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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: REPOST: Kim Nice-but-Dim 2/3 (mf, anal, humor)
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WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1997. Not to be used without permission.
N.B. This story has been slightly modifed from the original post to
keep up to date with recent political events in the UK.
--- Kim Nice-but-Dim ---
Chapter 2: "Oh, Bugger!"
(mf, anal, humour)
(c) BronwenSM 1997
@---}---}----
Well, you prob'ly heard how I became blow-job queen of the Home
Counties after Oliver spun me that tale. You remember, the one that
says once you get a man past a certain point he's got to come or it
kills him? Well, of course, it was a load of bollocks. You must have
thought me a total nana.... Oh, you fell for it once too, did you,
darling? That makes me feel better, though I was mortified when I
first found out.
And I have to say I loved cock-sucking. Still do, come to that. Not
only did it make me popular, it also filled those awkward silences. I
can chatter away to you, no problem -- I mean friends’re different,
aren't they? But get me alone with a boy I fancy and I can’t think of
a thing to say. And of course while I was blowing them I didn’t have
to think of topical topics or remember to ask interesting questions.
So all in all it worked out for the best, I suppose, though I’ve moved
on quite a bit since then....
I’ll tell you the whole story, but first things first. Let’s order and
then I’ll explain how Daddy made the Nice-but-Dim’s family fortune and
I learned about bottom-fucks....
@---}---}----
Wasn’t the election a scream? Can’t believe it’s been nearly a
year already. Daddy was frothing on the night itself but once
he’d calmed down ‘bout losing his seat (that does make me laugh --
as if anyone *could* lose Daddy’s seat -- however hard his tailor
tries there’s no escaping Daddy’s majority in the backside
department). God, here I am getting sidetracked again.....
Anyway, like I said, he was frothing the night Labour got in, but only
a day or two later he popped up to town for lunch with a couple of
chaps at his club. When he finally waltzed home at four in the morning
he woke us all up to tell us we were quids in. "Bloody red buggers..!"
he kept roaring. "Fucked ‘em! Fucked the bloody buggers!"
Mummy told him to shut up, the new au pair may be Italian but parts of
her English vocabulary are quite extensive enough already. "I’ll
extend more than her fucking vocabulary," Daddy bellowed. "Fuck her,
fuck them and fuck the European fucking Community! I'm going to be
rich! I’m stinking!"
"I can see that," Mummy observed dryly. "You're blootered. What’s
happened, Henry?"
Well, it turns out the little sidelines Daddy’s been running ever
since Maggie first got in (God -- d'you realise that was before I
was christened!) -- you know the sort of thing -- cash for questions,
consultancies -- weren’t absolutely strictly legal.
I must admit I once tried to work out how he fitted it all in but gave
up. It made my head hurt. I mean Daddy advised dozens of different
companies as well as being an MP. I s’pose it explains why we never
saw much of him. Mummy used to mutter something about him being off
exercising his right honourable member, but even I know an honourable
member is something you are, not something you use, so she must have
got mixed up somewhere.
At the time Daddy said all this extra work was his duty -- helping the
economy and so forth -- besides being the only way a public servant
could make ends meet. But it turned out that if he *had* kept his seat
in the election it wouldn’t have been a very comfortable one. The next
items on his agenda would’ve been a government enquiry and a media
expose. But of course as soon as he wasn’t an MP any more the tabloids
couldn’t give a stuff about him so the Select Committee lost interest
too.
"And because I know where whole graveyards full of bodies are buried,
not only can the bastards not get me for the past, they can’t bollocks
me in the future either. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow and dollops and
dollops of beautiful jam today!" Daddy sang.
I was just thinking what a wonderful way with words he had when he was
very sick in one of Mummy’s dried arrangements. Spoilt the effect
somewhat.
When he sobered up Mummy got him to explain it all properly.
Apparently the bods he lunched with were something in the City of
London, wankers he said, but that can't be right. Anyway, they had a
number of rather good ideas. So nowadays, as Daddy says, life’s all
one long profitable loophole with no dreary ministering to clog up the
works.
He missed his government chauffeur for the first few weeks, but now he
can afford his own driver. I’ve never seen him in such a good mood. He
says the new chap’s much more civil than the civil service one anyway.
He keeps telling people that -- thinks it’s ever so funny. They’ve
threatened to ban him from the golf club if he repeats it one more
time.
@---}---}----
Getting filthy rich meant we saw even less of Daddy than before, so
Mummy wisely found herself a hobby. Polo. Bit like golf on horses.
I couldn’t understand it at first. I mean Mummy doesn’t even like
horses. And although the riders are mostly real hunks, they’re miles
too young for her. Most of them are foreign anyway, and they can be
terribly casual. Sometimes they change their shirts -- and even their
breeches -- in full view of the spectators. They scratch
themselves. Some of them even spit. Gross....
Mummy’s always been stuffy about manners. But she doesn’t seem
to mind these horsey types. She’s really kind to them, especially the
Argentinians. She even collects their dirty kit from the horseboxes
and takes it home for Pia or Maria to wash. "Poor lonely boys," says
Mumsie. "So far from home and its comforts."
I expect she’d like another baby really -- but even if she wasn’t
past her sell-by date Daddy’s never around to do the business -- so
fat chance. Poor lonely Mummy. If polo fills a niche, then good luck
to her!
But the attractions of polo were still a complete mystery to me until
I met Greek Eddie. I was mooching about by the horseboxes one
afternoon, kicking the heads off daisies in the long grass and
thinking about what I was wearing to some bash later when I tripped
over some loose boots and sat down in a heap. When I looked up all I
could see was this utterly beautiful dark brown man with white
breeches and bugger all else on.
The sun was shining directly behind him, so I couldn’t see his face.
"Fuckin’ dozy Inglish bich!" he screamed viciously. "You could’ve
broken my ankle. As it is you ‘ave prubbly ruined my boots!" And
then he stopped, and stared at me. I must’ve woken him up when I
tripped, because he was rubbing his eyes.
Well if my own ankle wasn’t actually broken it was badly sprained, and
I hate being shouted at. So I burst into tears. Immediately he
crouched down by my side, tilted my face up with one finger under my
chin and said "poor pritty Inglish butterfly" in the most gorgeous
accent I ever heard.
"Are you broken, Keem, my baybee?" he asked. "Eddie will rescue
you." And before I could ask him how he knew my name he scooped me up
in his arms and strode off towards the first aid tent. I was cuddled
up to his bare brown chest. He was probably the best looking man I’ve
ever seen -- like a Greek statue -- all in shades of brown apart
from his teeth. Which isn’t that weird really, because he was.... Not
a statue. Greek. Otherwise why would anyone call him Greek Eddie?
And as well as being a total hunk he was incredibly sweaty. That was
amazing. I mean everyone’s so clean aren’t they? The only time I’ve
ever come across someone who didn’t smell of shower gel was a cleaning
lady we once had who had damp patches under her arms which smelt of
onions. The patches, that is, not the arms.
Eddie didn’t smell of onions. He smelled of brand new sweat distilled
entirely from male hormones. It was seriously good news he was
carrying me. My legs went so weak I’d have fallen over if he hadn’t
been. Who’d’ve thought sweat could be sexy?
The first aiders were thrilled to see us at first, especially as I
knew a couple from my course. They lost interest a bit once they saw
there wasn’t any blood. I heard one volunteer grumbling that the ankle
she’d had on the mock-up had had splinters of bone sticking out,
whereupon the bolster-in-charge told her to shut up and be grateful
she had a real accident instead of a Boy Scout and some Plasticine.
They patched me up and Eddie kept stroking my leg in a comforting sort
of way, though as his hand advanced up my thigh I couldn’t help
wondering how he was going to convince me and a whole tentful of first
aiders that he was stroking my pussy in a comforting sort of way.
Luckily they’d finished bandaging my ankle before Eddie got that far,
and he helped me to his car as I hopped rather clumsily on the crutch
I’d been lent. "Pieces of eight," I squawked, and Eddie laughed. It
was love.
He insisted on escorting me to the ball. I couldn’t dance, so he
wouldn’t dance, he said. It was only fair. He dropped me back at the
house and said he’d come round to collect me later.
I showered with my foot stuck outside the cubicle to keep the bandage
dry. It seemed a good idea at the time, but while I was washing my
hair standing on one leg with my eyes shut I fell over. Maria, our
housekeeper, heard the godawful crash I made and came to rescue me
muttering under her breath. She seems very religious -- always prays
whenever I have anything to do with her.
Of course the carpet was absolutely soaked and worse than that, I’d
given myself a dreadful whack on my top lip. I looked like someone had
started injecting stuff into it to give me a Kim Basinger pout and
forgotten to stop. It was bleeding too -- claret everywhere.
Well, I couldn't go to a party looking like that but I couldn’t ring
Eddie either, because not only did I not know his number I didn’t even
know which team he was in, so I just had to wait for him to arrive and
break the bad news then. Maria helped arrange me on one of the little
sofas in Mummy’s pretty sitting room and I sat there feeling cheesed
off about our ruined evening.
Eddie turned up half an hour early with a bottle of Bolly and Maria
showed him in. He didn’t seem a bit fed up that I wasn’t going. "You
do not go, so I do not go," he announced. "I spit on their balls." I
watched him nervously but he didn’t. Thank God. The drawing room
carpet’s what they call ‘important’.
"A chance to know each other" he said. "Better" I added automatically.
God, my lip hurt. He smiled. "A chance to know each other better. Is
exact."
So he sat on the carpet leaning against the sofa gazing up at me like
a Labrador I once had. Such wonderful brown eyes. So loyal... And we
drank the champagne and he started feeling me up. He couldn’t kiss my
mouth, but he soon got my tits out and started snogging them, which I
love. And all that other stuff, you know.....
Very soon I was wearing nothing but tiny white pants. "Like Elle
Macpherson, but far more sexy," Eddie murmured. He did most of the
talking, which was great. I’m no good at small talk at the best of
times, but with a split lip it was a total nightmare. So it was lovely
Eddie talked so much. Most of it was blush-making stuff about how
beautiful I was, and how the saints must’ve been smiling when I fell
over his boots and into ‘is ‘eart... I was pretty sure our vicar would
object to that. Sacrilege or something -- except our church doesn’t
go in for saints much anyway.. Well, apart from St. George -- but
he killed things.
And then I remembered. "Eddie," I asked. "How did you know my name
already?" He shifted a little and looked away as though he’d got
something in his eye. Then he cleared his throat and smiled up at me
like a happy spaniel.
"Keem, Keem -- who on the polo circuit does not know the daughter of
the warm-hearted Madame Nice-but-Deem? Keem, my little dove, you
and your mother are much-loved, believe me. You have qualities few of
your sex share."
The sincerity of this tribute made tears well in my eyes. And I was
just about to unzip his trousers to show him how moved I was when I
realised my mouth was completely whores de combat. I couldn’t suck my
top teeth let alone a handsome Greek’s column. "Oh bugger!" I cried,
rather spoiling the beauty of the moment.
Because of course in those days I still believed the no b.j. means
death legend, and the full horror of our situation had only just
dawned on me. What in heaven’s name were we to do?
It’s easy to see that Daddy’s had a huge impact on my life. Ever since
I first came on I’ve been obsessed with not becoming a one parent
family. I mean he starts going a nasty colour when he even talks about
them. So I’m still a virgin.
Family planning isn't reliable. Can't be, stands to reason, or they
wouldn't call it family planning, would they? I mean, it assumes a
family. I once told a girlfriend the only thing I trusted to stop me
getting pregnant was not doing it at all. "It’s foolproof," I said. "I
can see why that might appeal," she said. Cheeky cow.
Mummy doesn’t like unmarried mothers either but she’s not half so
hard-line. In fact she once said something about how in her day a
well-timed pregnancy was a girl’s best friend. But then she said she
hadn’t said it, so I don’t know what she was on about. I think it’s
her age.
In fact it must be, because after she’d said what she said she hadn’t
said, Daddy piped up with "Some women would never have got themselves
a husband at all without a shotgun," in a meaning sort of way and she
went bright red and said "I haven’t had any complaints recently!" and
Daddy said "Only because the customer’s always right, you raddled old
biddy" and she ran upstairs and shut herself in the bathroom.
Sometimes I think those two talk in code.
But here I was with Eddie, no immediate first aid to hand, and no idea
what to do next.
"Oh Eddie, you’re going to hate me," I mumbled. "I can’t suck you off
with my mouth like this -- look at me! And I’m useless at hand-jobs!
What in heaven’s name are we going to do? Would it help if I got Maria
to call you an ambulance?"
"What is this?" he looked at me blankly. "I am confusing. I hear of
the English taste for costumes. You wish to play doctors and nurses,
per’apps, my cherub?"
Clearly he had no idea how serious his position might become. So I
explained our looming emergency to him, and my virginity, and he
started laughing, and then he stopped very quickly. It was good of me
to be concerned of 'is ‘ealth, he said, but ‘e ‘ad a solution. Daddy
would have told him to take an aspirate, but I hadn’t the nerve.
"Let us, my angel, try my country’s speciality," he suggested. Well,
I’m no expert but I couldn’t see what possible use taramasalata could
be in our predicament. I must’ve been looking totally baffled because
he smiled very patiently and said "I will fuck your bottom, yes?"
You will fuck my bottom, no, was what I was thinking, but it seemed a
terribly selfish attitude so I kept it to myself. "OK, then," I said.
"Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." But that set off this
crazy mental picture of someone fucking a hung sheep’s bottom and I
got the giggles.
Which was a good thing, because Greek Eddie didn’t hang about. If I
hadn’t been giggling I think the next bit might’ve hurt. As it was he
had his hand inside the edge of my knickers and a finger right up my
bum before I had a chance to tense up. And it felt OK. A bit full and
shy-making, but OK.
He jiggled his finger in and out a bit, and kissed my tits and my
neck hard for what seemed a long time. I was beginning to rather
like this. I wondered whether this felt at all the same as fucking.
Then he slipped his finger out of my still rather surprised little
bottom, wriggled my knickers down and off, and started putting me in
a better position.
"Come, my little angel, move like this for Eddie," his voice caressed
me. Propping my bad ankle up carefully on some silly little cushions
we’ve got, he swivelled me round until I was kneeling on the rug with
my tummy resting on the sofa and my arms braced against the back. I
would’ve liked more of the stroking and kissing bit myself, but men
are always in such a rush aren’t they?
I heard him preparing to spit behind me, and feared the worst. What
the hell would make him want to spit now? God, I’m thick. Of course he
must’ve used the lick to grease his tadger -- I mean I expect some
people have proper lubricants hanging around the drawing room but
we’re just not that sort of family. Apart from butter, sometimes, but
that’s only for scones. Not buns. Jesus, I made up a joke. A real
joke! On purpose! Golly.
So I was kneeling as if I was worshipping the sofa and thinking all
these jumbled thoughts when all of a sudden I felt this presence at my
arse. He was sort of looming -- I could feel him rubbing the soft
hot purply end of his dick up and down between my arse cheeks like a
warm plum. His movements were slow and lingering, stopping completely
for a moment every time he touched the actual hole itself.
It was nice. It was very nice. I could actually feel my bum hole sort
of yearning. It was trying to open outwards. And then he very gently
pushed the round hot tip of his cock into my bum. I gasped and tried
to relax, but I was grateful when he withdrew a little to let me
adjust. It was a very sexy feeling, but a bit tense-making. I focused
on letting him in, and maybe it would have all gone smoothly if he
hadn’t got impatient.
But he did. Without any warning, Eddie suddenly grabbed my hips and
thrust his full veiny length slam into my unsuspecting arse. I let out
the most awful shriek, which didn’t do my poor lip any good at all,
but this didn’t stop him. Having rammed it home he went straight into
a frantic driving rhythm, pumping in and out of my helpless little
arsehole like a fucking pogo stick.
Either he thought I was screaming with delight or it didn’t bother him
that I wasn’t. Whatever he was thinking, his cock kept up those huge,
hard, unforgiving thrusts. Shit, it hurt. Hurt like buggery. Oh, so
that’s where the expression comes from. Ah...
It seemed like forever, I felt like that poor blonde girl only with
King Kong up her jacksie instead of just sitting on his hand, and the
tears were falling down my cheeks. Finally his grip on my hips got
really painful and his cock became even more rigid, if that were
possible.
Later I found out he had a nice sort of penis -- nothing very unusual
-- but as it pounded mercilessly into my battered young hole it felt
like a monster. But at least I could tell he was going to come
soon. And the sooner the better as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t
liking this.
Eddie grunted once, twice, three times and then let out a sort of
outraged bellow. He slammed his cock in right to the hilt and I felt
the spunk blurting its way into my guts. With my arsehole so sore
each soothing jet of creamy cum felt like a blessing. A few seconds
later, as he moved slightly and let his damp little customer slip
slickly out into the air, I welcomed the soothing coat of semen that
covered my sore bruised tissues. Buggery, I decided, was the living
end.
Eddie thought I was God’s gift, that’s for sure. I mean it was
perfectly clear he thought he was God’s gift, but he definitely felt I
was a pleasing little trinket too. He kissed my forehead, and praised
me, ruffling my hair. "Oh Keem, my beautiful special lady," he
sighed. "Eet was wonderful for you too? No, do not answer me -- I
can see you have tears in your perfect blue eyes. For you also it was
a fuck of magic..." On and on he went. I felt like a pet. I started
to wonder if he was going to offer me a sugar lump. I was more than
prepared to roll over and play dead. Anything rather than more bum
fucking.
I must have the wrong sort of bum, I thought. I was just getting
seriously miserable about the whole depressing evening when it struck
me that if I did have the wrong sort of bum there wasn’t much I could
do about it really. I mean I could hardly pop into Harrods and put a
nice new stretchy one on Mummy's account, could I? Or pray for one in
church, for that matter. It was the thought of asking God for a
replacement arsehole, "One more suitable for sexual purposes, please
Sir," that finished me off.
Better laugh than cry, my old Nanny used to say, so I did.
Anyway, by the time Eddie left he was quite convinced I was as happy
as he was about wrecking my poor old bum. He thought I was madly in
love with him. The sad thing is I expect I really was, or pretending
very well. Why I’m always so desperate to please I’ve never
understood. But before we delve into the mysteries of my single brain
cell and get hopelessly boring, I’ll tell you what happened next --
and how I finally found true happiness....
@---}---}----
Are you going to have a pudding? I am. Let’s order profiteroles, then
we can throw them at Daisy’s cousin -- you see him -- the fat
chap over there with the Leander tie. It’ll be just like old times...
@---}---}----
If you enjoyed this, please let me know at bronwen@anon.nymserver.com.
Remember Celeste's blow-job principle! <grin>
Translations of English English supplied on request! <giggle>
All Bronwen's other stories, plus a wacky tour of the life of her
wicked slut-twin Bikini-Barbie-Bronwen, are at
http://www.cyber-mall.com/Bronwen, courtesy of Joe Parsons. Thanks,
Joe!
--
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