Experiment With Destiny Read Online Free PDF Page B

white flannels, navy blazer and straw boater. Marcus was alone with her, a picture of innocence and beauty, and the picnic basket, a feast for the senses. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the pure white lace of her gown. He felt himself growing hard. They were alone at last and drifting further from the bank. She smiled, white teeth gleaming behind full red lips, her blue eyes sparkling like the sun on the water. He kneeled in the centre of the boat, pushing the picnic basket aside, then reached for her. He peeled back the layers of her lace gown to reveal the swell of her peach-like breasts, then lowered his head to them. She pressed her lips to his ear; he felt the touch of her hair against his cheek.
    “Taste me, Marcus,” she whispered. “Suck me.”
    And, as he sank against her, his eager mouth pressed against the welcoming warmth of her rounded flesh, he remembered the picnic basket. Too late! He felt it tumble from the side of the boat and heard its mighty splash. Then, as he gazed in dismay, it sank without trace and, as he turned to face her, her eyes clouded with fury.
    Marcus was awake and gasping for air. He was flailing, fully clothed, on his bed. He stopped, sat upright and gulped in the cold night air. After a moment or two he removed his clothes and let them fall into a heap at the foot of his bed. He lay back, naked and shivering. He tried to shut her out, but he could not. His desire could not be iced over like this barren world. Tonight was worse. Tonight she had been his to taste, not just to watch. He tried smoking but, after eventually stubbing out the butt in frustration, his craving was still as intense. Finally, he reached beneath his bedside table, 1990s Swedish, and fumbled for Friday’s Merthyr Express. Turning to the back he found the ‘personal’ section and ran his finger down the columns of telephone numbers until he found it.
    ‘Your fantasy…just call Misty,’ it read, and then the number. Marcus clutched the telephone, standard post millennium Telecom issue, the basic non-vidi-link model. He preferred it that way. Marcus dialled, hating himself as he did so. He hoped she would not look, that she would lace up her pretty white gown and turn away from his betrayal. She should not have to watch this. The number rang…once, twice, three times…then, a click.
    “Hello caller,” said the voice in a sultry, if mechanical kind of way. “Thank you for dialling Misty’s fantasy line. In a moment I will let you speak to Misty but first, let me tell you about some of the other premium rate services we have to offer…” Marcus dropped the receiver to his chest and stared at his ceiling, waiting. The pre-recorded message continued and he knew he should stop, hang up. He couldn’t. The betrayal continued. Soon enough the voice of a real live woman breathed into the handset.
    “Hi, this is Misty. Who’s on the line?” Marcus lifted the plastic to his ear and began to touch himself.
     
    The night was filled with voices and visions. Marcus slept, but it was an uneasy slumber that left him edgy and weary. When he rose again it was Sunday, the start of another working week. He dressed, as ever, in his crisp grey uniform trousers, socks and shoes. Leaving his shirt and jacket until last he padded quietly to the bathroom to wash and shave. Returning to his bedroom, he averted his eyes from the girl in the painting and slipped a white shirt from its laundry-fresh bag. Pressing in his silver buttons, each emblazoned with the CMS crest, he pulled it on over his head then snatched his peaked cap and jacket before marching to the kitchen. Breakfast consisted of instant tea, toast and jam. The curdled milk had finally gone off, so he drank it black, dispensing with the ritual of the teapot. While he sipped and chewed he watched the early morning news on his portable television.
                  The news was one of the few things he watched, other than the re-run