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Of course, most have some basis in our own experience but always heavily disguised out of respect for all concerned, ourselves not least. Would this session feature in the future, we were asked? Possibly, but not certainly.Later, however, Selma said that she and Mike might like to have a story of their own on the site but they didn’t really feel capable of getting it down in writing. That view was echoed by the others. After some discussion, Gary suggested that Sally and I might act as ghost writers for them: the idea was that each time we felt the need to pause and recharge our batteries one of the couples would tell their story. Doubtless it would have the desired effect of arousal but would later be polished and published by Sally and me.Here then are the three tales, shaped here and there by us but essentially as they were told in an erotic miasma of half-fulfilled, half-unfinished sex during the intervals in that week-end’s activity. Whether the stories are based on truth or are. The wall tops out a metre above his fingertips, less than a metre. He needs to make one more move, where are the holds? What can he use? ‘I can do this…’ A pocket out to the left looks promising but it’s shallow and muddy, he tries it, takes his hand away. ‘What can I use?…’ Suddenly he’s aware he’s falling. Tumbling and bouncing down the face. He has no idea how it happened. ************** ‘I can’t do this…’ A house. A staircase. Halfway down the stairs a man sits hugging his knees. A song plays in his mind in a endless loop. ‘Halfway up the stairs is the stair where I sit. There isn’t any other stair quite like it…’ He grins as he remembers the puppet singing the song on a childhood TV show. He knows he’s crying in the same way he knows he’s breathing. He knows he should get down the stairs. He knows he should eat something. He knows he should go to work. He does not know how to make his body do any of these things. He is aware that something is wrong. His body and his mind seem.
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