Chapter 1
Slip inside the eye of your mind
Don't you know you might find
A better place to play
You said that you'd never been
But all the things that you've seen
Will slowly fade away
Don't you know you might find
A better place to play
You said that you'd never been
But all the things that you've seen
Will slowly fade away
So I start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside, summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
'cause You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside, summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
'cause You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out
And so Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say
Take me to the place where you go
Where nobody knows, if it's night or day.
Please don't put your life in the hands
Of a Rock 'n Roll band
and throw it all away
Where nobody knows, if it's night or day.
Please don't put your life in the hands
Of a Rock 'n Roll band
and throw it all away
Gonna start the revolution from your bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to your head
Step outside the summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out
'Cause you said the brains I had went to your head
Step outside the summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out
And So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by.
her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say
her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say
And So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger
I heard you say
So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late and we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, don't look back in anger
I heard you say
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, don't look back in anger
I heard you say
It's not today."
WRITTEN AND SUNG BY THE AMAZING MANCUNIAN BAND, OASIS
…ooOoo…
Looking in the mirror, I sigh loudly and shake my head as I drag both my fingers and a comb through the bright, shiny strands of my hair. Scowling at the way that it fucking gleams in the afternoon sun that slants through my bedroom window, I hiss out in rage as I chuck the useless plastic comb across the room in disgust.
Some people have referred to it as the colour of 'spun gold' – That analogy is something that makes me blanch to be honest, because it's more like the fucking straw that Rumplestiltskin spun into silk to save the princess in the children's fable.
Sigh.
Even my sodding hair seems to taunt me.
Shit.
"Ooooh, Edward… it's so pretty… it's just like coppery sunlight … it looks like gold… it's the colour of honey … it looks so soft… can I touch it?" - that's the regular dull and boring bollocks that usually gets spewed out when people see my hair.
Sigh.
Grabbing two handfuls firmly, I try one more time, and fail, as ever, to tug, yank and control the insane mop of hair that sits on top of my head as it still fucking resolutely refuses to be tamed.
Exhaling loudly, I shrug my shoulders in resignation, and, walking across the room, I bend down and pick up and place the comb back on the chest of drawers with slightly shaking fingers, I take in a nervous breath and stare at my reflection once more.
Closing my eyes, I attempt to calm myself by breathing in and out slowly, before I look at my image once again, shaking my head this time.
How in the name of fuck had I got myself involved in this shit in the first place?
He'd said, specifically, that I had to be precisely, and perfectly, groomed as per his very exacting instructions, and, looking at my hair again, it would seem that I've failed that specific requirement before I've even left my bedroom.
Sigh.
I'm expected to look as if I've made a real effort with my appearance for our first evening together, not as though I've had my fingers in a light socket…
Empty, emotionless vivid green orbs stare back at me, and once again, I tug my hair, as I always do when I feel uncomfortable in any way, shape or form.
Most of my life I've been an empty, almost hollow vessel and tonight is going to be no different, I should imagine.
But, surely, this is what I've sought?
Isn't it?
Sex without emotion.
Fucking without feeling.
Orgasms without consequence.
Isn't that what I signed up for?
Shrugging in response to my own questions, I pat the sticky out bits of my hair futilely before I run a finger along my smooth jaw, checking that I had at least managed to follow that particular order, and that I did as I had been instructed and had had all facial and genital hair completely removed.
What the hell does he need me to be like that for?
Oh well.
As long as I get to cum, I don't really care about anything, or anyone, else to be honest.
I'm a typically horny teenage male, I guess, and as long as I get to fuck and be fucked, any hole will do.
Quite early on, I had discovered that only at the very point of orgasm do I ever truly feel alive.
Only then, does my heart swell and fill with some semblance of emotion, so I'm willing to try anything in order to achieve that euphoria, however brief it may be, and I'm totally selfish about reaching it, however I get it, and whatever the consequences.
Only then, does my heart swell and fill with some semblance of emotion, so I'm willing to try anything in order to achieve that euphoria, however brief it may be, and I'm totally selfish about reaching it, however I get it, and whatever the consequences.
Sadly it's getting harder and harder for me to reach the mind blowing high that typically comes with first experiences, and that feeling of unfettered and unbridled Nirvana, hence the need to push my boundaries ever farther.
Fuck only knows what they plan on doing to me.
After the one and only time that I had seen them in action, I'm pretty sure that anything goes!
When I had eventually plucked up the courage to ask him of his plans for me, he'd chuckled and had told me in no uncertain terms that I might just get punished if I asked anything of him, again.
Of course, I had stuck to that request, and hadn't asked him anything again, however tempted I had been because I knew it was pointless as he had no intention of telling me anyway.
Added to that, part of me already knows that anticipation, expectation and excitement will build by not knowing and that this is part of the allure of this particular lifestyle, so I decided to just go with it.
I have absolutely no idea what to expect, other than that I will be royally, and possibly repeatedly fucked, but I guess I'll pretty much be required to sit down, shut up, be quiet and just do as I'm told to.
That's fine by me, I want to learn, not to teach, and from what I heard from conversations with Alice and some of her shiny new friends in 'the community,' these two are pretty much the best that money just simply cannot buy.
They chose me, I didn't choose them.
So at least they must think that I have some sort of promise?
Mustn't they?
He said I was just what they were looking for and that I had made him lose control in ways that no-one had managed to do to him in many years.
Good to know…
My excited - and slightly nervous - eyes scan the list of limits and requirements that I've picked up from the dresser once again, and I mentally check and tick off what I have and haven't done.
The small, precise, black inked tick beside every numbered item shows that I seem to have everything under control, other than my fucking hair, and smiling to myself; I fold the list up and put it inside my dresser drawer for safekeeping and future reference.
Before I'd met them, I'd thought that I was sexually adventurous, experienced and was feeling more than a little bit jaded, despite my young age.
That was, of course, until the package of documents regarding our respective physical and sexual histories, needs, wants and essentials, had been delivered to me by private courier four weeks ago.
My cock had been ram rod hard for four fucking weeks at the details of what they had already experienced and wanted to know what I had done and what I would be willing to try too.
Shit, their lists make me seem like such a little boy and at that point in time, for the first time in as long as I can remember; I felt strangely naïve and innocent, as I read them over.
Despite having sex with more people than I can remember, especially in the six weeks before we met, they made me felt like a fucking virgin.
How weird is that?
After everything that I've done in the past few years, how on earth could I feel like that?
How?
It's a feeling that I don't particularly enjoy, almost like being vulnerable and weak, and is one that I'd truly never expected, or wanted, to feel ever again.
Looking at my reflection once more, I sigh deeply and scrape my nails against my scalp once more.
Tonight needs to be perfect.
It has to be.
I've invested weeks and weeks of preparation and research for my first foray into this world, and I simply refuse to even contemplate the possibility of failing either them or me.
Refuse.
Failure is not a word that exists in my vocabulary, and it never has, and I point blank refuse to be less than one hundred percent committed to what I've agreed to do.
Squaring my shoulders firmly, I raise my chin defiantly as I take a deep, cleansing breath and exhale as I once again give myself a visual once over in the elegant, but simple, bevelled mirror.
They've given me my orders and instructions and I've been told precisely what I should look like, and therefore, I need to take control of every aspect of my appearance.
My "lovely" eyes are to be unhindered, because they want to watch the expressions in them during the entire evening, so, against my better wishes, my hair has had to be trimmed.
As usual, the whole, "You have the most beautiful eyes," blah de blah de blah, "You have the loveliest hair," yak, yak, yaketty yak, "Fuck, just exactly how big is your cock? Let me get my tape measure…" spiel was spouted, and sighing at the memory, I nervously run my fingers through my oddly coloured, uncontrollable hair, once again.
The irony of the fact that I spent the entirety of yesterday evening in a fucking beauty salon, no less, having my body prepared for their delectation and use, is not lost on me.
This hair can be controlled better than the hair on my head.
He had very kindly, and generously, booked me an appointment for treatments in Harrods' elegant spa and salon to have my chest, back, balls and arse crack waxed in preparation for what's about to happen.
Sigh.
The female receptionist seemed more than a little bit taken with me when I told her who I was, and excitedly shimmied out from behind her desk as she explained that she liked to take care of Dr Hale's guests personally.
When I asked her how many guests Dr Hale had sent here, she blushed and said that part of their professional ethos was confidentiality at all times.
Oh well.
She hung onto my arm more than a little too tightly as she led me to my treatment room.
Once there, she instructed me to strip naked and to dress in the white, cotton towelling robe that was on a hanger in the locker where I was to deposit my jeans, t-shirt, underwear and shoes.
The two assistants, both in their mid-thirties I would guess, who entered the aforementioned room five minutes after me, stopped dead in their tracks before they began to giggle excitedly as they pushed their way through the door. They were visibly salivating as they helped me out of the white, fluffy robe.
They stared at my naked form for a good couple of minutes before they instructed me where and how they 'wanted' me to lie down in readiness for my therapies.
I had propped myself up on my elbows and watched them closely as they wiped my lightly tanned skin down with a diluted surgical spirit solution to remove any oil from my body.
"You have lovely skin…" the blonde therapist said as she stroked down her tightly fitted black uniform, "Not so much as a spot… or a blemish…" she said, sounding wistful.
They were both slightly flushed and sweating as they waxed my upper body quickly, and efficiently. They commented on, and touched, the various deep coloured moles that dot my back and neck as they did so.
I wasn't sure that that was part of their usual procedure to be honest…
After they had covered several inches of my chest with wax, they pressed down on the material and I hissed loudly as they ripped the gauze strips from my body.
It fucking burned and stung like a bitch, but strangely enough, I found that my breathing had hitched as the pain turned into a warm, aching pleasure.
Shit.
Submissive or what?
The waxing of my chest took forever, and wasn't helped by the fact that they both spent an inordinate amount of time smoothing my skin gently both before and afterwards, but when they finally helped me to get up onto my hands and knees, they both seemed to freeze.
Turning to peer at them after several long moments, I could see that they were frantically whispering amongst themselves, and were both dotted with tiny beads of sweat.
Interesting.
As their gloved hands slide over my torso, my body shuddered a little bit before they spread my firm arse cheeks, with one hand each, and coated around my arse hole and along my crack with the slightly hotter than body temperature, thick, pink, sticky gunky wax, and now they used their gloved fingers instead of the previously required brushes.
Hmmm.
Clenching my teeth and closing my eyes tightly as they tore the hair from my most sensitive areas, I almost cried out in pain because it stung like buggery - forgive the pun – and began to pant lightly to control my body's response.
When they pulled my cheeks apart further, and a finger brushed over my puckered flesh again and again, I couldn't hold back a groan.
I love my arse being touched, and I heard the girls saying that they were checking for stray hairs as they continued to touch me, inappropriately, and although I truly didn't mind what they were doing, it was just getting to be too much and I was fighting to control my urge to hump against the treatment table.
One of the girls had suddenly backed away and said that she had to leave the room, explaining that she felt slightly faint, due to the heat. Funnily enough, her hot flush had only occurred when my fucking traitorous cock had hardened fully under their soft, feminine touch as they turned me over onto my back once more.
As I lay down on my back and spread my legs widely when they each yanked a knee outward, their gentle fingers smoothed the warm wax onto my bollocks and around the base of my cock, and when it twitched under their ministrations, they had both whimpered loudly.
Looking down, I sighed and flopped backwards again when I saw the bead of pre-cum that was sitting proudly on the tip.
That's when she left…
Shit.
But I couldn't blame it really, because I'm pretty sure that cupping your client's balls repeatedly, stroking the perineum with your thumb, and licking your lips incessantly whilst being so close to your client's cock that he can feel your breath on his wet, suddenly exposed glans, isn't usually part of the normal procedure.
One vague possibility of the scent of a pussy being in close proximity, and my fucking prick ALWAYS reaches for the heavens as quickly as possible, making my balls droop further as it does so.
I know exactly what effect my body has on both genders and milk it at any given time and as I had rolled my thighs out slightly and the cooler air had hit my now bare arsehole, my cock rose even higher towards its soft goal.
Sigh.
Sadly, for the remaining beautician and myself, her supervisor came into to assist her and caught her mid-squeeze of my balls just as she opened her mouth, inches above my throbbing erection, and she got removed immediately from my room.
Ugh.
There was definitely more than the slight possibility of at the very least a blow job there, and to be honest, I was more than likely going to get my arse finger fucked at the same time.
Oh well.
It had been strictly forbidden anyway so I was quite glad that temptation had been removed from my path.
But, as luck would have it, I got a complementary facial and back and shoulder massage for their lack of professionalism and a year's worth of free waxing vouchers, so it was a win-win situation for me.
When I had left the salon, I discovered that one of the assistants had slipped her number in my jeans pocket, but I'd crumpled the piece of paper up and thrown it in a bin, laughing, at the earliest opportunity. I had been forbidden any sort of sexual release or gratification, and as such, there is no way on God's green earth that I was going to allow these strangers, or anyone else come to that, spoil my chance to experience the ultimate in sexual depravities that was coming my way.
Smiling to myself again, I grab a pot of hair clay, or some such shit, and take out a dollop, rubbing it firmly between my hot hands, before I smooth it though my hair in a final desperate attempt to do as I've been told.
It would seem that I can control the wiry, errant hair that sprouts around my arsehole and balls with relative ease, but not the crap that grows on the top of my fucking head?
Where is the sodding justice in THAT?
Sigh.
Stroking my nails lightly across my smooth cheeks and jaw once again, I'm at least thrilled with the result of the hot flannel and cut-throat razor shave that I'd had at Trumpers at 4.00 pm, so that I can indeed remain as stubble free as possible, for as long as possible, tonight.
Washing my hands, I shake my head; I guess my hair is a bit of an analogy of myself in many ways really and as I tug my fingers through it again and again, I smile to myself. Like my mind, it's defiant, strong, wild, weird, but ostensibly, to the outside world, both are brilliantly appealing.
Sigh.
If only they knew.
My hair and I are virtually indifferent to the needs of others, even to us. We both appear to work as a separate entity.
A bit like my fucking cock!
I guess both are abnormal as some would undoubtedly say.
But then, I've never really felt 'normal' in the classical sense of the word, so my appearance just highlights this fact.
I'm not normal.
Not really.
Looking back at myself in the large, antique and expensively elegant mirror, I close my eyes and swallow.
No, I'm not normal at all.
And I don't want to be.
If you ask me, if normal in the everyday sense means conforming to a dull, monotonous existence, then I'll take weird any day of the week, thank you very much.
Opening my eyes again, I walk across the room before I rub some cologne onto the palms of my hands and smooth a little of it through my coppery mop, as he told me to.
My skin is to remain completely untouched and untainted by any chemicals, apart from deodorant, so that every part of my body is available for their 'pleasure' as he put it so succinctly.
Walking into the bathroom, I floss and brush my teeth once more, and I wash my hands and my cock and balls after peeing.
Sighing as my balls begin to throb, yet again, in desperation, I pull on my brand new, dazzlingly white Calvin Klein, skin tight boxer shorts that make my already burgeoning cock, and full balls, look even bigger than ever.
Staring at my crotch, I lightly smooth my hand over the tight fabric before I shake my head slowly as I look at the small damp patch that is already appearing on my clean underwear already.
Christ, I'm so fucking desperate, that I'm leaking non-stop pre-cum now.
Part of the rules had been that I wasn't allowed to masturbate for four-fucking-weeks.
Can you believe that?
What kind of sadistic fucker would come up with that kind of torturing cruel test?
Huh?
Bastard.
Shit.
Sniggering, I grin at my reflection once more and chuckle at what a smug little fucker I'd planned on being. I'd thought about being a sneaky bastard and letting someone else give me a hand job or a blowjob instead.
If I couldn't touch myself, surely someone else could do it for me, couldn't they?
The initial instructions hadn't said that another hand, or mouth, couldn't get me off, so all I needed to do was to go to one of Jasper's 99 Chimpanzees gigs, have a few beers, and maybe a joint, and one of the more than willing groupies would suck me off backstage, and finish me off with by making me cum again with a finger up my arse whilst wanking me off.
That's the way it always was, Jasper and I would often share the girls and never even had to kiss them, let alone touch them other than their hair or their hips whilst we thrust into one of their holes.
We were always careful to use condoms and not risk our health, because let's face it, these girls had been with God only knows who before us.
And we were just the same.
When Jasper's band was playing three nights a week, we would fuck at least two girls a night, so that was a lot of different holes we were dipping into which had been dipped into before by fucking God only knows who.
On more than one occasion, we would pick one out of the crowd that we both thought looked okay, and she would give me a blow job whilst Jasper fucked her from behind or vice versa.
And we often took two girls back to his tree house and fucked them side by side so we could see one another better.
Watching his cock slide in and out of a mouth or pussy was fucking hot and I know that he found watching me just as stimulating. We usually ended up staring at one another as we fucked the pliable warm body of whomever and even tried to time our orgasms so that we would cum together.
He got to fuck arses far more often than I did though, sadly, because my cock is much bigger and frightens the shit out of most people at the best of times but it's like a red light when pressed against an arse hole and I am usually refused entry!
I guess to most people that might seem more than a little bit strange that we liked watching each other fuck girls, but neither of us had ever been shy about walking about naked in front of one another or even wanking when we were together so why should be find fucking someone at the same time odd?
And the unpleasant fact is that these girls were chosen as merely an attractive, or not, vessel to make us cum and nothing more.
That's all we cared about, we weren't looking for relationships or even to help get them off, we just wanted somewhere hot, soft and willing to empty our balls into and as soon as we were done, we yanked up our jeans and left them without a backward glance.
Simple as.
Job done.
Everyone happy!
That was, until I read the next paragraph.
The fucker had written in bold, bright red, shouty frigging capitals, that I wasn't allowed sexual contact of ANY fucking kind… either at my own hand or anyone else's.
What the fuck?
FUCKER!
Have you any idea how hard - forgive the pun once again – that's been for me?
Huh?
Have you?
Well, let me fucking well tell you, I almost didn't stick to his instructions – in fact – I almost told him exactly WHERE to stick his fucking orders!
Almost.
It's all but killed me to adhere to this rule, to be honest, especially because one of the other fucking requirements was that I wear a medium or large butt plug. They had very thoughtfully provided various sizes for my use, along with an industrial sized pump action bottle of anal lube, and instructed me to wear them for eight hours every-fucking-day for the entire twenty eight days from when the list of requirements had arrived until right now!
The feeling as they slid in and stretched me every morning after my shower, made me gasp and pant at the large intrusion, and being the bloody minded mother fucker that I've always been, I refused to start small and work my way up.
Oh no.
I started with the largest and heaviest from day one, and almost failed on the first morning because it hurt badly to begin with but as I got used to the ache, it felt fucking great because I was so full.
The plugs are heavy, stainless steel and amazingly easy and smooth to insert, and they are quite long. With every bend of my body, they seem to press ever harder against my prostate and the cool metal is really amazingly stimulating. Even more so than fingers, believe it or not because they never tire.
So stimulating in fact, that on more than one occasion, I'd absently found myself stroking my rock hard cock, or squeezing my aching balls, as the plug rubbed relentlessly against my swollen gland. I'd even taken to wearing tighter jeans, seeking some sort of comfort and relief as my throbbing cock stroked itself against the seam. I had, of course, immediately stopped masturbating as soon as I'd realised what I was doing, but it'd almost crucified me to do so.
Having wanked, and orgasmed as a result of aforementioned wank, at least twice every day for almost four years, either by my own hand or another's, it's been almost impossible for me not to do it, even absentmindedly.
I've suffered from every ailment from the proverbial - and most definitely to be expected - blue balls, to sharp aching pains in my groin, stomach aches, headaches, irritability, sleeplessness and most embarrassingly of all, three fucking wet dreams.
Another part of my required preparation was to message him every day explaining my feelings, desires, wants and needs.
This was something that I fucking hated doing, almost as badly as desisting from touching myself.
Everything was to be detailed, from the way the plug had made me feel to what I had eaten.
The wet dream message was an uncomfortable email - or three - to both write and send. I had never had to explain myself to anyone before, other than at school …and which had led to me being informed that I would be punished on our first session for my inability to follow a simple fucking order if I couldn't control myself!
Bastard.
Punished before we even began…
Great.
He was so pissed off with me for this "serious infringement of his wishes" as he put it, that it was also threatened that if it happened again, the test scene would be cancelled and wouldn't be rescheduled, and I'd have to seek a trial session with a different Dominant or Dominatrix.
If, that is, anyone else would even consider taking me on after the 'community' had been informed of my tardiness and inability to follow their simple orders…
Fuckers.
Well, failure was NEVER an option for me in any sphere of my life, so, for the next three weeks, I'd slept as much as I could, sometimes as much as fifteen hours a day, with the help of four Kalms at a time, and I had worn two pairs of skin tight Speedo's beneath my boxers, twenty four hours a day. Even when wearing the plug… shudder. That made it press even more firmly inside of me as I clenched my cheeks harder.
Sigh.
Most of the time that would have been just delicious, but this was absolute fucking torture.
The headaches had been horrible, and I'd even attempted to keep my hands out of my trouser and jean pockets at all times to keep the temptation of stroking myself to a minimum.
The other main instructions were that no alcohol, illegal substances or stimulants of any description were allowed to be imbibed, - even coffee, tea or coca cola - that I had to get a minimum of seven hours sleep per night and that I had to eat a healthy diet consisting of three meals and two snacks per day. I also had to add as much pineapple and cinnamon to my diet as possible and to keep red meat to one portion per day to ensure that my bodily 'emissions' were sweetened.
Grrrrrr...
At least the sleeping requirements hadn't been difficult to stick to.
Sigh.
He had made me feel like a small child again, and like I said, it's been fucking torture.
The only concession to their rules that they'd been willing to make were the herbal sleeping aids, Kalms, so that I was able to stop wanking myself to orgasm in my sleep.
And, like I said before, I'm REALLY not normal, because, perverse as it may sound, the withdrawals and aches have only added to the feeling of excitement and that I am, at last, going to belong to something new and different.
So, normal be damned.
With this new foray into an unknown, exciting, highly secretive, potentially dark and seemingly hidden underbelly part of polite society, I'll never be expected to be 'normal' again.
Putting on some clean black socks, I then yank on a pair of brand new Tommy Hilfiger jeans and button up the fly, before I drag on an indecently tight, white Paul Smith V-necked t-shirt over my newly cut hair.
Biting my lip to hold back a groan as I stand properly and I shift slightly as the plug does its usual thing against my prostrate and my cock twitches deliciously against the tight fabric.
Shit…
I'm going to blow my load the second they look at me, let alone touch me, at this rate.
Huh.
My nipples are tight and hard beneath the stretchy cotton, showing how excited, or terrified, I already am and as I move my hands upwards to smooth the fabric, my muscles flex attractively.
They have repeatedly told me that I'm the most beautiful boy that they have ever seen… and that they have never wanted a person to submit to them as much as they want me to.
Right.
I think, in all honesty, that he wants it far more than she does, but that doesn't matter to me, as long as I experience something new and exciting.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror once more, I look intently into the shockingly emerald green eyes that gaze right back at me, without blinking and frown deeply.
Oh, I know that I look good, as usual, but that's all that anyone ever sees of me.
That's all anyone ever wants to see of me.
The pretty cover.
The 'amazing eyes and hair' or the family money.
No-one has ever tried to see the real 'me' hidden beneath the surface.
No-one has ever really cared enough to try.
Not really.
How the hell have I got myself into this again?
Huh?
'Normal' people don't sign pre-contracts agreements where they readily and happily say that they'll be subjected to abuse with every implement known to mankind, have molten wax poured over their genitals, weights tied to their bollocks, chunks of metal attached to their nipples, agree to share your body with anyone that they choose to give you to, no questions asked, and to happily bend over to allow cocks - whether flesh, silicone or rubber – fingers, vegetables and tongues, shoved up their arses without any love or emotion involved, do they?
Well?
Do they?
No.
No, they don't.
I don't think they do, to be honest.
Nor are they willing to agree to be hit, whipped and beaten with fists, rulers, canes, floggers, sticks and paddles.
In every aspect of my life, I've always been, and no doubt, always will be, the odd one out.
And in many ways, I've always actively sought solitude.
Being alone has been the one consistency in my life, so it's something that I've got used to and have adapted to.
Even in a crowd, I've never felt as though I really belong, apart from with the Whitlocks and sometimes with the Masens too. And I'm convinced that I've always been emotionally crippled and paralysed due to my loveless childhood.
My father had sent me to see a child psychologist when I was ten after my school had said that they were concerned about my lack of socialising and empathy regarding other children, but she gave up after six sessions saying that she couldn't help me.
She bored me rigid, so in the end I just turned around to look at a dirty mark on the wall and ignored her, and instead chose to practice concertos in my head.
Perhaps along with the physical pain and pleasure that I know is coming my way, after they have taken their pleasure first, of course, my emotional retardation will thaw?
Is that possible?
Is it?
Perhaps handing total and absolute control of my mind and body over to these people will take away the feeling that I have to be responsible for everything and will thus allow me to bring mental feelings to the surface at the same time as I experience a new sense of physical enlightenment?
Maybe…
I don't know what it feels like to love anyone or anything.
In fact… pathetic as it sounds, I don't know what it feels like to BE loved by anyone or anything.
Love has always been something for other people to feel and experience.
Never for me.
Ever.
It isn't for me.
And I don't want it.
I've never wanted it…
It isn't something that I've ever been interested in experiencing either, not in the slightest.
As far as I'm concerned, love is a waste of time, energy, emotion and effort and makes jibbering fools of men, and pathetic saps of women.
They become nothing but hollow failures, castrated by stupidity when it all falls apart and goes tits up.
And more frighteningly, I see it as an extreme weakness to need to rely on someone else to give you happiness - and I don't do weakness in any way, shape or form - whatsoever.
It's nothing but silly emotional, pathetic, fairy-tale clap-trap, and is something that goes totally against my logical, coolly disinterested and mathematically precise, nature.
At school I was always clever and analytical to the point of being weird and cold. I could take part in an adult conversation and both argue and dissect their discussions to the point of rudeness, at the age of two.
As a small child, I would sit in a corner, alone, reading, from four years of age. I wasn't interested in being 'friends' with any of the snot-nosed little brats whose loving mummies or au pairs picked them up after school with a biscuit and a hug.
Hence the suggestion of therapy.
Embarrassingly, I was dropped off and collected every day by my father's chauffeur with scarcely a nod, until I was sent to board at the age of six.
Would I belong in this new world?
Would I want to?
DO I want to?
Sigh.
Yes, I think for the first time in a long time, I am ready to commit to something.
The enforced trust is something that I'm not entirely sure about but the emotionless fucking and promise of orgasms unlike anything I had ever experienced before had swung it for me to be honest. And having left school only four months previously, and being on the cusp of leaving London for the foreseeable future, I need 'something' exciting to fill the void that no longer being part of such an exclusive alumni has left.
Everything that I've 'known' has changed, yet again, and this particularly perverse kink seems as good a 'thing' as any to fill my time and titillate my voracious mental and sexual appetites.
I want something new, forbidden and different to inspire me, at least, before I leave London to begin my undergraduate law studies at St Catherine's College at Cambridge University, anyway.
Something that means that when I return to London in holidays and at weekends, I will be a part of a group of people who know me and know my likes, wants and needs without me having to explain myself.
Repeatedly.
How I will handle taking orders from these two remains to be seen.
From what I've heard, he does everything to the letter of his rules and instructions which suits me down to the ground because I love order and precision, hence the career choice.
The thought of dissecting a legal case suits my mathematically precise brain, and the very idea that the performance of a sexual act can also be broken down into a clinical, compartmentalised, highly controlled structure without any type of mental or emotional expenditure is hugely appealing and enthralling to me.
Looking at myself again, I sigh.
Because of the way people perceive me due to my appearance and the family that I descend from, the masses either feel inferior around me, or hang on my every word hoping for me to throw a few scraps of my heritage or cash their way.
Sigh.
Both of which I fucking hate, and the arse lickers and hangers-on drive me to the point of insanity!
There's only one type of arse licking that I enjoy and that isn't the right kind...
As intoxicating as it might sound having people following me everywhere like flies on shit, or listening to my every word as if it's the God's honest truth, is such a pain in the backside that it's vile.
Hence preferring my own company most of the time.
There aren't many people's views or opinions that I need or value in truth, and other than Jasper, I don't listen to anyone anyway.
You never know why people want to be with you, whether it's because they care for you, or because they want to be YOU and have what I have - and I always have, and always will - hate it.
On top of these oddities, I've also always had a very unfortunate predisposition to being obsessive about being the very best that I can be in every aspect of my life. This includes all areas of education, music, sport, and athletics, verging on aggressive domination which I know isn't healthy.
It'll stand me in good stead with the law, and I know that I'll be able to fight my corner in any court of the land with both ease and confidence, but in other parts of my life, this is exhausting.
This, in turn, has also become the case with sex…I have to be the best at both giving and receiving pleasure during every aspect of the act itself. It's almost as if I'm performing for an audience who will give me a score at the end of the experience …which I guess in turn has led me to where I am today.
Sigh.
And yet, you know, despite excelling at everything since the very earliest age, my father, to be honest, never even noticed that I was alive.
Ever.
Sighing once more, I turn away from the mirror and dresser and sit down on the edge of the bed, ignoring the incessant pressure in my arse as I remember one day when I was very young - about four or five. I had gone looking for my nanny, Jane, after I had woken up from a nap. I had been really unwell and was recovering from chicken pox. Even then, however poorly I was, I didn't bother looking for my father, because he was always either too busy to bother with me or wasn't at home.
I was never allowed to call him 'Dad' or 'Daddy' – it was always 'Father' – as he saw those terms as too informal and disrespectful.
Informal… how the hell could calling the man that sired you by a term of endearment be fucking disrespectful?
Staring at myself, I'm surprised at how flushed I've become as my hair flops slightly and my nostrils flare wildly as my chest rises and falls more rapidly as the rage that overwhelms me whenever I think of that waste of space, encompasses me once more.
He was my FATHER for fuck sake!
Isn't he supposed to be called by a pet name?
How formal is that relationship meant to be?
Huh?
Wasn't it his job to protect, cosset and adore me?
Well?
Wasn't it?
If that was indeed meant to be his role, he never accepted it or took that mantle on, instead he didn't seem to accept me as any part of his life at all and handed my care lock, stock and barrel over to a nanny from day one.
Jane, on the other hand, was genuinely fond of me and was the person closest to me in my every day home life, giving me the nearest thing to the elusive emotion - otherwise known as love - that I'd ever felt, or known, up to that point in time.
Most of my time was spent with her, and when I woke up from a nap, I couldn't find her and got upset.
I searched the whole house unsuccessfully, getting more and more upset because I was tired, scared and wanted my blue blankey, and eventually went into my father's bedroom, without knocking, to see if she was there.
She was there alright.
As was he.
I didn't even know that he had returned from his latest trip to India, it was a bit of a surprise for me to find Jane on her knees in front of him.
Of course, I'd no idea what was going on - I thought that she was merely helping him to do his trousers up like she did with me – but he was scared in the face and breathing heavily.
I asked why he had been running in the house. That was something that I was forbidden to do due to all the antiques. Well, he went mental and screamed and shouted for me to 'get the fuck out of my room' and after that, I was banned from entering his private rooms without his express permission, which he never, ever, gave.
Unfortunately, I can still vividly remember the look on her flushed face as she turned to stare at me with a horrified and shocked expression as she tried to tidy up her red, sweaty face and dramatically smeared lipstick.
His cock - or his 'pee pee' as I pathetically called it in those days – was sticking out of his trousers, covered in red stains, and even at my young age, I knew that that it wasn't a good thing for a child to be exposed to.
Jane left the next day without even saying goodbye to me, and Father took me into the garden where he lit the garden brazier and burned my blue, hand-knitted blanket as a punishment for invading his personal space.
Personal space!
I was a tired, lonely little boy for fuck sake and it was the only thing that I'd had that was made for me by my mother… and the bastard laughed and held me tightly by the arms when I cried and tried to yank it out of the fire as it melted and burned in the bright orangey red flames.
The other heart wrenching thing is that that was the only time that I could remember my father touching me.
He never hugged me or kissed me and he never even read me a bedtime story.
As the tears streamed down my face he squeezed me painfully and hissed into my ear, "Don't you cry, boy! Don't you dare! You are a Cullen, and Cullen's don't cry. Cullen's don't show weakness! Don't you bring shame onto the family name by being a cry baby!"
I hated him.
Hated him.
My blistered fingers remained untreated until I returned to school on the Monday morning and because of who my father was, no questions were ever asked.
But I learned one important lesson that day.
And that lesson was that I learned not to cry.
Ever.
And I didn't cry in front of him ever again.
Sigh.
He was an insensitive, cold, heartless fucker and my abiding memories of him are those of hatred and dislike, and sadly, and unfortunately for me, I seem to have inherited the inability to love from him.
Oh, he had paid the bills for my expensive education and ensured that I had everything I needed for all the most basic of material requirements, but never for my emotional wants.
He was distant at best, virtually permanently absent at worst. After Jane moved away, I was looked after, dispassionately, by a long and unfeeling succession of nannies and au pairs.
Whether he was fucking these women and then dismissed them when he became bored with them or not, I will never know, but all I do know, is that few lasted for longer than six months and everyone seemed to like me less than the one before.
On the brief occasions that our paths crossed, he would be too busy to ever spend any time with me, and would dismiss me to my room or the kitchen to keep me out of his way.
The summer house in the garden became my sanctuary and I spent many a lonely hour in there, with my teddy bear, Tristan, an apple, foil wrapped jam sandwich, bottle of water and my books, trying to keep myself from getting under his feet. And I guess that's where the need to be special in other areas of my life came from.
If I was the top of my class, he would notice me, surely?
If I was the captain of the rugby, football, cricket, basketball, tennis, rowing, boxing and swimming teams, he would know that I was alive, wouldn't he?
If I took my grade eight music exams at the age of six, he would be proud of me, wouldn't he?
If I could ask him questions in Mandarin when he returned home from a business trip in China, he would be stunned and thrilled, wouldn't he?
Sigh.
Standing again, I walk across the room to gather my required detritus for tonight.
How deluded a young child really is about the world and the people who are entrusted to care for them.
Chuckling wryly to myself, I tuck my phone, wallet, lavender scented hand cream and flavourless lip salve into the front pocket of my jeans.
Soft lips and hands are also a prerequisite of this evening.
Lowering the midnight blue window blinds, I've always loved dark blue, I leave the room, closing the door behind me with a resounding click.
Why the fuck would my father ever notice what I did or didn't do?
As far as he was concerned, I was little more than an irritating inconvenience in his life and he didn't care enough to ever acknowledge my presence, let alone my achievements, however big or small.
My abiding memories of birthdays and Christmases were a few beautifully wrapped educational presents from my father, grandmother and his business acquaintances, opened at the kitchen table, with my current nanny and then I would be immediately sent to my room to write thank you letters.
My friend, Elliott, had a Spiderman toy and I desperately wanted one.
For weeks before my eighth birthday, I left little drawings, pictures from magazines and wish lists all over the house just to show father what I wanted without actually asking him.
I was given a book on astronomy instead.
A cake, with candles, would always be served for tea, but I was never allowed to have anyone home to share my day with me. Not there was ever anyone who would want to spend the time with me, anyway because I had no close friends even at that young age, but frankly, that wasn't the point.
In truth, all jokes aside, I really do think I'm a bit of a loner, and always have been.
Even though people have wanted to be 'with' me for as long as I can remember, constantly telling me that I am beautiful and fawning all over me, none of them have ever inspired me in any way, shape or form, to want to have them around.
And none of them, until the Whitlocks and the Masens, had wanted my friendship.
So, stepping into this dark and depraved side of human sexuality seems to be the ideal way forward for me to go.
Loveless physical activity that helps me forget my reality however briefly, suits my needs and temperament perfectly.
After all, everyone, and everything, that has ever loved me has left me for one reason or another, so to be a part of something that requires nothing but obedience, suits me down to the ground.
Everything that I have ever felt close to has abandoned me, usually at the time when I wanted and needed them the most, so answer me this… why should falling in love be any different?
If I did have the misfortune to love someone, they would only desert me and I may have sadistic tendencies, but I really don't know about this masochism shit to be honest… perhaps I am a physical masochist, but I am most definitely not a mental one!
Even my mother died having me for fuck's sake, her heart gave out and she left me before I had even filled my lungs to scream a hello to her, or before I had even had the chance to clap eyes on her.
Who would have known that she had a weak valve and that the effort of having the 'natural birth' that she'd insisted upon, despite the recommendation of a caesarean section, to keep her darling baby safe and drug free, would kill her.
She'd probably roll in her grave if she knew that the guilt of my own birth killing her would lead me to experiment with drugs later in life, wouldn't she?
So much for a drug free start to my life, huh?
There were paintings and photographs of her all over the house, but nothing personal to her.
Absolutely nothing.
I once asked him what she smelled like.
He curled his lip, huffed loudly and totally ignored me.
Strangely enough, her clothes, books, piano and private knick knacks had all been removed so that there was nothing left. Anything that'd had any kind of imprint of her life on it, had just vanished.
The pictures could have been of anyone… he never discussed her.
Ever.
And then, when I was the ripe old age of twelve, my father got himself killed by a frigging rhino whilst camping in the wilds of the scrub-like bush with his much too young, female, blonde and buxom assistant, when he was researching the likelihood of buying half an African country's fertile land on behalf of the World Wildlife Fund for the Natterjack Toad or some such bollocks.
I don't know when I realised that we were rich, but I think it must have been around about this time.
Disgustingly rich in fact.
All I know is that I couldn't quite fathom out exactly why the fuck did he have to keep travelling around the world to find some poor country to rape and pillage when we could have supported several small countries many times over with the dirty money that was stashed away all over the planet under a large umbrella of company's owned by the damned Cullen clan?
Huh?
Why couldn't he just have stayed at home in London and got to know the son who desperately craved his attention, like normal fathers do?
Huh?
Somehow, I always knew we had money and from a very early age I knew exactly where our family money came from, and I didn't like it.
It would seem that I hail from a long line of merchants, bankers, industrialists, professional liars and historical swindlers.
We didn't need any more fucking money.
I know this now because when I turn twenty one, the entire fortune of dirty money and its' blood soaked accoutrements becomes mine.
Sigh.
Daddy dearest went into the conservation game as a way of buying vast tracts of land from the poor unsuspecting natives, and then rapidly and ruthlessly sucked the life out of their country, looking for minerals, jewels, gas, oil – you name it - in the process, without stirring up any suspicion.
By pouring millions of pounds, rand, francs, deutschmarks, yen and dollars into saving the blue arsed whatever, or purple nippled thingummy jig, everyone patted the fucker on the back and hailed him as the best thing since sliced bread. And then proceeded to turn a blind eye to what his real raison d'etre was or how many people died in the process.
Forget any thought of it being for charitable reasons.
Oh no.
His whole purpose in life was to add to the already obscene pile of money and assets attached to the Cullen name.
Maybe he felt that he had a point to make too, to try and live up to the illustrious 'Cullen' name.
Perhaps.
He really was a fucker of the highest degree.
He was tall, dark, handsome and charismatic, so I believe, and he used everyone and everything around him for his own ends. I loathed him from a very early age, sensing that he was the conniving, selfish bastard that the rest of society couldn't, or wouldn't see him to be, and I pulled further and further away from him as the years went by.
He couldn't bear to look at me on the rare occasions that our paths crossed and if I sat near him, he would immediately stand up and move across the room as far away from me as possible.
Deep down, I'm convinced that he blamed me for my mother's death and hated the fact that, with the same hair and eye colour, I was the absolute image of her, and so I was a permanent, living, and obviously painful, daily reminder.
I think that perhaps he'd loved her, well - as much as he was able to love anyone - but her overwhelming desire to give him a son and heir to continue the fucking Cullen line had meant that I'd taken her away from him, and he could never, and would never, forgive me for that.
For that reason, I swore from the earliest of ages that I would stay single, have no children, and give most of the family blood money away to worthy causes.
This was something that I had already done.
I had signed up to be involved in several charities, including a couple of small, unfashionable, third world children's organisations, several African and UK animal sanctuaries and the British Heart Foundation, in memory of my much yearned for mother.
On the rare occasions that my father and I had spoken to one another, he always ended up nursing a large Brandy or five, getting smashed and usually finished our brief conversation by saying that he'd given me his name, Anthony, as my middle name just so that he felt that I was at least, in part, related to him.
Adding that part of his moniker to the prestigious 'Cullen' surname meant, I guess, that I was connected to him and was always preordained to become a calculating fucker of the highest degree really, like him, rather than my mother, Elizabeth, wasn't I?
When I reach twenty one, I'll have more money than I'll ever know what to do with, alongside a massive land, jewellery and property portfolio.
None of this has ever interested me. I'm not in the slightest bit fucking interested in what the family had made in the past, fortune-wise, or glory-wise, for that matter. I want to make my own way in life, and earn my own livelihood.
It had been suggested so many times whilst I was growing up that I either follow Grandfather Cullen into Hedge Fund Investment Banking due to my natural instinct with problems and complex mathematics, or Dad, into Conservation, simply because of who I am.
I curled my lip up at both to be honest.
The only person who showed the slightest bit of interest in me and my developmental needs up until I was eight was my grandmother and she pleaded with me to do neither of those careers. She tried to build a relationship between the three of us, but my father was just not interested in getting to know his own mother, let alone his child, and she retreated to her second home in Devon, seeing neither of us particularly often.
When I visited her during my holidays, she would sit for hours listening to me playing both the guitar and the piano and clapped enthusiastically at my endeavours.
Looking back, I guess that she was just as lonely as I was, and craving the love of the one person who would never be able, or willing, to give it to either of us.
When she died after she fell from a horse whilst out hunting, she left me her beautiful piano and her massive collection of jewellery, as well as her main house in Hampstead and all her money.
Father was fucking fuming because he was left her house in the country, and wanted to keep it, no doubt as a bonking palace, but had to sell it to pay for her death duties.
So ultimately, he was left with nothing from his mother, whilst I got everything.
He hated me more than ever over that debacle.
Sigh.
More money.
More possessions.
No love.
So now you can see WHY relationships never held much sway for me.
Sigh.
As I said, everyone I cared for left me and usually suddenly, violently and unexpectedly.
So, there I was, aged twelve, and an orphan to boot.
I was collected from school by Bill, the Chauffeur, and taken to the Cullen offices in Threadneedle Street, where our family lawyer, Mr Burke was waiting for us with a box of Kleenex.
He sat me down and patted me gently on the shoulder before he broke the tragic news of my father's untimely passing. I stared at him, unblinking, as he explained what had happened and quite what my father's Will entailed.
I was going to be one of the most eligible bachelors in London when I came of age, and I totally tuned out when he began discussing the executors and the planned meeting that was going to take place the next day to decide my future.
That fact that I didn't shed a tear for him when I was told, and they all flapped and fussed around blaming my lack of emotion on deep seated grief.
Shit.
If only they knew…
The fact is I didn't give a flying fuck that he was dead if I'm completely honest.
He was merely an acquaintance, a ship that passed me briefly in the night from time to time and I would have been more upset if Bill had died. He had been my one constant from when I turned three. He took me for my first ever McDonald's on the way home from school two days after his death, because I had never been allowed one whilst the fucker was still breathing.
Within a day of the massive pomp and ceremony of the lying, selfish fucker's funeral in a hugely expensive family plot in the new part of Highgate Cemetery, I was shipped off to live with my maiden aunt, in her tiny little musty house in Muswell Hill, north London without any pre-warning or any choice.
She was my mother's older half-sister and I think that she only agreed to have me living with her because she thought that she'd be given a big fat pay-off and get to live in the sprawling, and very grand, family home. I had only met her twice before, and one of those times was at the funeral when she turned up in a moth eaten looking long black cardigan covered in cat hair, and a supermarket carrier bag containing a loaf of stodgy white bread, a bottle of a cheap generic brand of vodka and a trashy daily newspaper in hand.
She agreed to look after me to the best of her spinsteresque abilities, and then pleaded and begged the executors to allow her to live with me in the Cullen home in Highgate.
That didn't happen.
The family assets were tied up tighter than a duck's arse by good old Daddy Tony and his cronies, and all that she was given, was a paltry thousand quid every month to pay for my bed and board. I wasn't worth any more than that to any of them.
This royally pissed her off knowing that I wasn't going to be the proverbial goose that laid the golden egg for her, and after she found this out, she resolutely ignored me.
After she showed me to my lodgings, she led me back down stairs, and left me to drag my cases and bags up to the attic, and that was that.
Fuck off Edward!
The room was small with a low roof and broken, sagging bed.
It smelt odd and forgotten and the bed wasn't even long enough for me when I was twelve and I had one, old, stained foam pillow and a quilt that was pretty much in the same condition.
I remember wondering why none of the people who were supposed to be in charge of my future had ever bothered to visit and see if she, or her home, were suitable for me, but no one cared enough to even think about doing that.
From then on, she spent her days watching QVC or Gems TV and buying the naffest, cheapest, tackiest shit that she could find whilst she drank glass after glass of 'fizzy water' - which, even at twelve, I knew was a pint glass full of odourless vodka and tonic!
Before being dispatched to live in what was to become hell on earth with the vodka-guzzling Wicked Witch of the North of London, N10, I had lived between the family home, the aforementioned massive Georgian house, in Highgate, and my private school, Harrodian, in west London.
Why was I sent all the way across London to school when there are plenty of perfectly acceptable schools within walking distance you might ask?
Well, frankly, it doesn't take a genius to guess that Dad wanted me to be as far away from him as possible for most of the week so that he didn't have to bother with me at all.
How pathetic is that?
Every Sunday evening, Bill would strap me into my seat in the back of the Bentley and would proceed to drive me all the way to Barnes for school. And then, on a Friday evening, he would collect me once more. He always brought me a drink, a snack and a comic and would chat to me about things like rugby and football. No one else had ever done that.
At other times, I was cared for by Heidi, but after Dad died the house was closed up and Heidi was sent away. I was forced to move out because the executors thought that it was highly inappropriate for an early pubescent boy to live alone with a voluptuous woman in her mid-forties, whom he wasn't related to. And even though I always knew I'd live there again once I came into my inheritance, it wouldn't be for many years.
Sadly.
Well, from day one, my new living arrangements were an unmitigated disaster, and I went days without being fed before I walked to the City because I had no money to take the bus or the tube, and complained to our lawyer.
It had been decided that I would go to a small local private school when the summer holidays ended as Bill had been removed from his job too.
The old bag kept me for all of four weeks, feeding me on a healthy diet of crisps, cheese sandwiches and beans on toast, after Mr Burke threatened to remove her allowance if she didn't ensure that I had three meals a day, before my noise, mess, music and smells made her uncomfortable and she insisted that the executors find somewhere else for me to stay most of the time.
So, with the aid of a massive donation to slide open a place for me, I was unceremoniously packed off to board fulltime at Eton College, public school, my grandfather's alumni.
Eton College is considered to be the most prestigious school in the whole of England, and the world in many cases. It's so highbrow in fact, that even Prince William attended, albeit two years ahead of me, not to mention every Lord, Prince, Sheik and drug baron's offspring too.
I loved it there from day one.
My 'home' in the school consisted of one large, studio type space that was used for both sleeping and studying, and a small, private bathroom. I could decorate it in any way I saw fit, but as I had no personal money to speak of, I left it as it was, only taking some books, photographs and my meagre collection of CD's and old vinyl records with me.
Even the ridiculous uniform of striped trousers, waistcoat, white shirt - with high false collar - and black tailcoat, made me feel as if I belonged to something for the first time in my entire life. I was proud to wear it when I walked the aged cobbled streets of Windsor in the shadow of the beautifully impressive castle and even smiled when a tourist, or seventy five, asked to take my picture.
I used to stare up at the huge, thick, crenulated Norman walls of the castle in awe, and if the Royal Standard flag was flying, I'd smile and wonder if William and Harry Wales ever popped home to have afternoon tea with their granny and grandfather when they were in residence.
I would've loved to have had a granny to visit, whether it was the Queen or one of her Ladies in Waiting.
In fact, I would have loved to have had ANY relative to have visited who gave a fuck whether I was alive or not, for any reason.
Suddenly, I had acres and acres of wide open space at my disposal, and access to every sport imaginable. Harrodian had offered me plenty of choices, but nothing compared to Eton's wealth of opportunities.
Overnight, I was part of something for the first time in my life, and as I excelled in virtually every subject, it was instantly my idea of paradise.
The only bleak spot on my otherwise pleasant and quite bright horizon, was that every holiday, and some weekends, I was forced to go back to my aunt and her cramped, damp, cat and tat filled house.
I joined every extra-curricular activity available and threw myself into my studies to keep me away from THAT particular fate that felt worse than death!
The work was easy for me, I was naturally academic and just because I could, I added Greek to the Latin, French, German and Mandarin that I was already well on the way to learning.
From the age of three, I'd started both piano and guitar lessons. Music had been my mother, Elizabeth's, life-blood. She had been a nice, middle-class, stunningly beautiful, pianist with the London Symphony Orchestra before Anthony Cullen met her and swept her off her feet, and it had been her wish that her child be encouraged to be given the chance to be musically minded.
Hell, I was even named after Edward Elgar, one of her favourite composes, who was one of her ancestors, so I'd had a musical influence, by association, from birth.
I'd continued with lessons - in both instruments - up to the present day. I could play both lead and rhythm guitar on my various Fender Stratocaster's, but to be honest, I much preferred playing classical pieces and self-composed music on my acoustic guitar, and spent many a long, melancholy, melodic hour strumming away on my own, and singing along mournfully as I did so.
This used to drive my aunt INSANE, and I would snigger and grin as she slammed and banged in abject irritation downstairs, huffing and grumbling in between mouthfuls of her vodka and tonic. So obviously, me, being me, I loved the effect that this was having on her and I would chuckle loudly as I annoyingly played the same piece of music over and over and over again, as I deliberately, and very badly trilled along with it…
I had a good voice and had been in the choir at Harrodian so I knew I could sing, I just chose not to be able to in her presence. The cats didn't mind, they still spent their entire time holed up with me, the toy mice I had bought them and the cans of tuna and salmon that I smuggled upstairs with me to eke out their miserable dried food diet.
She HATED that her cats loved me, and started to forbid me from having them in my room.
Was it my fault that they sneaked in and scampered under my manky quilt when I went for a piss on a Friday night?
Huh?
Was it?
Snigger.
She didn't want me there, any more than I wanted to be there, but she was my next of kin and she also got paid handsomely from the executor of my parents will for "caring" for me – caring being a euphemism for giving me a roof over my head – so she bit her tongue and did the same as I did; counted down the minutes until I left her home again and returned to the gentrified elegance of Eton. Beans on toast twice a day for two days on the odd weekend visit could hardly add up to two hundred and fifty pounds per week by anyone's calculations, so she kept her mouth shut most of the time and just ignored me. If I stripped my grubby sheets off for her to wash, she would just leave them in a heap on the kitchen floor, untouched, and the cats would just piss on them before I would return them to my little bed on my next visit from school, even dirtier than before I had removed them in the first place, so in the end I stopped bothering and took to sleeping on a towel on top of the sheets.
Looking back, if Social Services had ever been involved, she would have been charged with neglect.
On every dreaded break from the school term, and the few weekends that I couldn't find any extra sport or academic activities to prevent me from returning to Haringey, I spent my time mooching around in my very basic, and very tiny, damp, smelly, wood chip covered walled garret room, playing or listening to music, or wandering around local music shops, bored out of my skull as I attempted to speak with a "norf" London accent, and not my clipped, upper class, posh-boy tones.
I grew my coppery bronze, or 'ginger' hair, as my old bitch of an aunt called it, so that it flopped over my much too green eyes in a bid to conceal them somewhat, and it trailed over my collars at school.
Stupidly, I took to wearing Rastafarian style large, multi-coloured knitted hats and baggy, low-slung jeans that dangled alarmingly off of my much too skinny hips, threatening to fall down at any moment, and revealed the tops of my much too large boxer shorts at the same time.
Sigh.
It meant that I had to adopt a funny limping style walk to keep them up. It looked like I either had terrible haemorrhoids or that I'd shit my pants but I thought that I looked cool. These peculiar looking trousers were accompanied by long, loose, graffiti covered tops or t-shirts with old 1960's revolutionary slogans or highly inappropriate quotations, and when I added unlaced trainers to the ensemble, this impeded my ability to walk even further and I looked as if I had one leg shorter than the other.
In all fairness to those who sniggered as I walked by, they were quite right in their view that I looked like a fucking state to be honest, especially with the way that I was forced to walk with my toes turned inwards and my knees knocking in a feeble bid to stop my shoes from flying off, and my trousers from dropping down to my ankles.
Sigh.
Humming melodically, and in a totally wrong, mid-tone key to the latest rap or dub star didn't exactly ingratiate me to the gaggles of deeply cool black boys that gathered to listen to their large CD players, as I wandered through Finsbury Park. They used to look at me with utter pity as I tried to look 'cool', and I would lean nonchalantly against a tree and try to join in their conversations.
Luckily, they were quite accommodating towards me, and even though they used to take the piss out of my silly accent, much too white, freckly skin and funny coloured hair and eyes, they always let me share a spliff or three and fed me bits of their crappy, but delicious, junk food, without setting their terrifyingly slathering demon-dogs onto my scrawny arse when I attempted to speak with their Hackney style slang. I could just about afford a dozen cans of booze on my monthly allowance, and was more than happy to share it with them in return.
They used to fall about laughing hysterically when I adopted a mock cockney accent; mockney I guess you could call it, but at least I had boys my own age to hang around with for a little while, and they found it particularly amusing when I would fall flat on my face due to my untied shoelaces AFTER I'd smoked a joint with them.
I wanted to fit in.
Desperately.
But sadly, I never did, and after I'd staggered home, high or drunk on cheap dope or cider, I'd collapse on my bed without a nod of acknowledgement from the old bat when I returned to the prison, otherwise known as my room, in the evening.
The cats almost killed me on several occasions in their bid to get up the stairs and into my room ahead of me.
She neither noticed, nor cared, what state I returned to her home in and as she rarely cooked for me, I was left to rustle up a meagre supper on my own, drunk and disorderly in charge of a frying pan, after which, the cats and I would share my burnt offerings whilst sitting on the dirty mattress.
So loneliness really is my prevailing memory of my times away from Eton.
I would travel back into London on the train on a Friday evening with some of the other boys but the moment that we disembarked at Paddington, we all went our own ways and I was once again alone.
Most of the time, I spent many hours lying on my bed staring at a stain on the ceiling of my room with a cat on either side of my head.
After I'd finished every scrap of schoolwork I could rustle up whilst listening to my aunt and her cronies cackling loudly downstairs as they played Whist, Gin Rummy and other shitty card games, waddling about in multi patterned and frankly quite terrifying looking kaftans while getting pissed on cheap sherry and listening to weird and deeply disturbing psychedelic shite from the 1960's.
Thankfully, and unbelievably, all of that changed one fateful summer holiday when I met Jasper Whitlock.
It was a stinking hot and humid July day, and, as I was lost deep in thought on this particular Sunday morning, digging about through old vinyl records in Camden Lock Market – the old bitch still had a turntable, thankfully – and I had just received my pathetic monthly allowance from the Cullen Estate - I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Scowling, I turned around and looked at the pretty, pouting boy who was standing behind me and said "What the fuck do you want?"
Grinning brightly, he didn't seem the slightest bit put out at my non-existent and deeply unpleasant 'welcome'; instead, he merely smiled and said that he knew me.
Looking at him more closely, scowling, I vaguely remembered him from my time at Harrodian School, west London. He was tall, scrawny and had mid-brown floppy hair, with a few honey coloured highlights that trailed into his vividly bright amber speckled, green eyes.
And the widest, brightest and most infectious smile I'd ever seen and it was so beautiful, that it almost took my breath away.
We weren't close at school because, of course, he had parents who wanted him around, and as they lived in near-by Richmond in those days, he went home in the evenings. I, on the other hand, was in my father's way, and might have impinged on the time he spent fucking his latest secretary, nanny or friend's wives, so as I said previously, I used to board there during the week from the age of six. That was before dear old Dad had selfishly popped his clogs on the end of that mammalian fucker's compact keratined horn and I was forced to part company with everything and everyone I knew, and I had to therefore leave Harrodian too.
After a slightly uncomfortable first five minutes, Jasper soon put me at my ease as we both flicked threw the old 1970's vinyl albums and discovered that we shared the exact same taste in early punk and glam rock music.
Within minutes, he had me doubled up in laughter as he regaled me with his escapades at school, and we ended up wandering around the market together for the rest of the day, eating chips, deep fried donuts, crepes, filled with sweet and sour shit, and drinking Coke, chatting all the while about music, rugby and girls.
Instantaneously, I felt something that was rare for me.
I felt happy.
Amazingly, for once in my life, I seemingly had a "friend" - to the outside world anyway - and we hit it off immediately.
Other than Tipsy and Dotty, the old bitch's cats, I had no-one to speak to when I was away from Eton. I was strictly forbidden from using her phone so I was totally and utterly cut off from the rest of humanity, not that I had anyone to phone anyway.
He laughed at the way I was dressed and yanked the ludicrous floppy hat off of the top of my head and threw it into the canal, where it immediately sank like a brick next to a slightly alarmed looking swan. I laughed right along with him because he wasn't being unkind or spiteful, he was just stating a fact - I did look a fucking state.
When the day came to an end, we parted at Camden Town underground station. I shuffled down the pavement towards the tube, reluctantly, on my part at least, after a long, tiring and blissfully happy day, but I perked up when he had given me all of his details and told me to keep in touch.
He asked for my numbers in return, and I got embarrassed and stuttered as I explained to him that I would only be able to ring him from the payphone in the school grounds whilst I was at Eton and that I wouldn't be able to either ring out or receive calls when I was in London, he was shocked.
We met up again the following Sunday, and he even lent me his old phone so that we could speak every day when I was in Berkshire during the week.
From then on, Jasper and I were inseparable.
Totally the opposite of me in every way, Jasper was funny, witty and relaxed, popular, in demand and completely at ease with himself.
He was the over-indulged only son of doting parents, and he always had the very latest equipment when it came to every gizmo and gadget known to mankind. These were replaced regularly as new things became available and he started to give me his cast-offs. He could also wear the coolest and hippest, grungy clothes, at all times thanks to the generous weekly dollop of cash that was deposited into his bank account, without question by his parents.
I started to leave Eton every weekend, still the ever diligent student, laden down with my studies, just so that I could meet up with Jasper.
Two weeks after we met up again, he took me back to his home in Maida Vale to introduce me to his parents.
His mother, Charlotte, was tall and slender, with short, light brown hair. Jasper looked very much like her and I envied him instantly when I saw the gentle, loving rapport that he shared with her.
His father, Garrett was also tall, but with dark, collar length hair and he was quiet and gentle and the both welcomed me into their home with loving arms.
They were like a drug to me, all three of them, and I found myself needing to be with them in a way that I neither understood nor had ever felt before.
After several weekend visits, Charlotte had insisted on washing my two outfits of clothing. She was slightly aghast at the grey, threadbare, holey state of my underwear and two t-shirts, and when I explained that I did try to hand wash them in the bathroom sink but that body wash didn't seem to keep them very white, she looked horrified. And that I wasn't due to get any more money for clothing for another few months she was taken aback and said, "But you are a Cullen, Edward! I don't understand! Your family is immensely wealthy! Why don't you have more clothes?"
Wow.
So even they had heard of our family name.
Sigh.
The next weekend, without a word, Charlotte handed me four carrier bags full of new clothing, underwear and trainers.
I didn't know what to say. I had never had so many new and fashionable things and I was stunned almost to tears.
They fed me well and were now clothing me as well as being interested in how I was doing at school, and all they asked of me was my time.
Jasper encouraged me to go to the people in charge of my trust fund, and put my foot down and demand a bigger allowance, plus quite a large one off payment to buy decent musical equipment, as well as a decent CD player and a PC of my own.
He took me shopping to buy more new clothes and insisted that I had my hair cut at least a little bit to take it out of my eyes.
Every free weekend, that I wasn't rowing, boxing, wrestling, playing rugby, tennis, football, cricket, or swimming or rowing for the school team, I was with Jasper.
Every spare moment not taken up with music, study, language lessons and more sport, and of course every holiday of any length, was spent with him and his family.
And, amazingly for me, for the first time in my entire life, I was unbelievably a part of a real family. I was so overwhelmed by it all that I was happy just to sit and observe Jasper and his father, Garrett, interacting with one another. Even watching them laughing and joking together, playing scrabble, listening to music or teasing each other, was fascinating for me, and made my heart ache for reasons I couldn't understand, and refused to acknowledge.
They liked me and actually WANTED me to spend time with them.
My Aunt happily relinquished spending Christmas with me, and even dug into her deep pockets with her much too short arms to give me a lump sum to buy the Whitlock's presents, before she fucked off to the Bahamas, leaving her cats to the mercy of her odd neighbour, Margaret, for a month, no doubt on the proceeds of my monthly allowance.
The fun, love and joy of Christmas day in the Whitlock household shocked me to my very core.
The house was decorated brightly and elaborately with foliage, decorations and spangly, sparkly 'stuff' and it smelt deliciously of spices and warmth.
There were trees by the front door, in the hall, in the drawing room, in the dining room and even a tiny one in the kitchen.
Charlotte was fucking obsessed and she took to wearing mini snow men or Christmas tree shaped earrings and bizarre headbands with holly wrapped around them.
I had never seen, smelt or experienced anything like their home, and I walked silently from room to room feeling as if I was wandering around some sort of Hollywood film set.
It was quite simply magical, and I found myself becoming fully immersed in the joy and love of the season as Charlotte bustled about baking, shopping and organising us.
On Christmas Eve, we went to church and I sat, mesmerised, listening to the lovely sounds coming out of Jasper's mouth as he sang carols.
I was totally stunned when Jasper woke me up the following morning and I found that for the first time in my life, Father Christmas had visited me!
My father had never bothered with stockings and any kind of tradition, hell most years we didn't have decorations at all, and I had no idea that people REALLY did that for their kids.
We were given blood red velvet stockings that were hung during the night at some point over the ends of our beds that were filled with little inconsequential, funny, silly, meaningless and lovely gifts. Playing cards, chocolate coins, odd shaped soaps, funny sweets, a rubber duck for the bath, socks, handkerchiefs, funny jokes, gloves – all unneeded but very much appreciated items and I sat smiling on my bed, beneath a thick, fluffy duvet, as I opened every gift and laughed loudly as each small parcel revealed another small present that gladdened my heart.
The Masens arrived mid-morning and we spent the rest of the day sodding about in the snow and ice on brightly coloured, plastic sledges, zooming up and down the pavements of North West London and making them more dangerous than ever when we poured water on the ice to make our vehicles move faster.
After changing our clothes we sat down at the table and stuffed ourselves to the point of nausea on the most delicious food I had ever tasted, and getting slightly hammered by drinking copious amounts of mulled wine, we headed into the drawing room where we exchanged our main gifts.
The tree in this room had been smothered in tinsel and multi-coloured lights and dripped with a cacophony of things ranging from Liberty handmade glass baubles to cut out foil angels from Jasper's nursery days.
There was a veritable mountain of brightly coloured packages piled underneath the tree of all shapes and sizes.
Of course, having had no experience of family Christmas's, I had followed my father's route and had ordered pre-wrapped presents for them all from Harrods and Fortnum and Mason's, all chosen and suggested by personal shoppers.
They were, of course, glamorous, expensive, elaborate and impersonal, wrapped firstly in embellished tissue paper and then vastly over-priced, wood-blocked paper, topped off with hand tied satin ribbons.
A Hermes scarf for Charlotte.
A Louis Vuitton wallet for Garrett.
A Marc Jacobs messenger bag for Jasper.
An Edinburgh Crystal decanter for Esme and Peter, and finally a silver Tiffany bracelet for Rosalie.
They were all thrilled, but deep down, I knew that they would have been just as happy with an embroidered handkerchief from Marks and Spencer.
Apart from Rosalie, of course!
They all huffed and puffed saying that the gifts were too generous, blah de blah de blah, but how could I explain that the love, time and friendship that they willingly gave me, without needing anything in return, meant more to me than anything else I had ever known in my life?
Huh?
Besides, the old bitch was paying, so what the fuck!
The pile of presents under the tree unbelievably for me, took my breath away.
They weren't elegantly wrapped, rather they were sort of thrown into their garish and gaudy thin paper and were taped together haphazardly, but once they were opened, they were the most wonderfully and lovingly thought-out presents that I had ever received.
Esme and Peter had bought me a very generous voucher for a large well-known record store in London that meant I could buy all the music I could possibly need over the next twelve months.
Rosalie bought me the very latest England rugby jersey, something that I had always wanted but had never had before.
Jasper bought me the smallest little music player available and had filled it will all my favourite music, and his parents had bought me some new clothing and a brand new mobile phone on a contract that meant I didn't have to worry about running out of credit.
I was shocked at their thoughtfulness.
But it was their final gift that took my breath away and that had almost brought me to my knees.
They had found a recording of my mother playing at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden the year before I was born and had had it transferred to a CD.
I didn't even know that such a recording had been made let alone that one still survived, and, understandably, I was so stunned at hearing the notes that fell from her finger tips for the first time in my thirteen years, that I had to excuse myself and sit on my own under my duvet in my room listening to it again and again, for half an hour until the tears stopped and I managed to compose myself again.
None of them said a word about my watery, red rimmed eyes when we had tea in the dining room.
The Whitlocks then took me skiing with them in the February half-term. Unbelievably, despite my family connections with other countries, I had never set foot off of British soil before and I was over the moon when they told me that they had even organised a passport for me.
They hired all the clothing and equipment that I would need, Jasper and Rosalie were already equipped with everything they required, and after three short lessons, I was flying down slopes that were not suitable for a beginner.
Unsurprisingly, it had appeared that I had found yet another sport that I had a natural affinity to.
Within a week, I'd added snowboarding to my sporting repertoire too.
Jasper was CRAP on skis, as he was at most sport apart from rugby and football, but he would just laugh, and roll over in the snow as I zoomed past him, without ever sulking.
Rosalie didn't even put her skis on. She spent the entire time off-piste at the après ski bar, drinking and flirting, again, in front of her oblivious relatives as she repeatedly zipped and unzipped her much too tight, crimson ski suit showing her more than ample cleavage to any male in the vicinity.
As much as I lusted after Rose, in all truth, I had a bit of a boy-crush on Jasper.
Of course, I didn't FANCY him, but I REALLY wanted to be him.
He was okay at school, not naturally clever like I was, but he held his own, and the fact that he wasn't the 'best' at every subject didn't bother him, or his loving parents, in the slightest.
He didn't give a shit about the way I looked, how clever I was or wasn't, or how much money I did, or didn't, have.
He liked me.
Simple as.
He wanted to be my friend and spend time with me.
No-one had ever been like this with me before.
All he wanted from me was my friendship and I was totally and utterly intoxicated by him and his world.
I loved him…
He was almost as good at music as I was and we spent hours composing and playing our scribblings together in his large, cluttered, sprawling attic room or his tree house that he had even been allowed to help design. I had one of the guest rooms on the floor below him and after a while, his parents added a desk, TV, computer, CD player and stand for my guitars.
I even had my own small shower room.
It was always referred to as 'Edward's room,' and I still find it unbelievable that they would give me my own room in their home.
For the first time in my life, I had a home and was part of a family.
My Aunt didn't even ask where I was going most of the time so after a few months, I stopped asking for her permission and just went where I wanted to.
When Garrett drove me home one Saturday afternoon to collect most of my small collection of possessions from Muswell Hill, my aunt was delighted to be free of me again and was thrilled that I would rarely be returning to her home any more. She waved me off happily at the front door after checking with me that I wouldn't be telling the executors of my parents' estate that I had moved out, so that she got to keep the monthly cheques.
In truth, I really missed the cats and I worried that they would be lonely, and hungry without me but because I was away at school for a minimum of five days out of seven, there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it.
Not long after I'd become reacquainted with Jasper, and become assimilated by the Whitlocks, I met the Masens, and, from the age of thirteen, Jasper, his cousin, Rosalie, his friend, Emmett and I, were together as much, and as often, as possible.
Inseparable.
Rose and Emmett were two years older than us and far more mature. Which, to be honest, wasn't very difficult. Jasper and I were like a couple of little boys together with the silly, childish pranks that we played on them!
Rosalie went to St Pauls Girl's School in Wimbledon, but didn't board. Her adoring parents sent her to and from school in a taxi every day to keep her safe. Jasper now attended City of London School, with Emmett, whose parents were friends of Garrett and Charlotte's, after being expelled from Harrodian, due to being caught smoking a joint in the girls' toilets at the ripe old age of fourteen.
Don't ask.
The first time I met Rosalie, I had an instant, rock hard and highly embarrassing erection.
It was a Saturday morning and she was bending over in the garden, picking a pink rose from a low shrub as Jasper, Emmett and I walked up the path towards the Masen's front door talking about the new CDs that we'd just bought.
Her long, tanned, firm and shapely legs were bare and she had on the smallest pair of pink and white checked shorts that I'd ever seen. They were so small in fact that the cheeks of her backside showed below them.
The stirring in my jeans made me jerk to an immediate stand-still and stare, open mouthed at the vision of loveliness before me.
Jasper and Emmett chuckled beside me as I gasped loudly and my feet stuttered to less than a shuffle, before they grabbed an arm each as they walked faster, thus forcing me to keep walking before Rosalie noticed.
As she stood upright, she turned around and smiled, and I almost came in my pants before I even knew what cumming felt like…
She was the most beautiful, perfect specimen of girliness that I'd ever seen and, even then, she was a sight for sore eyes.
Stunning in fact.
She had long, thick, slightly wavy lemony-blonde hair that stopped just below her large tits, with creamy unblemished skin and the most intense blue eyes that I'd ever seen, and the tight white top that she was wearing made it uncomfortably obvious that she wasn't wearing a vest… or a bra.
Suddenly, I started trying to find ways to be as close to her as often as possible.
I'd never spent much time near a girl before.
My aunt was tall and bony with no boobs and dressed like she was trying to frighten the opposite sex away. She smelt of alcohol, cigarettes with a pervading musty damp odour and I didn't even want to pass her in the corridor to be honest.
Rosalie, on the other hand, was the total opposite. She smelt soft, clean, pretty, sweet and feminine.
She looked absolutely lovely at all times, and boy could that girl work a crowd and a room.
Sashaying around in skin tight jeans or a miniscule skirt or pair of shorts, she had every male, and even some females, drooling after her, everywhere she went, and she fucking knew it.
She would turn and smile sweetly, and innocently, as she batted her eye lashes and my tongue would almost hit the ground before me, as she pretended to be oblivious to the effect that she was having on me.
Bitch.
She loved to read and could hold her own in any conversation with any age group and on any given subject.
Her parents owned a publishing company so she was well versed in all the latest books and could join in any intellectual discussion often flooring intellectuals with her vastly superior knowledge and opinions.
For the next two years, I was in total awe of her.
On top of all of this, she was uber confident to the point of precocity, verbose and highly critical if things weren't just so.
But she was my friend and despite my semi-permanent – well, no, that's exactly true, what I should have said was, despite my permanent – hard-on, we did actually sit together and have long meaningful discussions.
I loved those times.
Rosalie spent lots of time with Jasper's parents as her own travelled extensively with their business whilst snapping up new and interesting authors for their successful company and people got so used to seeing the three of us together, that they thought that we were related.
When Parents Day loomed large at Eton, when I was fifteen, and after my aunt announced that she couldn't possibly attend - surprise, surprise – there must have been a special offer on some shite jewellery channel or other a rush on the vodka supplies at the local off-license - so the Whitlocks very kindly volunteered to come with me as proxy parents on her behalf.
They wanted to act in loco parentis for me…
I was stunned.
Why would they do that?
No one who shared my blood had ever shown me the level of selfless kindness that they did on a weekly basis.
Once more I had to ask to be excused as I went to my room and shed more than one tear at the level of kindness that they were always willing to show me.
We drove to Eton in their ramshackle, beaten up Range Rover and parked alongside the Rolls Royce Phantoms, Bentleys, Jaguars and Porches. I still felt the wealthiest boy in the whole world because I was there with people who cared for me for the first time in the entire duration that I'd been there.
In her usual inimitable manner, the lovely Rosalie shimmied around the Master's rooms dressed in a loose, white, summer dress with tiny little holes in it that stopped mid-thigh and smiled alluringly at anyone who looked at her.
She was looked at a lot, because frankly, she looked like an angel.
Well, an angel with big tits and a dirty mouth and very obviously with the knowledge of what her body was capable of doing to boys, because, when she stood against a window and the dazzling sunlight lapped around her frame like a total-body halo, it was alarmingly obvious to us all that she had no underwear on... none at all.
Her dark, firm nipples and triangle of pubic hair were visible and I spent the entire visit with a bright red folder covering my bulging crotch.
Her parents, or aunt and uncle either come to that, never seemed to notice her lack of propriety, and she was terribly spoilt and almost worshipped by Esme, her mother, and, it has to be said, even more so by her father, Peter, who thought that the sun shone out of her backside.
All she had to say was "Daddy I want…" and she had it, without any questions being asked.
For her fifteenth birthday, Peter had taken her to Tiffany and told her to pick whatever she wanted.
I wished that I'd been important, on some level at least, to someone who was related to me…
Suddenly overnight, I became extremely popular with the older boys who wanted to meet my 'sister' again outside of the boundaries of school.
Huh.
I wasn't fucking having that, she was MY friend, and I wasn't sharing her, or Jasper, with any of the toe-rags at school.
Pretty much from then on, most of my free time was spent day-dreaming about Rose and what she smelt like, and what her skin felt like. I frequently managed to touch her hand and arm, and oddly enough, she seemed to touch me as often in turn, and, embarrassingly, I'd my first orgasm thinking about her.
Lying on my bed, one Sunday afternoon, with an ecstatic Dotty and Tipsy, I closed my eyes and sighed, as I willed sleep to take me to free me from the mind-numbing boredom.
For the first time in fucking months, I'd had to go back to my aunt's house to get some permission slips signed, before I returned to school that evening. The Whitlocks weren't allowed to sign anything that pertained to school trips or expenditure, only the old harpy was as she was my named next of kin, so, with a heavy heart, I'd taken the underground from their lovely home in Maida Vale. I got off at Finsbury Park, and travelled on the W7 bus to the bottom of fume-filled Muswell Hill dragging my feet reluctantly as I did so.
The second I'd arrived, I was informed that I 'had grown and looked very different' before I was relegated to my room as she was 'entertaining' and was much too busy to deal with me and my school shit, 'right now.'
She had a gaggle of her cronies downstairs, and after the brief and perfunctory chat, I'd been dispatched to my room with a bag of crisps and a chipped cup of tap water so that they could do whatever they were going to do before I'd encroached on their style.
My room smelled stale and uncared for, and sighing, I'd turned my Sex Pistols CD on, twiddling the volume switch up way too loud, before I threw myself on the uncomfortably lumpy, single, damp feeling, bed with the cats snuggling, squiggling and purring around me contentedly.
Sighing, I dug my head backwards into the hard pillow, and inhaling sharply, I closed my eyes, and allowed my mind to wander back to the unbelievable feeling of when Rosalie had unexpectedly and shockingly curled her toes over my cock.
Jesus… it'd felt like I was being electrocuted from the inside out.
Without thinking, I'd yanked my shorts down and immediately shoved my hands inside my tight boxer shorts and slithered my long cool digits down the rock hard length of my cock.
The cats didn't seem especially impressed with my disturbing them, and climbed off of the bed to lie in the corner on a pile of clothes that had been there for God only knows how long whilst I did my thing and just went to sleep, looking thoroughly bored.
As I firmly stroked myself properly for the first time, shuddering at the sensations shooting around my body, I remembered how she had shocked me to the core by touching my cock in the first place, making me almost piss myself with excitement.
When she'd then rubbed her toes against my groin that very morning, I'd almost puked in surprise at the flames of aroused heat that had shot out from my cock and had licked around every part of my body.
Yes, it's safe to say, that it'd been a very strange and very illuminating weekend, all in all.
Arriving at the Whitlock's as usual on Friday evening, we'd then gone to the Under Age Festival in Victoria Park, Hackney, courtesy of Jasper's mum and dad's never ending generosity.
We were all knackered from the partying of the day before and we'd all slept in due to the fact that we hadn't gone to bed until about 2.00 am.
Charlotte and Garrett had picked us up from outside the park gates, taking the four of us with them to Emmett's house for a party to celebrate something or another. We had danced and sang along with the acts all day and were knackered to be honest, so it was a fucking good thing that they had collected us.
Rosalie had worn a white, short sleeved blouse all day, knotted at the waist that flashed a large swathe of deliciously tanned flesh as she moved around, and my fingers had twitched in the desire to touch her to see if she felt as soft as she looked.
Thank fuck I had baggy jeans on, because embarrassingly I had sported wood all-fucking-afternoon, and had to sit under a tree with a bottle of lager for a while because the non-stop erection, along with the red hot sun, had given me a fucking headache.
Relief washed over me when we got out of the car and I could get some distance between us, and I drank several bottles of water to cool myself down as quickly as possible. When I went for a piss, it was a fucking relief to discover that my cock had decided to curl up and gone to sleep for the night, and I trotted down stairs happily, smiling at my tanned, tired, and deeply dishevelled appearance in the hall mirror as I passed by it.
As I entered the room, Rose turned to smile at me and I grinned back, brightly, in the blissful knowledge that the snake in my jeans was still firmly snoring, ignoring her.
Sadly for me, and my cock, Rosalie had other ideas in store for me that evening.
Licking her blood red, painted, full lips, she had turned fully to face me and slowly untied her blouse, before she unbuttoned it, maintaining eye contact with me the entire time.
My mouth dropped open when she peeled that reasonably chaste top off in the middle of the room full of sweaty, swaying bodies, to reveal the tight, minute band of elastic and flowery cotton erroneously called a strapless top, which barely contained her large, pert tits. With the speed that my cock fought to grapple its way out of the zip of my jeans, I was almost brought to my knees and gasped in shock and discomfort as the sensitive head banged against my fly.
Laughing at my reaction, she did a little twirl before she lightly shook her breasts in my direction and then proceeded to gyrate with the boy standing, stunned, in front of her.
Sigh.
She really was a cock-tease par-excellence…
From the corner of the room, I stood, nursing half a shandy that I held firmly in front of my dick all night, and watched her the entire time. Every once in a while she would turn and give me her most dazzling smile, and would bend slightly as she squeezed her tits together, knowing exactly what she was doing to me - and to everyone else with a pair of balls in the room, come to that, as she ground her jean clad backside against some poor, agonised cock.
At the end of the party, Jasper, Rosalie and I curled up around one another in the back of the Whitlock's car, draped in a tartan travel rug.
Jasper and I were pressed back to back and Rose was wrapped around me with her legs over mine and one of her tits was resting on my bicep. We drowsed until we got back to their house. I had to physically drag a loudly snoring, Jasper, out of the car when we arrived back in north west London, and we all staggered up to our respective rooms.
Before I'd even taken my jeans off, I'd collapsed onto my double bed, and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
Wandering downstairs the next morning, I ran my fingers through my hair, smacking my lips together to try and get the saliva moving on my dry, alcohol induced, thick feeling tongue, yanking my pants up as I did so. All that I had on was a navy blue vest and checked baggy pyjama bottoms as I plonked myself down at the breakfast bar.
Charlotte had made sure that I always had new underwear and nightclothes in the drawers of my chest, so it was only polite to wear them at suitable times.
Too tired to bother with carrying on the teasing and flirting from the night before, I grunted a perfunctory, but polite, good morning greeting to Rosalie who was already sitting at the table drinking orange juice. As I shuffled into my seat, running my fingers through my scruffy hair once again, and, yawning loudly, she turned her legs towards me, smiling and slid her naked, painted toes along my inner thigh before she pressed her bare foot firmly against my crotch.
Stunned to silence, I just stared at her with my mouth hanging open mid-yawn. My cock had shot up so quickly, that I'd been really frightened that the seams in my poor pj's were going to burst as he tried to rip his way to freedom. My head spun in shock and I was terrified that I would pass out from sudden blood loss to the extremities as my breath caught in my throat as her toes wrapped and curled as she slid her foot up and down my erection.
After grinning at my horrified expression as my head did an exorcist-style three hundred and sixty degree turn in my effort to check that we were alone, Rose dropped her foot and pushed her chair back, scraping the floor loudly as she did so.
Getting up slowly, Rosalie ran her tongue over her top lip before she grabbed my chair and spun me around before clasping my knees, forcing them painfully wide apart. Slithering in between my spread thighs, and bending forward, she exposed her impressive cleavage to me and jiggled her tits gently.
Staring at my suddenly tented crotch, she grinned brightly, winked at me, and said, "Oh, Edward, haven't you grown up fast? Aren't you a very big boy now? Shame you don't know what a magical thing that you've got hidden in there yet, though, isn't it?" and laughing, she continued somewhat bitchily, "And it's even more of a fucking pity that you don't know what to do with it! If you weren't a friend of the family, I guess I could have had lots of fun teaching you, couldn't I?" she questioned, "Hmmmm… I don't think that my cousin, or aunt, would forgive me if I did that though, do you?" she said, laughing even more loudly.
Before I could fathom out the meaning of her words, she leaned forward, grabbing the back of my head as she did so, rubbed her tits firmly against my face, while at the same time she pressed her upper thigh across my straining erection in little pulsing movements.
As I whimpered and cringed at the over-sensitive sensation, she giggled before pulling back, blowing me a kiss, and said, "I really hope you learn how to handle that thing soon," she continues, "because it's a fucking shameful waste to all the girls, or boys, on the planet!" and, laughing more loudly, she shimmied across the room in a much too short and deliciously tight t-shirt. It showed her full tits and her high, hard nipples, while her tiny pair of bikini knickers exposed her rounded, full bottom beneath their high cut legs.
She did a little twirl for me at the door, raising her arms above her head and making her tits bounce, before, giggling brightly, she went upstairs to get changed.
Fucking bitch.
She had the mind and body of a woman and I was still, mentally, very much a boy inside an almost-man's body.
I was left a quivering, shuddering wreck.
Wheezing and gasping in a rattling breath, I didn't know what to do with myself in my predicament, and my hand instinctively dropped to squeeze the head of my cock, making me whimper lightly as I stroked across the delicate, exposed and pulsating flesh.
So enthralled was I by the breath taking feeling that I didn't hear either the footsteps or the door open, but the second that her mother, Esme, walked into the kitchen, with her aunt and Jasper's mother, Charlotte, I swivelled my chair around to hide my affliction beneath the breakfast bar once more. My cock had shrivelled in fright immediately, and it felt as if both he, and my balls, were trying to crawl their way back inside my humiliated body.
From then on, being the consummate cock tease that she had become towards both me and Emmett, she flirted and touched us whenever we were alone with her.
And I can promise you, it was something that I conspired to happen as often as possible...as did that bastard, Emmett McCarty.
Suddenly, the need to touch myself became a fixation.
A desperate yearning.
An obsessive addiction.
Obviously, I'd poked, yanked, prodded and fiddled about with my cock for years, like all boys do. Pretty much from birth we touch ourselves, but I'd never carried on until I came, because I didn't know much about sex to be honest.
Rosalie had said once, in her usually ladylike manner, that all men are born with their cocks in one hand and a remote control in the other.
Strangely, I didn't disagree with that analogy.
As usual, I didn't get what all the fuss was about when anything emotional was involved, from what I had gleaned, sex, for boys anyway, was nothing but a bodily function.
Stroking and touching myself was enjoyable, obviously, but it felt more safe than erotic, more like holding a favourite toy.
Well, not any fucking longer!
This time, what I felt was very different...
When Rosalie Masen had touched me for the first time, it was like she'd flicked a switch and my cock was permanently hard after that.
As I lay panting loudly on my sagging little bed, one firm stroke of the crown of my cock was all it took and I was whimpering and quivering.
Shaking, I moved my hand up and down my sensitive shaft, pumping several times, stunned by the feelings that this elicited in my body.
My breath hitched and it felt as if an icy electrical current was charging around my hyper sensitive body.
Moving my hand faster I gasped out in shock, because even though it felt good at first, my dry hand was too rough as it dragged the sensitive skin, and despite spitting on my fingers several times, it just wasn't enough.
Leaping to my feet, I rummaged around in my bedside table, wardrobe and chest of drawers, knocking things over in my desperation to find something – anything - to make my hand slippery.
There was NOTHING!
Nothing at all!
Several balls of dust and scraps of torn and discarded tissue were the only bits of detritus that littered the bottom of drawer.
Dashing into my bathroom with my clothing around my ankles, I tripped on the threadbare rug, almost landing on my knees in the process.
Dragging myself upright, I looked in horror as I remembered that I wasn't alone, and stared at the cats who were curled up, fast asleep resolutely ignoring my antics. Breathing a sigh of relief, I don't think I could have continued if those apple green eyes had been observing me, I shuffled into the room and rattled around my meagre and frugal collection of toiletries, but found nothing, apart from spearmint toothpaste, rose scented hand wash and an old, splayed toothbrush.
Shit.
I grabbed the only remaining item in the cracked, mirrored cabinet that hung - at a dangerously jaunty angle - above the sink, some cherry flavoured lip balm.
Muttering about the fact that my tight old bitch of an aunt had even stolen my shampoo and body wash, I hurled myself back onto the hard bed, smeared the gunk over my right palm and grabbed my granite hard erection with my left hand. I was stunned to breathlessness by the electric-shock like feelings that came the moment I closed my fingers around my throbbingly painful erection and gasped at the way the sticky, oily balm felt as I smeared it up and down, gripping more firmly, tugging the fine, delicate flesh up and down with my smooth palm.
Hot, slick, tight – amazing…
If my own hand felt like that, what would Rosalie's - what the hell should I call it? - feel like as I pushed inside?
Vagina?
God no - way too clinical.
Cunt?
Ugh - I hated that word.
Twat?
Nope - silly and crass.
Pussy – Yes - pussy was okay and quite arousing really…
Pussy?
Yes…
Pussy worked for me.
The first thought to cross my mind was, "I wonder if I could make Rosalie's pussy purr?" as my hand began to shake violently.
Building up to a hard and fast pace, I increased my grip. Holding the bit of my cock just below the head, I began to concentrate on yanking that part of my erection, and panting and shuddering as my hand moved faster and faster, my thumb rubbed repeatedly against my fluid filled slit moving my pre-cum around.
Looking down again, I groaned as I yanked faster yet - so fast in fact that it looked almost like a blur my other hand squeezed my bollocks lightly.
"Rose…" I panted out, "Rosalie…let…me… touch me… touch me… Rose…oh… Rose … let me… let me… let …fuck…your…pussy…" I whimpered as my arm moved at a frenetic pace.
Stunned by the tingly pull coming from my balls, I looked down, shocked to see how purple the head had turned and that there was an almost unending stream of sticky liquid pouring from the slit.
As my speed got faster and faster, the sweat began to trickle down my neck and chest and my arm cramped painfully but I continued regardless.
Then, as my heart rate increased, and my breathing became laboured and embarrassingly loud, the feeling changed to an almost aching burn as every muscle, tendon and ligament clenched and bunched in my endeavours.
The feeling built and built until my vision blurred, and shuddering, burning, tingling fingers of …something… raced around my frazzled nerve endings. Arching my back up off of the bed, gasping in a sharp breath, before I yelled out loudly into the silence of my room as my other hand cupped my balls that were now shrivelled and pulled up close to my quivering body.
"Rose! Rose! Rose! Rosalieeeee! Rose! Rosalieeeeeeeeeeeee … Rosalieeee…" I chanted as I lost the ability to focus.
My heart was almost leaping out of my chest, and I thought I was about to die as I stopped breathing and bright lights exploded in front of my wide, staring eyes. The ecstatic feeling of euphoria and unbelievable – something – made me shudder violently as electrical currents exploded out of the end of my cock as I came so hard and fast that my cum shot out of my shaking, convulsing body in a high arc, splashing off the wardrobe mirror six feet from my bed with a resonating and sharply tinkling splat.
Fuck.
The sound was so loud that I thought that I'd broken the glass at first.
Shocked to the core by what had just happened, I couldn't quite believe that my body was capable of feeling so much. I had spent the previous fifteen years feeling numb and deliberately fighting emotions, and this was almost too much for me to bear.
Gasping and panting, I curled up in a tight ball, and I lay, quivering and whimpering, for the longest time, before I wrapped myself up in the old faded, musty smelling, quilt, to try to stop my teeth from chattering.
And then the tears began before my exhausted body relaxed into an endorphin induced deep slumber.
Eventually I woke up, feeling bewildered and disorientated as the witch banged on my, thankfully, locked door telling me that it was time for me to wake up so that she could sign the forms and I could leave.
Shaking, I'd staggered to my feet on quivering, weakened knees and tried to recompose myself.
After washing and getting dressed, I'd half-heartedly attempted to tidy up my mess.
Straightening my bed, I began rubbing a grubby old sock, that must have lain under my bed for months, over the wood and mirror, trying to soak up my splattered cum.
Still shocked at the distance and height that my body had shot it's load across the room, I curled my lip as I looked at the smeared opaque shit that covered the glass, wood and wool. It had already started to dry and was sticky and difficult to remove; a bit like spreading honey around. The fluff covered sock was obviously not a good enough piece of fabric to clean it properly with.
When I returned to her home on my next visit, several months later for more paperwork to be signed, I was bollocked out due to the fact that my aunt's cleaner had tried for weeks to get the "glue" off the glass, wood and cheap nylon carpet. They both repeatedly remonstrated with me for spilling my air fix glue in my room and from then on, my 'hobby' was taken to the garage where I was given a bench and a few shelves. Little did she know that the three kits she'd bought me since I'd moved in with her, from second hand shops, remained unopened and gathering dust-balls beneath my saggy mattress.
On the rare visits to her house, I just used a towel to catch my spurting cum from then on, as I did at the Whitlocks - and they were all happily oblivious to my burgeoning obsession with my own body.
After that amazing occasion where I discovered exactly the level of pleasure that I could inflict on my balls and drag from my own cock, I masturbated several times a day. I never tired of it and I wanked, and had wet dreams, on way too many occasions to remember, to memories of activities, or photographs of Rosalie.
Rosalie and her curvy, voluptuous teenage body poured into one of her many, highly inappropriate bikinis that consisted of three minute triangles so small that I knew for a fact that she waxed.
Rosalie wearing tiny shorts and t-shirts that were so tight, they looked as if they'd been sprayed onto her beautiful tits, whilst lounging on the deck of her parent's boat.
Sigh.
Rosalie on the veranda of their summer house in Cornwall.
And the very best and most erection producing vision of all - Rosalie on the beach of the Whitlock's house on the Isle of Wight, where she would sprawl out on the rocks, or sandy beach, sunbathing topless with her shapely legs flat out and spread widely apart, exposing her barely covered pussy to our hungry eyes.
Rosalie.
Rosalie.
Rosalie.
Rosalie.
Rosalie.
Sigh…
One night, not long after my first Rosalie induced orgasm, Jasper, Emmett and I were in his tree house listening to music and drinking cans of chilled Guinness, when an irritating creaking, squeaking noise, punctuated with groaning, from below us in the garden, caught our attention.
Scowling at one another, we inched our way as quietly as possible on the outside part of the tree house, and peered over the edge, and as my eyes almost popped out of my head, I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from gasping out loud because we were all stunned to silence at the sight below us.
Emmett and Jasper's friend, Alec, was sitting on the swing that was attached to the same tree, with Rosalie astride his spread, bare thighs, and with her long, perfect legs wrapped tightly around his waist.
Her skirt was pulled up but the way it was bunched meant that you couldn't see what they were doing but his jeans were around his ankles and his head was up her top.
Rage built up inside me like an erupting volcano – well - more like a small sparkler to be honest, aggression has never really been my thing, not really - at the thought that his face was either near or touching her amazing tits.
The way that the swing was moving erratically and frantically snapped my attention back to their motions and I watched, transfixed, as Rose's hands snaked upwards to hang onto the ropes and she thrust her now naked and remarkable tits up towards us again and again as Alec yanked her blouse off of her shoulders.
As his mouth fixed onto one of the rosy nipples that tip her large, rounded breasts, she moaned and whimpered as her body began to jerk in response to his ministrations and I had an instant erection at the sight of her writhing body and naked flesh.
Fuck…
Even the memory of that night makes me hard.
Shit.
All of a sudden, a gasping Alec cried out loudly, sounding agonised as he did so, and the night creatures in the garden around us fell silent instantly in fright.
"What the fuck is she doing to him?" I asked, horrified, as I turned to look at a hysterically laughing Jasper and Emmett who were vibrating with laughter, confused.
She obviously heard me, because as I looked back down towards her, she threw her head back causing her lovely hair to flutter around her shoulders and she stared directly into my eyes.
Licking her lips and smiling at me as she did so, she bounced up and down a little bit faster as she dug her nails into the ropes, she thrust her tits higher before her eyes unfocused, rolled in their sockets, and she began to shake and whimper above Alec as she jerked and thrust against him.
Wow.
I left my gob open for so long, that a thin trail of saliva dribbled from my lip onto the decking. They both stifled their laughter as they dragged me back inside the wooden structure, closed the hatch and burst out laughing as they pissed themselves in absolute hysterics.
"What the fuck do you think she's doing to him, Edward?" Emmett sniggered. "She's riding that fucker's cock! That's what she's doing!" he said.
"What?" I said feeling shocked, "What do you mean?" I asked, disbelievingly.
"Oh come on, Edward!" Jasper exclaimed, "She's fucking the lucky fucker's brains out, that's what! He's wanted her for years and now he thinks he's got her, she won't speak to him again! She's a fucking bitch like that to boys!" he laughed out loudly.
"Are you serious? Do you mean that they're… ?" I said, unable to finish the sentence.
"Yep," Emmett said, smugly, as he folded his arms.
"You mean… fuck… you mean that they're having SEX?" I stammered out.
"Yep," Jasper said, nonchalantly, nodding and smiling as he copied Emmett and folded his arms too.
"And you mean that Rose isn't… she isn't… fuck… are you saying that Rosalie isn't a virgin?" I gasped out, stunned.
The fact that instead of acting my age, I acted more like my shoe size is something that I've never lived down, right up to this day.
Jasper knew of my fixation with his cousin, of course, and many a hot and sweaty afternoon was spent hiding in the dry, gritty dunes in either of the holiday resorts, munching on sandwiches laced with wind-blown sand and either looking upwards at the flying kites, wanking as we did so, or watching Rosalie laying amongst the course grass, sunbathing topless, also wanking as we did so.
On many of these outings, the three of us wanked simultaneously to see who could come quickest and furthest as we imagined what it would feel like to have her hands on us.
Now I knew for certain that she wasn't a virgin, my obsession became an all-consuming passion, and every time I wanked, I imagined that I was buried deeply inside her.
Shit.
We used to get rulers and tape measures out to see who had the biggest cock at regular intervals, though in all honesty, I always beat them hands down. They were both fascinated by the size of my cock and watched it in abject fascination as I played with myself.
The suntan lotion that Charlotte, Jasper's mum, or Esme, his aunt, insisted that we always take with us acted as a fucking amazing aid to a hard and fast hand job.
As you can no doubt tell, we wanked very often in those days.
Rosalie must have found it all quite stimulating herself because her nipples always seemed to be hard, and when I said, without thinking, one day, that they looked like raspberries, they both took the piss out of me constantly and even started calling her 'Raspberry Rose.'
She had no fucking idea what we were talking about, obviously, but she seemed to think that it had something to do with the naturally deep pink colour of her lips – thank fuck she didn't know the truth or I would have been wearing my big cock as a feather boa once she had finished with me!
Looking back, I think she always knew we were there, watching her surreptitiously, because every now and then she would rub her hands across her naked breasts or would roll over and wiggle her bum, before she tugged the edges of her bikini bottoms up into the crack of her arse, exposing her round, pale orb-like cheeks to our desperately needy eyes.
Sigh.
Ogling his own cousin seems a bit weird, even to me now, I guess, but I've come to the conclusion that teenage boys are perverted little fuckers, and when we grow up, we're no different, just less honest in many cases.
Even odder is the fact that Rosalie has presently been dating Emmett's friend, Tarquin, for the last six months and so he gets to experience - every day - what we'd spent year's perving about.
The most emotionally draining part of my life was, in fact, that after belonging to a loving, caring, adopted family for the weekend, every Sunday evening, I would go back to Eton and live a totally different life altogether…
…ooOoo….
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