wanted to take this seriously.

   "I tell you what." I said, "A simple test; think of something really
obscure, a phrase or something."

   "Okay."

   "Now I'm going to kiss you."

   "You're what?"

   "This isn't romantic, Ken.  Just think of something specific and
obscure."

   I walked around his desk, took his head in my hands, and kissed him.  Of
course he was turned on; Ken is an overweight man of about 50, faithful to
his wife; that doesn't mean he doesn't have fantasies.  He'd had some of
me. He thought I was too thin.  Ah; "There is no word in the English
language that rhymes with orange." I said, breaking away.

   He stared at me in the real shock.





   A couple of Marines strapped the man we called Mustafa to a cot.  I was
left alone with him.  Ken was listening through an audio link, but I didn't
allow anyone to watch.  What I intended to do was horrible enough without
my colleagues seeing me do it.

   Mustafa spoke fair English, when he chose to speak.

   I sat next to him in a chair, and took his hand.  He didn't mean me any
harm at that particular moment; but his malevolence caused a burning
sensation in my fingers on his hand, as if I was touching a lit light bulb.
The level of hatred and fear in the man was almost more than I could bear.

   I began to talk to him, as a psychologist would.  I asked after his
health, whether he was being treated decently by the Marines, if he had
been allowed to pray and if he was confident that his meals were Halal.

   Slowly, he opened to me slightly, telling me that he had been badly
mistreated by the men.  I made sympathetic noises.

   He was a Bad man; not all of the men that were confined there were, but
he was.

   Some of the detainees were simply believers; they had committed
terrorist acts, they had killed people.  But in their hearts they weren't
worse than any other soldiers.

   But Mustafa was filled with hate; I'd never touched a human being who
was so close to being utterly evil.

   I shuddered internally at what I was going to do.

   On the surface, I smiled and tried to appear concerned about him.

   "Are you married?" I asked him.

   "Yes.  I have two wives and four children." He answered proudly.

   "Four children?  I'm impressed." I said, switching on my sexuality.

   He looked up at me with undisguised hunger.  I looked back at him with
feigned hunger.

   I began to stroke his wrist, his hand gripped mine.  I shivered
slightly, struggling to find the strength within myself to proceed.  I bent
and kissed him.

   Bitch fucking bitch white whore, he thought; he wanted to hold me by the
hair and slap me, then have sex with me.  He wanted to show me what a real
man was, and suchlike nonsense.  He wanted to rape me, he wanted to kill;
he didn't want to kill me specifically, he just wanted to kill someone.
Someone white and Christian, preferably American.

   I shuddered with fear and loathing.  Then I untied the drawstring of his
trousers.  Gingerly, and with much trepidation, I put my hand on his cock.
It was warm but soft at first, it hardened and grew quickly as I rolled it
between my palms.

   He was stiff and hot in my hands, he bucked in his restraints.

   "Does this feel good?" I asked him.

   He grunted in an affirmative manner.  "Why don't you untie me?" he
asked.

   "I can't do that.  But I could do something to make you feel a little
better if you like." I said sympathetically.

   I stroked his cock gently as I cradled his balls; I smiled at him
kindly.

   He was a very attractive man physically; he was strong and lean, he had
a certain fire in his eyes, even here in his prison.  His penis was large
and stiff.

   But to me, he was horrible beyond description, a monster.  I'm not
particularly a patriot, it wasn't because he was on the other side.  It was
because he was evil, he enjoyed destruction and the pain of others.  He had
no regard for life, he was a killer, and a very competent one.

   I lowered my mouth to his swollen cock; with great foreboding, I applied
my lips to the tip.

   The contact seemed to burn me, like capsicum.  I steeled myself, and
allowed the terrorist organ between my teeth, allowed it to enter my mouth.

   I held the pulsing organ there, holding myself steady against the storm
of his malice as it howled around me.  I sucked gently, pulling more of him
out; I could hear his thoughts and see the surface of his mind.

   He was not a stupid man, and he knew that I had ulterior motives.  He
thought I was a whore, and that I'd been hired to have sex with him to gain
his trust; the FBI must be pretty desperate, he thought, but they'll never
crack Mustafa.

   I took my mouth from his burning hot cock; I was as ready as I would
ever be, and so was he.

   I reached under my skirt and removed my underwear.





   I straddled him, and held his member against myself, kneeling on the cot
above him.  It burned like acid against me.  I moved it back and forth,
feeling his desire and disgust for me.  I forced myself down against it,
forced myself to admit it into my body, into my person.

   Violence; that was his most pervading characteristic.  There was a
thrill in violence, a primal thrill similar to that of sex, but one most of
us choose to avoid.

   He did well with women; although he had two wives, he enjoyed other
women when he was in the west and away from the eyes of his colleagues.

   He was more than willing to enjoy himself with me.  I held his hair in
my hands, pushing my body back and forth over him, as his large
uncircumcised penis burned against my interior.  I looked into his eyes,
trying to get the better of him, trying to overpower him.  I was strong, I
tried to tell myself, I could handle it.





   I had chosen to couple myself with this man, this murderer of innocents;
and as disgusted as I was, I couldn't avoid his pleasure, I couldn't remain
unaffected by his desire.  His cock filled my body, his terrible powerful
hatred flooded into me, his pleasure at his [supposed] conquest of me shone
through it all.  The wonderful feeling of sex was just as pleasant to him
as to any other man. Perhaps even more so; there was something primal about
Mustafa, a touch of insanity.  My hands on his face felt as pleasant to him
as they felt unpleasant to me.  Through him, I could feel the delightful
squeeze of my warm body against his erect penis, I couldn't ignore the
sexual thrill, although it distressed me, I couldn't avoid the normally
welcome sensation of my partner's excitement.

   He was powerful.  More powerful than anyone I'd known.  His malice was
nearly too much for me; I needed him to ejaculate.  I wanted his secrets
from him with a minimum of pain, but he wasn't even close yet.

   It was the position we were in; he hadn't had sex for months, since
before his capture, but he was a man who liked to be in control.  I knew if
I freed him from the restraints though, he'd be too dangerous.

   Fighting back the nauseating disgust I felt, and the possibly more
nauseating sexual excitement growing within myself, I kissed him deeply,
searching for a way to bring his excitement level up so he might climax.

   "Your cock is huge;" I told him, "the best I've ever had." That excited
him, so I continued.

   "Western men are mostly impotent.  That's why they fear you.  I want to
feel your seed in my body, give it to me, give it to me!"

   Sitting above him, his cock burning inside of me, I held both his hands;
he couldn't move them, as his wrists were shackled to the bed frame, but he
could grasp my fingers with a grip like iron.

   I shifted my pelvis back and forth, I bounced up and down, I tried to
look at him as I raped him; his eyes burned back at me, the wild eyes of an
animal.

   It's almost worked, but it wasn't enough.  I felt the wave of his orgasm
slipping backwards again. I pulled my dress up over my head, and threw it
to the floor.  I unhooked my bra, and threw it after my dress so I was
stark naked.  I leaned down against him, pushing my breasts into his chest,
scraping my nipples across his breast.  Then I kissed him again, playing
him with my tongue, tasting his mouth, feeling his evil.

   Once more, his arousal level was increasing.  I pushed my naked body
back and forth against him, his penis was quivering inside me, he wanted to
come, he was ready to come.

   I could feel his excitement, it was flowing through me like a river.  I
tried to hold myself, but it wasn't possible.  There was no way I could
make him come without joining him, without allowing myself to come with
him.

   His arousal level was shackled to mine; it had never been a problem
before, it wasn't something I'd ever needed to consider.  I'd never had sex
before with someone I despised.  Good God, I thought; what am I doing?  I
was afraid, terrified.  But I continued, knowing that this was important. A
matter of life and death for many innocents.

   I writhed against him, my skin on his skin, my nipples on his nipples,
my tongue on his tongue, his cock deep in my vagina, his overwhelming
wickedness penetrating me deeper than his cock.

   It worked; He stared up at me wide eyed as I felt his orgasm approach,
and I almost choked with fear at what would come with it.

   His being exploded inside me with more violence than one of the bombs he
had set off in his youth, and caused a similar level of pain and
destruction.  There was no way I could avoid an orgasm of my own; I didn't
want to, but I was forced to acknowledge the primal thrill of him, of his
strength, the very evil of him.  The primeval thrill of knowing his power,
his lust, his greasy ejaculate.

   I felt a terrible burning in my womb as his poisonous excretions invaded
my body, as we both groaned in simultaneous climax, shuddering in
synchronized sensation, his hairy balls contracting in my hand again and
again as stream upon steam of terror was injected into me, overwhelming me,
striking fear into my hitherto gentle and innocent soul.

   Through his burning eyes, I could see the world as he saw it, feel his
motivations; his love, his hate, his fear, his orgasm.  His being was being
copied into my mind, his memories adding to the many I was already holding
there.

   And despite the intensity of our combined physical pleasure, the primal
delight of sex, the explosion of orgasm, I knew the agony of being him.









   I came to consciousness in a clean white hospital bed, the pain in every
muscle of my body eclipsed by the pain in my head.  Ken was sitting next to
me.

   "Tape recorder." I said.

   "What?  Are you all right?"

   "Tape recorder." I insisted, too weak to explain.

   I spoke in Arabic at first, not wanting to miss any details by
translating it myself; there were others whose job that would be.

   Names, addresses, phone numbers, bank account numbers, schemes, and
plans.

   I spoke through my intense pain, the pain of knowing that man; his agony
was now my agony, I could see his dead mother, I had witnessed the death of
his brother to an Israeli bullet.  I felt his anger and hate grow with each
atrocity committed against him and his people, his lack of remorse as he
reciprocated, violently rising through the ranks of al-Quada by killing and
organizing more killing, drug smuggling and money laundering.

   The horror of his life was nearly overwhelming me; I fought it, but it
wouldn't go away.  I was in fear for my very self.





   "But Connie, if you could just interrogate another suspect the same way,
you could save thousands of lives."

   "I've done my part, ken.  I've done more than my part.  You don't
understand what it does to me."

   He looked at me for a long moment; "I'm sorry, Constance.  You're right,
and I had no right to ask it of you.  We have a lot of material to work
from, we'll get the rest the hard way."

   "I need to get somewhere.  As soon as possible."

   "Where?"

   "India.  Dharmasalla."





   I needed to understand my cursed gift, and I needed help with the
terrible forces that the terrorist had left inside me.  It was time to go
and meet the masters; to find someone with the knowledge and power to help
me.





   Dharmasalla is a little town in the Himalayas, where the Tibetan
government in exile stays.  It's home to the Dalai-Lama and a lot of famous
Tibetan monks.

   I had a letter of introduction to one of them; a man I'd met at a
convention had told me that this monk had The Knowledge.  It was worth a
try; I was proof of something, but I didn't know what.

   His name translated as "Great Lightning".  He had a secretary, an
Englishman who dressed in rather silly orange robes.  He was so arrogant, I
nearly went away; but he made an appointment for me to meet his master a
few days later.

   I waited in my hotel room in my lonely agony, trying to hold myself
together; madness seemed to be raging in my brain, just below the surface.
Primal urges, and death and violence.  I took some drugs, rested and
waited.





   "Great lightning" Rimpoche was a tiny man, with thick coke-bottle
glasses, sitting on a cushion in the usual Buddhist orange robe.

   If you saw him, you would see a weak old man; about three grey hairs on
his otherwise bald head, his boney hands clutching his beads.  You might
notice his bright eyes.

   But what I saw was completely different; I saw a being of great
knowledge, power, and peace.  A very old being, hundreds or even thousands
of years old.  I could feel this without even touching him physically, just
by being in the room with him.

   I sat down on the cushion in front of him; he didn't speak for a moment,
he just looked at me in silence.

   He spoke in Tibetan, and a young man sitting off to one side translated
for us.

   "You have demons." He said.

   "Yes." I said.

   "You have some power, I see."

   "Yes."

   "You should have come to us sooner, child."

   "I know."

   We sat in silence; but there was an exchange going on, we were feeling
each other out.  I could feel his persona touching me, feeling my soul. 
And it was wonderful; soothing and cooling, like water on the fires raging
within me.

   He reached out his hand; I reached out mine, and we touched.

   I felt a current flowing between us, running both ways.  I looked into
his eyes, and felt a comfort such as I'd never known before, a feeling of
love and acceptance of everything I was.  A feeling of home, although I was
a stranger here.

   He released me, touched me, then released me again, making and breaking
the physical connection like a child playing with a light switch.  He began
to laugh.

   There was something contagious about the old man's laughter, it seemed
to fill the room with his mirth; I began to laugh with him.  It was the
first time I'd laughed since Cuba, the first time I'd felt anything like
relief.

   He said something to the translator.

   "His holiness has asked me to leave you now, and to give instructions
that he is not to be disturbed for the rest of the day." He said, rising.
He looked quite surprised I thought.

   "Thank you." I told him.

   The old man patted the floor directly in front of him.  I sat there
cross legged, so our knees nearly touched.  He held out both his hands,
palm upwards; gingerly, I took them.

   I could feel him now, he was opening himself.  A shiver ran through me;
he was beautiful inside, exquisite.  He was a man, and he couldn't help but
see me as a woman.  He knew I could see him, right through him, but he
didn't try to hide anything.  He had true compassion, a desire to help me,
to ease my pain first, and then to share what he knew with me if I wanted
him to.

   I looked into his eyes; he could see me, too.  Not as deeply as I could
see him, but he had sight. His eyes widened as he realized how I shared
knowledge; through sex.  He started to laugh again.

   As we calmed down, he informed me that he wasn't sure if he could still
perform sexually.  He hadn't done so in many years.  He did this without
speaking, we were communicating directly somehow.  I'd been able to hear
other people's inner dialogue before, but I'd never met anyone who could
hear mine in return.

   I informed him that I didn't mind if he couldn't, it was blissful just
to sit with him like this, sharing our thoughts.

   It was something new to me, I'd never met another person who had sight
like we did.

   Neither had he.

   For an hour or more we sat like that, silently sharing an intimacy that
I can't describe; slowly showing each other our inner selves, layer by
layer.

   I was beautiful, and he would like to try.

   He was also beautiful, and I would like that as well.

   I reached forward, and opened his robe.  He had a tee-shirt on
underneath, and I pulled it from his body.  I ran my hands over his naked
chest, exulting in his strength, the strength that only I, perhaps in this
whole world, could feel so directly.

   I crept forward, onto his lap.  He was smaller than me, and I clamped
his face between my hands and bent my head down to kiss him, to join my
lips to his wrinkled old lips.  His kiss thrilled me; thrilled me like no
one had before.  On the outside, he was small, old, and weak.  But the
being I was kissing was his spirit.  Huge and powerful; wise, passionate,
and generous.  Attractive beyond measure.  I was kissing light, bright
powerful light.  I was absorbing it through my mouth.

   The kiss was spiritual, but it had a physical effect as well.  My groin
was pulsing with desire for him, with need to have him.  Nothing else
mattered, nothing was important except this; this desperate need to have
sex with this small ancient man.  To have his penis inside my body so that
I might know him.

   He wouldn't be staying much longer in this body, he thought; it was time
to leave.  But it would be a good thing if he could first share with this
girl, even if it killed him.

   That frightened me, but he was quite happy to proceed.  It would be an
epic way for him to go.

   After a short time, I reached down to his genitals; his pleasure was as
great as any man's at my touch.

   I inhabit a male body, he thought; it responds like any other.

   I kissed his lips lightly, stroking and pulling at his ancient cock,
which began to stiffen, for the first time in many years.

   I stood and stripped myself naked.  Pushing my new teacher to the
carpeted floor, I laid myself out on top of him, face to face.

   What lovely smooth pale skin I had, such long legs; like a mountain
antelope, ready to spring and jump just for the joy of the action.  What
big clear eyes, and what a lovely spirit!  He wondered who I really was, he
was surprised he hadn't already recognized me.  He was sure he'd know soon.

   I sucked his cock, causing waves of ecstasy to wash across us.  The old
dick bulged with life, responding to my tongue and lips.  The old man
laughed in amusement as he watched me eagerly fill my mouth with his cock.
He felt so good, his gnarled old thing was the most wonderful thing I ever
tasted.  The pleasure of sucking him was making my head spin, it was
intoxicating.  After a while, I climbed above it, holding it steady in my
hand against myself.  I squatting over his prone form, I looked into his
eyes; suddenly, I had doubt.  What if I was wrong, what if this was just
some kind of trick?  I was holding the stiff penis of a man who must have
been 80 years old, holding it against my moist ready vagina, stimulating my
own clitoris with it.

   He smiled encouragement to me, and I knew I had no choice in any case.
He was my only hope of survival.

   Having sex with the terrorist had been extremely stupid.  Before
Mustafa, I had rarely even touched a person unless he was fairly devoid of
evil.  I had sheltered myself.  But then I thought I was strong enough,
wise enough, to take what I wanted from him and leave the rest.

   I was wrong.

   His malicious thoughts were spinning in my brain; his pain, his
suffering, and his viciousness were raging just below the surface of my
mind.  Before touching him, I had never known suffering.  But since
allowing him to ejaculate inside me, I'd know nothing else.

   So I lowered myself over the ancient one's willing penis, feeling it
slide into myself.

   It was cool and sweet in my passage; like vanilla ice cream, just smooth
and friendly and good.  The sensation was physical as well, of course, his
old dick filled me just as any other did.  It filled me with the strength
to go on, the confidence that I would be all right, that I had the power I
needed to heal.  I squeezed against it, feeling its surprising potency. 
The old man grinned up at me, his cock pulsing its return greeting.

   As I've told you, sex is always an extremely intense experience for me;
it isn't frivolous fun. Fun, yes, but not frivolous.

   But with my monk lover, I experienced a pure joy that I'd never known
before.  He was perfect, a perfect man; there were no evil thoughts in him,
not even a glimmer that I could detect.  Another woman might have seen his
ancient shriveled body as a defect, but to me it was irrelevant.  In his
mind, he was healthy, strong, and good; his only wish was to share
everything he had with the world. And believe me, he had treasure within
him.

   We were in no hurry.  We kissed and groped each other, his penis stiff
within me as our hands and lips touched and kissed, reveling in the sheer
pleasure.

   There wasn't a shred of guilt in him about what we were doing; that's a
Judeo-Christian thing.  Some schools of Buddhism advocate self-denial of
physical pleasures, and some don't.  It isn't about sin or shame, only
about the best way to advance one's knowledge.  Some say pleasures of the
flesh are distracting, and others believe denying one's basic urges are
more distracting.

   We rolled over, so my beautiful little lover was on top.  The feeling of
his ancient penis within my body was excruciatingly wonderful; the waves of
pure pleasure more intense than I'm able to describe.  I looked into his
wise old eyes, and saw my own carnal pleasure reflected back at me.

   He hadn't had sex for about 20 years; making love with someone so young
and beautiful was greatly pleasurable to him.

   And then I could see something deeper, something wonderful and
frightening; the other women he had known, not only in his life, but in his
previous life.  In several previous lifetimes that he had clear memory of.

   He fucked me, his tight old ass rising and falling between my long legs,
his still potent penis connected me to the cosmos, to the joy of being
coupled with such a being.

   The pain I had been suffering since joining myself with the terrorist
leader was by then completely gone; I still knew of it, but no longer
suffered from it.  The old man suckled my young breasts, and I held his
head there, enjoying every sensation he provided me.  I was proud to be
able to give him this pleasure, to be able to give him the joy of my young
body in return for the priceless gift he was soon going to allow me.

   I stretched my neck towards him, and he moved up slightly; we kissed
again, our tongues communicating in their common language.  I stroked his
back and ass with my fingertips, exulting in the feel of him, the priceless
pleasure of him, this thin penniless old man to the rest of the world, the
world's greatest lover to me, the richest man alive.

   He stopped to rest, his life giving cock warm and stiff inside me.  We
looked into each other's eyes, just looked and smiled at the pleasure of
being together in this way.

   Slowly, gently, we made love; savoring the magnificent energy of our
unique coupling.  Touching, caressing, kissing, experiencing.

   I stroked his ancient body, shuddering at his pleasure.  He poked me
with his stiff little dick, shuddering at mine.  We wallowed in pure
physical ecstasy; master and student, man and woman, old and young, Tibetan
and American.

   After a time, he was beginning to tire; I was naked on my back, and he
was on top.  He began to do it to me harder, faster.

   I held his ass tightly in my hands as he shuddered and began to
ejaculate.

   Of course I was frightened; the hot icy rush blasted through my abdomen,
caused my heart to stop, and then filled my skull with a bright light that
illuminated but didn't burn.

   Wave after wave of pure pleasure washed across me, his holy semen
washing away the muck that had been left inside me by those who had come
there before.  I held his small frail body tightly, gripping him with all
my strength as his orgasm blasted against the roof of my brain, lighting up
the dark places in there with his radiance.  His old eyes were shining at
me, seeming to glow with an inner brightness as I passed out.





   I awoke in a warm bed in a cold room, alone.  It was light outside, the
light of dawn.  I could hear cocks crowing, and the cry of a vendor selling
the fresh bread that he carried in a basket on his head.

   I lay silent and still, examining my inner self; exploring my new
knowledge.

   I didn't know what he knew.  That would have been far too much to learn
in less than a whole lifetime.  But I knew THAT he knew; I knew he was
perfect.

   And I knew that he knew me now, he knew who I was.  We had known each
other before, several times. We were old friends; in fact, I had many
friends here.  Soon, I would meet them.





   My training is going well; I sit with my new master for hours every day,
absorbing his wisdom.

   Several times a week, we join together sexually, so we may wallow in the
ecstasy of the flesh.  And of course it helps me understand the mysteries.

   Every time we're together it seems more intense than the last; when I
hold him in my arms, when I feel his old cock inside my body, I feel his
incredible inner strength.  A strength that normal people will never know
of.  When I tease him to orgasm, and we explode together, I gather another
morsel of him to myself.  When we kiss, when we touch, we are communicating
on a level that perhaps no other living humans can understand.  People
often laugh to see us together, my master is so small and frail compared to
me.  We don't tell anyone that we have regular sex, but we don't go to
great lengths to hide it, either.  We are not the type of beings that care
very much about what others think of us.

   I love my teacher with an intensity that few people will ever
experience, yet it is not a romantic love; it isn't about making a life
together and having children.  It's a love of respect, a love for what we
share together.  A love without normal attachment.

   Many men had loved me, or thought they did.  But I knew their thoughts,
I knew that they didn't really know me.  They loved a person they invented,
the woman they wished I was.

   But my master is different, he can see me as clearly as I see him.  He
loves me as a daughter and a student; we have great sex as well, but it's
more therapeutic than conjugal.

   I'm always careful with his ancient bones, he is very frail.  We tend to
do it very slowly and gently; often in a seated position with one of my
legs under his ass and one of his under mine.  He grins at me through his
two remaining teeth, his eyes sparkling through his thick glasses as we
gently rock forward and back, his old cock the most exquisite thing I've
ever known, stiff inside my body.

   It's so unfortunate that his body is fifty years older than mine; when
he comes, he hardly ejaculates at all.  He laughs out loud when I compare
him to the 16-year-olds I'd been with only a year earlier.  Simple innocent
creatures who could fuck like machines and come like fountains, but knew
nothing.

   His ancient eyes sparkle with laughter as I suck his cock, his old body
shivers in pleasure; he enjoys himself tremendously.  My mind explodes in
an orgasm of light each time we come together, the most amazing sensation
I've ever known.  When I feel his feeble excretions seeping gently into my
womb, the joy I feel is greater than a team of adolescent boys could
provide.

   The sun shines brighter in the Himalayas as I float serenely through the
dirty streets of the mountain town.  I feel light, I have an incredible
energy, I no longer feel burdened or alone.  For the first time, I'm truly
strong.

   Soon, my master will depart this world.  He will choose his own time; we
do not fear death.  But he's promised he won't leave just yet, not while
life is so interesting.

   Ace, 2004 The rest of my stories are at;
/~aceinthe_hole// and;
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/aceinthe_hole/ [in plain text]