Harrys Quest Ch 01

Harry closed his eyes and accepted that he now had no choice but to let himself go. The eruption from his balls was imminent. He always thought this moment was like the big duet between Florestan and Leonora in "Fidelio", the two voices rising in rapture, up and up in an ecstatic crescendo. "O namenlose Freude" they sing, "O nameless joy." And for Harry, the big O was precisely the nameless joy he was about to experience.

He had delayed it as long as he could, proudly conscious of the way he had learned to sustain the rigidity of his cock. Now the tingling sensation on the underside of his knob couldn't be denied any longer. She'd been good, giving him anything he wanted, and he'd wanted a lot. But he was no longer in control. An unforeseen clap of thunder, the insistent ring of the phone, a wailing siren in the street outside, nothing could have interrupted the onrushing climax. Then it was there, the repeated pulse as the liquid surged from the depths of his loins to escape in spurt after spurt from the engorged tip. Nameless joy. The big O.

When the slow detumescence was complete and his breathing had almost returned to normal, he opened his eyes. He saw that his cum had left a trail across the picture of the woman who had been the subject of his fantasy, the photograph disfigured by the sticky mess. Discarding the magazine, he made his way to the bathroom for a shower.

Masturbation had become something of an art form for Harry. Although he hadn't reached the age of thirty-one without a number of sexual encounters, some casual, some of longer duration, all had ended in one form of disappointment or another. Ideals formed in his mind and were pursued but he was never quite able to achieve them. He reached for the shampoo, rubbed it into his scalp and reflected on some of his failures. The litany was well-worn, frequently pondered over in moments of frustration and loneliness. He had no difficulty in calling them to mind.

There was the very first one, a girl with a reputation. Harry took her to the cinema, guided her into the back row, which she seemed to expect. She waited for the lights to dim before pulling him to her for a deep, tongue-searching kiss. When they broke apart she looked to see that there were few people around them and then calmly opened the buttons of her blouse. Harry hurriedly plunged his hand into the opening and cupped the breast nearer to him. The nipple was soon hard. The girl leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

This first contact with a female bosom had the predictable effect on Harry, causing him to remove his hand in order to rearrange a cock that was straining against its confines. He would have liked to get it out but wasn't sure if that would be premature. Rumour had it that his partner had done this dozens of times but Harry was a novice, didn't know the protocol. He waited for her to take the initiative, which she she did by returning his hand to her breast. After a while, she moved it to the other side. Was this the thrill Harry was expecting? Up to a point it was, but there was only so much fondling he could do without wanting something more. He withdrew his hand and put it on her thigh.

Instantly, the girl opened her eyes, glared at Harry and removed his hand. Bewildered, he waited a few moments and then tried again. No go. Her knees were firmly clamped together. All Harry's attempts to prise them even a small distance apart were fruitless. They watched the rest of the film in sulky silence, she offended because Harry wouldn't play to her rules, Harry upset because he didn't know there were rules. He saw her to the bus stop and they never spoke again.

The shower was running too hot. Harry turned the control down a notch, waited for the temperature to adjust while recalling another of his disappointments.

During the final year of his teens, bolder but little more experienced, Harry found that women wearing spectacles began to take a prominent place in his masturbatory fantasies. Inexplicable but there it was. Sooner or later it was sure to find a focus. Her name was Mandy. She was the sister of one of Harry's team-mates at the rugby club. After games he developed a technique for casually insinuating himself into her group at the bar. It took a while, and it needed a degree of feigned insouciance in the face of suggestive comments from his friends, but Harry's determined charm eventually beguiled Mandy.

Getting into her knickers required more patience. Certainly, Mandy was no prude, not averse to a fumble and a feel in the Rugby Club car park after dark. The savings he had splashed on an elderly saloon seemed amply justified. Mandy had no qualms about making her tits available, nor did her knees clenched shut when Harry explored under her skirt. The wetness he encountered at the top of her thighs emboldened him to open his zip and encourage reciprocation. This resulted in an unfortunately premature conclusion and a stain on Mandy's skirt she had to conceal as best she could on her return home. Harry apologised, asked Mandy to take it as a compliment to her allure, and the embarrassment passed. But the experiment wasn't repeated.

Several frustrated weeks passed before an opportunity presented itself: Harry's parents went away for the week-end leaving him in charge of the house. He took Mandy to a disco where their dancing became increasingly intimate. Having ensured that she had enough but not too much to drink, he whispered the good news in her ear.

Mandy was slim, narrow-waisted with small breasts which had responded encouragingly to their car park stimulation. Her dark hair curled forward at the ends to frame an oval face with high cheekbones and a generous mouth. And there were the rimless spectacles. They might have seemed severe to many but they merely inflamed Harry's long-nurtured passion. In his mind they would be perfectly complemented by silky black lingerie.

They returned to the house late enough to sneak in without disturbing the neighbours. No reason for Harry to feel guilty but he wouldn't have wanted his parents to know. In the sitting room the curtains were already closed and two lamps provided subtle lighting. Harry had prepared the scene before going out, having reluctantly abandoned a plan to persuade Mandy up to his bedroom. In that he was probably wrong for she settled immediately on to the settee, put her feet up and let her skirt slide halfway up her thighs. Harry sat on the floor and began to stroke her calves.

That was as good as it got. Mandy shed her dress without fuss but her underwear was a let-down. Instead of the black knickers and suspender belt of Harry's overheated imagination, she was wearing matching tan briefs and bra. Neat and not lacking in provocation, but a disappointment to Harry. The skin-tone stockings should have warned him what to expect. Worse still, they were hold-ups. No suspenders required.

In endeavouring to conceal his disappointment, Harry overlooked his pre-planned scenario. While Mandy was nearly naked and ready for action, she had to remind Harry that he was still fully clothed. He undressed In an awkward silence. Seeking to make amends, he knelt at Mandy's side and embarked on a series of caresses which brought him to the centre of his ambitions. His fingers probed, discovered wet fabric. Mandy lifted her hips, slid the briefs down her legs, reached behind her and unclasped the bra. She was ready for him - but he wasn't quite ready for her. Although he had remembered condoms, they were still in the pocket of the jacket he had dropped on to a chair on the other side of the room.

Opening the packet and extracting the rubber wasn't the nonchalant exercise he wanted it to be. During the distraction, his erection subsided. It took some cautious massage from a pouting Mandy - who hadn't forgotten the episode in the car park - to restore firmness and permit the application of the condom. That was when the next miscalculation revealed itself. The settee didn't adapt easily to the sexual manoeuvrings of a six-feet-two rugby player. When he placed the soles of his feet against the arm and prodded between Mandy's legs with his now rampant cock, his head rested uncomfortably against the arm at the other end. He tried dangling his feet over the arm rest only to find he couldn't generate enough purchase to fuck with the drive he believed essential.

They moved to the floor where Mandy complained her back was reacting uncomfortably to the carpet. After another hiatus while Harry brought a blanket and spread it under her, he finally set about his business - but without repeating the foreplay that would have restored her full lubrication. When he entered her they were neither of them happy. The problem was, having waited so long in rising anticipation, Harry couldn't bring himself to admit defeat and wait for more propitious circumstances. Unsurprisingly, he didn't last long.

Looking back, he saw it was worse, far worse, than the fiasco with the girl in the cinema. He drove Mandy home in silence. At her door he apologised, she told him not to worry. But both knew the relationship was doomed and both were privately relieved when they drifted apart.

When Harry stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself it was as though he believed the rough towelling could rub away the depressing memories. But the sequence, once begun, rolled inexorably on.

In fairness, it had seemed for some while that Priscilla might live up to Harry's febrile imaginings. He met her after he had moved to London. His first job, with an Insurance company, had shown him that an instinctive gift for figures was a valuable commodity in the marketplace. Accelerated promotion was offered but Harry turned it down in favour of an opportunity in the City. Quickly at ease among the big-numbers traders, that side of his life gave him the same kind of satisfaction he had enjoyed when bullocking his way past opponents on the rugby field. The money helped, too. The elderly saloon was replaced by a high-powered sports model.

A similar philosophy applied to Harry's need for a partner. A series of experimental relationships following the Mandy fiasco had taught him that many women were impressed not only by the sexual stamina he was cultivating but more basically by the size of his cock. Although none had come close to matching his blueprint of the time - a long-lasting relationship with his current fantasy queen - they had given him a taste of the alternative: fucking for the sake of fucking. Which he was never one to turn down. Nevertheless, the search for the elusive ultimate she was never far from his thoughts. The girl-next-door, sister-of- a-friend type had lost her appeal; now Harry's quest could only be satisfied by a more exotic creature.

Priscilla, who worked for a PR outfit in the City, frequented the same wine bars as the traders and brokers. Harry's prototype dream girl had mutated from brunettes with glasses to blondes with long legs. Priscilla was blonde and wore skirts that proclaimed she wasn't ashamed of her legs.

Their courtship was a somewhat staccato affair. Harry earned his ludicrous salary by working long hours. Priscilla's role with her agency often took her away on projects for days, even weeks, at a time. The result was to make their opportunities to be together infrequent and irregular. When they did meet they seemed always to be making up for what they had missed, notably sex. Discovering Priscilla had reopened the doors to Harry's private world. When the hair colouring and the legs were added to the balance sheet, Priscilla was an authentic asset. Every meeting, whether after a long or brief interval, was consummated with passionate and abandoned coupling.

Although the matter was never formally discussed, they eventually found themselves living together. Harry kept his apartment in the Barbican - it was an investment unlikely to depreciate in value - but spent most of his time at Priscilla's place in Chelsea. It was convenient for good restaurants and afterwards it took only a few minutes to be back in bed priming his cock for action.

Probably it was their time apart, and the need that generated for physical release when they were together, that sustained the relationship for almost two years. Harry could have picked up other women but long hours at his computer screen in the office usually left him content to have a couple of quick drinks before crashing out until Priscilla returned. However, there came a time when Harry began to feel that sex with Priscilla had lost some of its appeal. She had always been a woman of limited imagination, for all her intrinsic lust. On her back, legs open wide, knees drawn up - it enabled her to experience deep penetration from the full length Harry could offer while providing enough friction for her clitoris to bring on an orgasm more or less whenever she wished. Harry, on the other hand, liked variety, Priscilla on top, on her knees, ankles on his shoulders and other, more athletic positions. As time passed, she became less and less willing to indulge his desire for sexual acrobatics. That she also insisted black lingerie wasn't her style was another contribution to a creeping sense of disenchantment. When Harry put it to her that they might have a problem, Priscilla confessed that she had started an affair with a client whose account she was handling. And obviously not only his account, Harry retorted. On that note they agreed to part.

The face that looked back at Harry from the bathroom mirror as he brushed his hair was older and wiser but no nearer to turning his dream world into reality. He did acknowledge, with a rueful grin at his reflection, that Priscilla had unwittingly contributed to his disenchantment with their relationship for reasons unrelated to her penchant for the missionary position. It was Priscilla who had introduced him to the world of opera and ballet. It was Priscilla who had access through her clients to tickets for Covent Garden. That was how Harry came to know Beethoven's "Fidelio" and the soaring denouement of "O namenlose Freude" which subsequently harmonised so well with a stiff cock and a rapid hand. But more significantly, it was exposure to classical ballet that sowed the seed of Harry's next fixation.

Sitting in the darkened stalls, occasionally squeezing Priscilla's hand as a token promise of what awaited her back in bed, Harry had quickly realised that ballet offered a great deal besides aesthetic pleasure: it was a voyeur's paradise. Granted, there were no black stockings and suspenders on view in "Swan Lake" but he could relate easily enough to white knickers stretched provocatively across a dancer's arse and crotch. Especially when their partners lifted them to afford a tantalising view of legs opened wide. These were gorgeous women whose ability to arrange their bodies with variety and agility was seemingly limitless. A new fantasy had begun to incubate: Harry had started to wonder what it would be like to fuck a ballerina.

Back in his bedroom, fresh from the shower, Harry picked up the discarded magazine and leafed through a few sticky pages before dropping it in the bin. He felt the twinge of guilt that usually followed masturbation, the sense that jacking off, however sensuously he did it, was second best, a reminder of failure. A vision of Marina came into his mind unbidden. Marina the ballerina.

She wasn't a prima ballerina. In the theatre programme the hierarchy was clear. There were Principals, First Soloists, Soloists, First Artists and, finally, plain Artists. Harry took the pragmatic view that there would be too much competition for the favours of a Principal. He reasoned that even a humble Artist would bring to bed a suppleness most women could never aspire to. Access to an Artist wasn't easy but Harry had a stroke of luck. Marina was an Artist. She was twenty-three and she came from Belorussia.

At random he chose her name from the programme and began sending flowers. After a while, he enclosed his business card and, to his surprise, it worked. One Sunday morning while he was considering whether to seek inspiration from his store of magazines, his phone rang. The voice was quiet, hesitant but with an attractive foreign lilt. Was she speaking to the gentleman who sent the beautiful bouquets? Yes, he said, and he was thrilled that she had contacted him. His immediate fear that she might be ringing to ask him to desist was unfounded; it transpired over time that his good fortune was to have chosen a relative newcomer to the country who had formed few friendships. She was lonely and she knew she was not the only dancer hoping her career wouldn't end before she had round a wealthy husband. The bouquets had told her that they hadn't emanated from someone who counted the pennies.

It still took more bouquets and a number of intimate post-performance dinners before Marina accepted his invitation to view his apartment. Usually, she pleaded tiredness - dancing was hard work - but this time she had a rare day off in the morning. Champagne was Harry's seduction weapon of choice and it appeared to do the trick. It didn't occur to him that Marina had evaluated the flowers, noted the style of the restaurants where they dined, marked the luxury of his car and appraised the spacious apartment. Marina happily accepted the sparkling glass of Dom Perignon as the ultimate confirmation of the wisdom of her choice. When Harry gently touched his glass to hers and leaned forward to kiss her there was no resistance. Nor was there when he took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

She undressed for him without coquetry. Her tits, he saw, were small but interestingly pointed with dark brown nipples. She hadn't needed a bra. He understood that boobs like melons were hardly conducive to elegance in a dancer. Her simple knickers were white, which he didn't mind. They were part of his new fantasy. At his request she kept them on while he took off his clothes.

With mock gallantry he picked her up and carried her to the bed. Maybe, he thought, those male dancers had a special technique: she was heavier than he had expected. He made another discovery when he began to caress her. A dancer's legs weren't the shapely legs of a catwalk model. All that time spent en pointe developed sinewy knotted calves. Harry turned his attention to the white knickers, slipping them down her thighs to reveal a neat mound with shaved lips. When he touched them, they were dry. There was work to do and he applied his mouth to it with relish.

Marina lay back with her hands behind her head while accepting the attention of his tongue. From time to time she gave a little sigh and her pelvis moved briefly which he took to be evidence that she approved of his approach. He slipped a finger between the hairless labia and probed carefully. She was moistening promisingly. He inserted a second finger and began to give her a preview of how it would be when he entered her with something larger and more potent. He heard an intake of breath but then she relaxed while he continued the finger fuck. They spoke little. Harry was never sure whether a woman would be aroused or offended by dirty talk. He would have liked to say to Marina, "I love the way your cunt gets so wet. How would you like me to fuck you?" As this was their first time he resisted the temptation. Nevertheless, his cock had grown hard without any practical help. His fantasy was about to be fulfilled and he could wait no longer.

Kneeling, Harry rolled a condom over his projecting member. He wanted Marina to see this process for several reasons: to admire the expertise with which he had taught himself to deal with the item, to reassure her that he was taking care of her, and above all to indicate that he was ready for action. Marina responded with a smile and a widening of her legs. Still lacking any verbal communication, Harry thought it best to start in orthodox fashion. He positioned himself above her, took his cock in his hand and, conscious that it was above average length, guided it into her inch by sensitive inch. He was gratified to find that his foreplay had made her wet and receptive. Once again, the little sigh escaped from her lips.