Read Online 69 Things to Do With a Dead Princess by Stewart Home - Free Book Online
Authors: Stewart Home
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shoes and clothes, not to mention the packaging of all the food he’d consumed. Give it 50 years and this stuff would be a gold mine, museums would be bidding millions for it. But until it attained rarity it was just worthless junk. Horobin had disappeared, allegedly in the direction of the North Pole. Although he’d been unemployed for most of the ten years of the project, Horobin had somehow managed to buy the place. I never did discover why Alan had access to the flat or who covered the bills for its missing owner.
The aesthetic madness of the Data Attic contrasted sharply with the chaos of books that overflowed Alan’s flat in Aberdeen. Horobin’s detritus was ordered, everything was catalogued and put away in its place. Still it made little sense for someone to fill their pad with junk even if they wanted to create a time capsule. Alan, of course, considered this total environment to be far more sinister than an ascetic expression of taste. The Data Attic was Pete Horobin’s way of imposing his consciousness on others. It was the means by which he intended to inject his subjectivity into receptive young minds. I don’t know whether Alan was attempting to impress me or distract me. Behind the flat was a block of offices and I was keen to have sex in the back bedroom because I knew scores of white-collar workers would be able to watch me as I undressed.
Alan dropped his trousers quite unselfconsciously. He frigged himself and told me to get my kit off. I halfheartedly resisted these entreaties and found myself wrestling Alan on the bed. After much laughing, dragging and pushing, Alan succeeded in getting his hand on my chink of delight. I enjoyed watching his face beam with satisfaction as his eager fingers felt the swelling mound and soft, rounded lips which formed the outer portion of my sex. Alan praised and kissed me. Pressed hard against me. He pinched my clitoris and his fingers rubbed my slit, as he softly pulled up my frock and pulled down my M&S knickers until I was at last exposed in the way he desired. Alan positioned me on the bed so that any of the desk jockeys who cared to look could get a full view of my delights.
Alan’s eyes sparkled when he kissed the lips of my cunt and then thrust in his tongue. He was leaning over me on one side, so I let my hand stray up his thigh. Alan’s prick stiffened as my fingers closed around it. He seemed greatly pleased and lifting himself up, he pushed it forward towards my face. I began to frig the erection, all the while keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the prick. Alan asked me to give him a blow job. I took his manhood in my mouth and twined my tongue around it. Alan moaned and I sucked. As I pulled myself free and told Alan to shove his dick up my slit, I noticed that a number of office workers had abandoned their tasks and were gazing at us through the bedroom window. Knowing I had an audience got me excited and it wasn’t long before I’d come. I let Alan bang away for a few minutes, then pushed my grinding partner onto his back and jerked him off.
Adjusting my clothing I gazed out of the window. White-collar workers busied themselves at their computers, studiously avoiding my gaze. Alan smoothed the bed sheets, determined to leave the flat exactly as we’d found it despite the fact that its owner was unlikely to return. I was given a lightning tour of Dundee city centre. Bland pedestrianised streets giving access to some extremely ugly shopping malls. The Hilltown had more ambience but despite its position on rising ground and general aura of attractiveness, this area proved incapable of dominating the city’s psychogeography. From the Hilltown the visit to Dundee concluded with a sprint to the summit of Law Hill, then ten minutes at the top to take in the view. Returning to the car past the Nethergate Centre made me appreciate Aberdeen and its famous architect Archibald Simpson. My adopted home had succeeded in retaining some dignity in the face of
The aesthetic madness of the Data Attic contrasted sharply with the chaos of books that overflowed Alan’s flat in Aberdeen. Horobin’s detritus was ordered, everything was catalogued and put away in its place. Still it made little sense for someone to fill their pad with junk even if they wanted to create a time capsule. Alan, of course, considered this total environment to be far more sinister than an ascetic expression of taste. The Data Attic was Pete Horobin’s way of imposing his consciousness on others. It was the means by which he intended to inject his subjectivity into receptive young minds. I don’t know whether Alan was attempting to impress me or distract me. Behind the flat was a block of offices and I was keen to have sex in the back bedroom because I knew scores of white-collar workers would be able to watch me as I undressed.
Alan dropped his trousers quite unselfconsciously. He frigged himself and told me to get my kit off. I halfheartedly resisted these entreaties and found myself wrestling Alan on the bed. After much laughing, dragging and pushing, Alan succeeded in getting his hand on my chink of delight. I enjoyed watching his face beam with satisfaction as his eager fingers felt the swelling mound and soft, rounded lips which formed the outer portion of my sex. Alan praised and kissed me. Pressed hard against me. He pinched my clitoris and his fingers rubbed my slit, as he softly pulled up my frock and pulled down my M&S knickers until I was at last exposed in the way he desired. Alan positioned me on the bed so that any of the desk jockeys who cared to look could get a full view of my delights.
Alan’s eyes sparkled when he kissed the lips of my cunt and then thrust in his tongue. He was leaning over me on one side, so I let my hand stray up his thigh. Alan’s prick stiffened as my fingers closed around it. He seemed greatly pleased and lifting himself up, he pushed it forward towards my face. I began to frig the erection, all the while keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the prick. Alan asked me to give him a blow job. I took his manhood in my mouth and twined my tongue around it. Alan moaned and I sucked. As I pulled myself free and told Alan to shove his dick up my slit, I noticed that a number of office workers had abandoned their tasks and were gazing at us through the bedroom window. Knowing I had an audience got me excited and it wasn’t long before I’d come. I let Alan bang away for a few minutes, then pushed my grinding partner onto his back and jerked him off.
Adjusting my clothing I gazed out of the window. White-collar workers busied themselves at their computers, studiously avoiding my gaze. Alan smoothed the bed sheets, determined to leave the flat exactly as we’d found it despite the fact that its owner was unlikely to return. I was given a lightning tour of Dundee city centre. Bland pedestrianised streets giving access to some extremely ugly shopping malls. The Hilltown had more ambience but despite its position on rising ground and general aura of attractiveness, this area proved incapable of dominating the city’s psychogeography. From the Hilltown the visit to Dundee concluded with a sprint to the summit of Law Hill, then ten minutes at the top to take in the view. Returning to the car past the Nethergate Centre made me appreciate Aberdeen and its famous architect Archibald Simpson. My adopted home had succeeded in retaining some dignity in the face of
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