Oliver Maxwell is demented, depraved, and disturbed. He's also one of the most caring young men you could ever hope to meet. In his own words, he both loves and hates women with equal intensity, confessing, "Some girls I hate so much, I have to see them naked." If you think Oliver Maxwell is complicated, just wait until you read about his sex life...
When this conflicted milquetoast discovers a nubile young girl sprawled out and unconscious in an alleyway one night, he decides to take the foundling home with him to "nurture her back to health and consciousness."
Oliver soon realizes that in order to take care of his mysteriously cataleptic housemate - the sudsy bubble baths, the muscle massages, the incessant combing of her silken blonde hair - he will need to indulge in extracurricular sexual diversions to keep from inflicting himself on the gamine's tender, vulnerable body.
There begins a litany of progressively perverted episodes for a boy whose fantasies might be others' nightmares... and vice versa. For Oliver Maxwell (and the various paramours he comes upon during his nocturnal meanderings), experimentation is only the beginning. He craves the fear as much as the fantasy, and knows he's not the only one. Along the way, Oliver finds his lost angel in a coma might not be as innocent as he presupposed...
He wrapped himself tightly around her like a strait jacket. Silently. Propped up on his side, spooning her from behind in the darkened bedroom of his ramshackle apartment. Darkened but for the amber streetlamps illuminating the closed white plastic blinds from the outside.
Considering how it all came to be.
His bare chest burrowing into her back. His pale, blotchy dry skin with thick black hair curling out from his sternum. Grinding up into the backside of her stretchy, black crushed velvet blouse.
His constrictive, navy-blue polyester pants rubbing against her army-green gabardine skirt. Her exposed knees a prelude to her smooth, delicate legs capped by the daintiest of toes.
His own toes�thick, stubby�playfully toying with hers as he pushed against her feeble, limp body stretched out before him, malleable to his every desperate thrust. Arms clasped around her without any notion of letting go.
Cupping her tiny, firm, baby breasts, bra-less underneath her wrinkled top. His stalwart talons clung to them, spooning her frail, rag-doll body.
The faded brown blanket and blue sheets were strewn frantically about, revealing a billowy mattress that appeared coffee stained.
His face delving hopelessly into her cool, flaxen hair. Silken, down-feathered. Perfect dirty blonde. Her nipples, the texture of hard, yet sculptable cheese, poked through her loose blouse against his porous fingertips.
Caressing these nubs with his eyes closed, his face plunged deeper into her airy, crisp-brisk hair. Deeper still to the nape of her frigid marble neck. Milky-white and pure. Her skin lined by the finest of nearly imperceptible feminine fuzz.
His cock growing, detained by the oppressive, ever-tightening polyester of his pants purchased for cheap at the nearby vintage store on Main Street.
He strapped her to him by his thick arms as he pumped himself against her curving body, which wilted to his thrusts. His frenzied fingers mindlessly kneading her palm-sized breasts.
A mad craving to drag his throbbing erection across her denuded ass crack hidden under her black, lacy underwear. His penis pulsed to what he could only imagine to be the erratic fluttering of the warm, moist flesh-bubble that was her incipient clitoris.
The tingle of ice melted down his shivering spine like silvery vodka down his throat. He swallowed hard.
Pulling up her skirt, only in the slightest. His mid-section drilling her shallow, bony behind encased in taut, eggshell skin. The prominent outline of each buttock peeking out from the bottom of the skirt
Not wanting her to submit. Wanting her to resist him with everything she might have in her diminutive body. She needed to understand that sex with him would only hurt her emotionally and physically.
He yearned to do things to her that her feeble little body was not meant for.
And he would overcome her enjoyable struggling, for she was small and would know it to be futile in the end. He would inevitably find passage to shove himself inside her. If he so chose. He being the man, she the little girl.
His right hand tugged the d�colletage of her blouse down into a wrinkled sash across her belly, facing, as ever, away from him. His left hand�poking out from underneath her�molested the soft, lacteal orb of an exposed breast. Her pencil eraser nipples popping outward in declaration of readied excitement.
His right leg wrapped around hers clamped together. His left hand reaching ever higher up from her chest to clasp her fragile neck, his thumb rubbing faintly across the dove-belly skin underneath her chin.
Her tousled mass of gossamer hair falling down as a refreshing waterfall between their bodies. He investigated the hardly discernible fuzz of her nape with his fingertips.
His alligator-skinned fingers wrapped around her uncharacteristically warm larynx, feeling her gentle heartbeat. Her neck only too easy to crush.
He closed his eyes, inhaled her subtle, earthy aroma of sour milk and pasty bread. His bulbous nose and thick, full lips lapping up and down her chiffon hair. His mouth gaping open for a deep, thirsty breath of air that pulled her all-consuming fragrance into his lungs.
And still he thrusted his bulging crotch against her rear, pulling her closer to his naked chest. Trembling, chewing on her hair, wanting so wishfully to swallow and make her his.
Gulping his medium-sized Adam�s apple.
His right leg tightening its anaconda grip around her legs, pulling her and her perky ass against his thickening dick, which coursed down the left side of his groin, roaming headfirst into his pant leg.
The entirety of his circumcised penis pressed contentedly against the crescent-moon crack between her buttocks under her ever-shortening skirt.
With his right thumb, he pulled the gabardine of her skirt further upward, his fingers softly playing her thigh as though it were an antique piano keyboard.
His left arm beneath her, between her and the springy mattress, those fingers twanging her still-hardening nob as though it were a rubber doorstop. He bit his lip unconsciously, didn't feel the sensation of warm blood trickling down his chin in infinitesimal rivulets.
�I want you!� he yearned to shout into her soft, pink, miniature doll ear. Knowing she wouldn�t hear him, he only pecked at the dusty, powdery cartilage, popping his lips over and over again as he did so.
The tip of his tongue wet, thick, strawberry-skinned, venturing deeply into her ear. Biting down on the cartilage that reminded him of octopus sashimi and tasted of icy cold butter. The coolness punctuated by three pebble-sized metal rings, one with a shockingly blue bead in its middle.
The bitter, sharp metallic flavor chilly on his tongue�s tip and bottom two incisors.
His dick bursting against the polyester of his pants into the gabardine of her skirt, beyond which her ass lay. Sucking in through his mouth, having forgotten to breathe. The split ends of her dirty golden hair tickling his upper lip.
His right hand explored her narrow right shoulder, clenching it. Flirting with the doughy folds of her otherwise taut skin.
He remembered that she was broken, not a doll.
That she no longer worked but was nonetheless real. She bled and she had a heart that he could feel weakly pumping beyond the flesh of her left breast. She was cold to the touch, but emanated living human warmth in secret, special places like that eggy throat of hers.
All that he could do with her was enjoy her body. She belonged to him. And each time he touched her, he felt an orgasmic explosion of emotion that rivaled the most profound of his crumbled life�s past revelations.
She probably couldn�t feel a thing, the state she was in. He felt only indifference to this, these weeks or months later, resigned that it didn�t matter to him if she was catatonic or whatever the case. His right thumb and index finger pinch-rubbed her nipple nub.
The important thing was that she had not been dead upon his finding her delicate little body lying in the drip-drop downtown alleyway. There was that fact, at least, in this confusing carnival that would become the terminus for his late twenties.
But that was beside the point.
That was then, and here he was now in this randy coda of what had been a series of debaucherous episodes. Acts so depraved that there was nothing left of him when he returned home to the girl in his house, she who he had promised himself he�d nurse back to health, back to consciousness.
He looked back on his life like it was a kind of fragmented cartoon. Some things didn�t make sense yet. Other things never would. Dark acts, full of strange wonder.
He�d more or less failed in staving off temptation. Over the weeks or months in which he�d cared for the mystifyingly unconscious girl. It all having started the day he took the bus back home from his challenging evening with Claire.
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