Read Online Programmed for Peril by C. K. Cambray - Free Book Online
Authors: C. K. Cambray
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He cared nothing for the sun’s daily careening or seasons’ sweep. They were incidentals in his life of service to Carson and pursuit of onanistic pleasures.
Tugged by the twin tendrils of sleep and desire, he shucked off his sandals, worn jeans, and underwear. He normally liked sleeping in his Daffy Duck T-shirt, but tonight’s pursuit of pleasure meant it would have to go. He slipped into the living area, devoted primarily to bed, TVs, and VCRs. Food? He had a hot plate. Franchisen abounded. Into the VCR connected to the huge projection TV, mainstay of yuppie lounges and sports bars, he slipped the eighth of his ten precious tapes. Earlier he had patched the camera controller through to a hand-held unit. The unblinking eye into Queen of My Heart’s bedroom was his to command. He stretched out on his Mattress Warehouse marvel and beheld the owner of Carson’s heart.
She slept in nothing more enticing than robin’s-egg blue cotton pajamas, head and shoulders out of the covers, skin softened by the weak light of a distant bedlamp. Afraid of the dark, sweet? He panned in till her face, unmoving but for the slow pulsings of her nostrils, filled the screen. He started Tape Eight. On the big screen he saw the same face five years in the past. Its layer of flesh was more meager then, its eyes more wary. Carson’s persistent attentions had taught her that threats could be conceived even in the warmest nest of love. The Ups and mouth that—Carson had shown her—could be the most adroit tools of love hadn’t changed, nor had the dark sheen of hair. Today she wore it cut, fashioned in the style of the businesswoman. On that long-ago day it had been disposed of in a braid that snaked across her shoulder into the tempting valley between her large breasts, flattened as she lay on her back. Their nipples, colored by Melody’s conception and suckling, were convoluted like pressed brown prunes.
Carson was speaking to her. The back of his red head faced the camera. His voice was low, set in persuasive mode. On his spread palm lay the six shiny snail-shaped devices he called “whiz-bangs”. Another of his inventions, they were placed at key body points where Chinese medicine said sexual energies flowed. All were commanded by a single small transmitter: a hair more current, a whole mane of stimulation! My sexual life as a Lionel train, Champ thought. Aphrodisia for our age. “Batteries not included,” Carson snickered into the white shell of Queen of My Heart’s ear. See her wanton, responsive smile!
In time, with uneasy grin, she consented. Earlier, persuading her to venture onto new sensual territory took hours, even days sometimes. By the time this tape was made, though, she had learned to obey and allow. Was she not already fastened down with elasticized cords like car-top toggage? Carson placed the whiz-bangs on her skin, calling out in Chinese—he knew a dozen languages—the names of the nerve centers over which they adhered on tiny sucker feet.
Carson stepped out of view to activate the whiz-bangs. Champ tensed expectantly. Having enjoyed the tape previously only sharpened his anticipation of the first flow of current into the white, submissive flesh. His own desire stirred Ted deep within like a worm. He imagined Carson’s fingers on the control unit. A flick of his index finger and… Queen of My Heart sighed and stirred within her bonds. Her jaw slackened, disclosing the pink treasure of her tongue. Carson reappeared naked, the red pelt high on hjs back burning like a cape of fire....
Queens of My Heart past and present swam together before Champ, one naked and abandoned, another demure in safe sleep, the lash of wantoness coiled around the unsullied flower. The worm of his desire stirred further, stretched and showed the teeth of lust. He reached over! Atop the crate lay the six silvery snails. He placed them carefully where they ought to be on his own body, his touch gentle as a lover’s. He reached
Tugged by the twin tendrils of sleep and desire, he shucked off his sandals, worn jeans, and underwear. He normally liked sleeping in his Daffy Duck T-shirt, but tonight’s pursuit of pleasure meant it would have to go. He slipped into the living area, devoted primarily to bed, TVs, and VCRs. Food? He had a hot plate. Franchisen abounded. Into the VCR connected to the huge projection TV, mainstay of yuppie lounges and sports bars, he slipped the eighth of his ten precious tapes. Earlier he had patched the camera controller through to a hand-held unit. The unblinking eye into Queen of My Heart’s bedroom was his to command. He stretched out on his Mattress Warehouse marvel and beheld the owner of Carson’s heart.
She slept in nothing more enticing than robin’s-egg blue cotton pajamas, head and shoulders out of the covers, skin softened by the weak light of a distant bedlamp. Afraid of the dark, sweet? He panned in till her face, unmoving but for the slow pulsings of her nostrils, filled the screen. He started Tape Eight. On the big screen he saw the same face five years in the past. Its layer of flesh was more meager then, its eyes more wary. Carson’s persistent attentions had taught her that threats could be conceived even in the warmest nest of love. The Ups and mouth that—Carson had shown her—could be the most adroit tools of love hadn’t changed, nor had the dark sheen of hair. Today she wore it cut, fashioned in the style of the businesswoman. On that long-ago day it had been disposed of in a braid that snaked across her shoulder into the tempting valley between her large breasts, flattened as she lay on her back. Their nipples, colored by Melody’s conception and suckling, were convoluted like pressed brown prunes.
Carson was speaking to her. The back of his red head faced the camera. His voice was low, set in persuasive mode. On his spread palm lay the six shiny snail-shaped devices he called “whiz-bangs”. Another of his inventions, they were placed at key body points where Chinese medicine said sexual energies flowed. All were commanded by a single small transmitter: a hair more current, a whole mane of stimulation! My sexual life as a Lionel train, Champ thought. Aphrodisia for our age. “Batteries not included,” Carson snickered into the white shell of Queen of My Heart’s ear. See her wanton, responsive smile!
In time, with uneasy grin, she consented. Earlier, persuading her to venture onto new sensual territory took hours, even days sometimes. By the time this tape was made, though, she had learned to obey and allow. Was she not already fastened down with elasticized cords like car-top toggage? Carson placed the whiz-bangs on her skin, calling out in Chinese—he knew a dozen languages—the names of the nerve centers over which they adhered on tiny sucker feet.
Carson stepped out of view to activate the whiz-bangs. Champ tensed expectantly. Having enjoyed the tape previously only sharpened his anticipation of the first flow of current into the white, submissive flesh. His own desire stirred Ted deep within like a worm. He imagined Carson’s fingers on the control unit. A flick of his index finger and… Queen of My Heart sighed and stirred within her bonds. Her jaw slackened, disclosing the pink treasure of her tongue. Carson reappeared naked, the red pelt high on hjs back burning like a cape of fire....
Queens of My Heart past and present swam together before Champ, one naked and abandoned, another demure in safe sleep, the lash of wantoness coiled around the unsullied flower. The worm of his desire stirred further, stretched and showed the teeth of lust. He reached over! Atop the crate lay the six silvery snails. He placed them carefully where they ought to be on his own body, his touch gentle as a lover’s. He reached
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