Confessions of a Chronic Pervert Read online

  CONFESSIONS OF A CHRONIC PERVERT

  Graham Hoster

  Confessions of a Chronic Pervert

  © 2012 Craig Hindmarsh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  1

  It could have been anyone’s bedroom. The light leaking in from behind the curtains suggested afternoon or early evening. Magnolia or some other safe colour covered the walls, and pinkish red curtains – curtains that could have been selected by a male or a female – gave a rosy tinge to the scene. The bed was unmade; white sheets that again gave little indication as to whose bedroom it was; the girl’s or the young man’s. But as the video recording played, tiny clues would have started to tell a story, even to the casual or unwitting viewer. The girl, not tall, but slender, looked perhaps less at home than the male, his firm grip around her waist leading the way. We might surmise by now that it was his bedroom. Someone unfamiliar with the setting and the couple would probably have guessed that they were not strangers, but that they had not known each other for a very long time either. Her body may have appeared a little stiff, but as the young man covered her face and neck with kisses, it would appear to wilt somewhat, only to become rigid once more as his hands began undressing her – a little awkwardly perhaps. The video recording was infused with warmer shades as more of the girl’s clothing fell to the floor, her smooth, supple skin displaying a warm luminescence akin to that of the sun sneaking in under the curtain. The male’s slow, careful movements seen at the video’s start were becoming quicker, more feverish. The passivity in the girl’s body was leaving her, as some desire, physical or emotional, or both, seemed to take hold. The two bodies were soon naked except for the short, dark socks of the girl, which remained on throughout, right up until the video’s vigorous, sweaty end. As a climax approached he grunted a little, but her noises would seem a little stifled, a tad amateurish. The male’s body would have seemed several shades paler than her lightly tanned flesh, though comparable to the small white bells of her unruly, jiggling breasts, as he moved behind her in an unbridled canine rhythm. Her face was inches from the mattress, her back angled upwards. Perhaps she was enjoying it, perhaps she was putting up with it; the casual viewer might decide the latter as the final moments of the action played out. After an animal, downward thrusting crescendo of gasps, the male, exhausted, fell back on the bed in a spent collection of sweat-filmed limbs to the left of frame, his head just out of shot, while she looked rather less expended, perhaps a little discontent, to the centre. They must have lain there for ten minutes or more. The audio would pick up the bass of his voice and the tinkling mezzo-soprano of hers, as they exchanged some post orgasm small talk, although it might not have been clear if they both did orgasm.

  It’s odd. The light, the video, the lens, it all seemed to make the male look like someone else, someone disconcertingly older than he was.

  If I had come across the video myself, having suffered some amnesia, I might not have realised it was me doing the fucking. Not, at least, until the girl had tip toed off towards the shower, I had pulled myself off the mattress, approached the lens with a sly look over my shoulder, and switched the camera off.

  2

  There are those who think salesmen have some magical power. The power to persuade anyone to do almost anything. To part with their last penny for something they don’t need. To convince women to indulge in carnal acts that have no apparent benefit to themselves. To buy extra laptop insurance based solely on the risk of shutting the lid on a forgotten pen. An unnerving ability to guide the weak minded towards the salesman’s desired outcome. This is fundamentally not the case, but it serves us well for such myths to exist.

  For my own part, I can be pretty persuasive. It might be a god given skill, or it might be that I just keep on battering away until someone says yes. This technique can work well in almost any setting. One Friday night not so long ago, for instance, I met a pair of nubile girls on the top deck of a bus as it headed into town. They were all made up, red lips and dark eyes, exposed flesh at top and bottom. I’m an approachable sort of chap you see – so long as I’m not in a particular state of mind – and they started chatting to me. I could smell the thrilling combination of alcohol on their breaths and perfume evaporating from their warm bodies. They wanted more alcohol. In fact, they said, they needed it. Apparently – and I’m sure these fine young ladies were telling the truth – they had forgotten their IDs, and they needed a kind gent like myself to go and procure some Bacardi. I’m too young, I jested, but they giggled and continued their pleas.

  It’s all about how you make your case; your tone, the expression on your face, how light hearted you can make a situation sound. Asking these delightful little specimens of burgeoning womanhood to show me their breasts in exchange for alcohol might seem like an ambitious request, but it only took a little perseverance and a winning smile. They initially balked at the notion, despite their giggly mood and suggestive conversation. Indeed, we all got off the bus in the town centre, and it looked like my gambit was not going to pay off. I watched the high heeled young fillies totter off along the wet street as I lit an Embassy No.1 (Embassies for outdoors, rollies at home; no one shows their tits to a rollie smoker) and lingered at the bus stop. After a short pause, they clip-clopped back with furtive smiles, eyes glistening, lips sparkling. Okay, but only once, they said. I led them up a side alley to a position under a street lamp, and they re-iterated the pay off – a bottle of Bacardi, right? I nodded and smiled sagely, as much as a colossal pervert can when he has exposed himself in this way, an exposure that is far more telling than the baring of a female chest. I tried to keep my composure as adrenaline seeped into my bloodstream, for I knew what was coming. They shared a look of mild concern before their prettily manicured fingers pulled aside their girly tops and lacy bras, exposing two pairs of very fine breasts.

  I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of breasts, but it’s always a very pleasant surprise to see some new ones. These particular examples were not at all disappointing, although the girl on the left had the more inspiring examples. Quite small, with, as far as I could tell in the low light, pale nipples, surrounded of course by goose pimpled flesh. They gave me a good look, despite the chill air. At these moments I must confess I lose my persuasive integrity somewhat, grasped as I was by lust and quivering with adrenaline. Overcome, I suddenly suggested a rather lewd addendum to our little agreement, but by then their treasured breasts had been secreted away and their sweet expressions had soured a little, partly caused by my new suggestion and partly by, I would imagine, a certain expression of inane concentration on my face – an expression that most women find almost entirely un-alluring.

  I fulfilled my side of the bargain, as I hate to miss-sell things; the mood of these glittering hussies improving immeasurably once I procured a full bottle of Bacardi from a nearby off license. They tottered off into the night, intent on seeking alternative, perhaps more mainstream, male attention.

  Such activities must of course be kept in check when one has the high station of salesperson to maintain. If any job requires a poker face, sales does. This constant alertness to the potential sale is a kind of improvisational acting. Looking round my office, you can see who has it and who doesn’t. It may not be entirely apparent at first, but you get a feel for someone who can sell. That’s not to say that the quieter, less assuming personality can’t sell well, it’s just that any technique needs to be backed up with skin made of Kevlar; just as the sales pitch must be treated as acting, so must the lead's rebuttal.

  Do I sound like I know what I’m talking about? If so, you might think the relative successes of the sales team might be drawn out on some gigantic whiteboard, with my name on top. My company, though, prefer to secret such information away in a spread sheet on the main server. And at the point when this tale really begins, I am languishing at foot of this tiny piece of electronic data. Despite being tucked away in an innocuously named folder on the main server, its names, sales figures and above all positions, are seared into every salesperson’s mind – whichever position they currently occupy.

  3

  It isn’t easy making the numbers go up in one’s bank account, but at this time I was on the cusp of sealing quite a sizeable deal. Locking this one down would have the twin benefits of keeping my managing director (and therefore team leader, Gordon) off my back, and re-animating the doleful, downward moving figures in my current account. I am not, and have not, been one of the world’s most prolific salespeople, but I was all over this like some kind of horrible rash. And as things turned out, this was precisely how the person I was ‘selling’ to saw my sales pitch, my almost daily phone calls, and my protracted presentation style. I didn’t know it at the time, but my sales magic wasn’t really working.

  Websites. I have sold a great many of them to companies across the country (I even have one myself, but I’ll tell you more about that later). Delta Meade Pharmaceuticals were in the market for a nice, big, new, shiny website – in fact a whole set of new websites, for their various global operations. The fee that my firm was due to make from this
service was gargantuan. The price would have been huge for any client, but given this was one of the top ten drug companies in the world, I simply plucked a big fat figure out of the air, my team leader doubled it, and my MD added VAT. Landing this would have kept our developers in tedious new technology and under-laundered finery for many months, would have erased the permanent frown from Gordon’s face, and, more importantly, presented me with an embarrassingly large commission.

  It was, I was certain, all going fine. I was all over it – like some sort of unstoppable dermatological condition, if you will – that was, until a pert little red head called Lydia Cahill joined my penis-heavy sales team. If I was the unwitting skin complaint all over the Delta Meade deal, Lydia was like some kind of sticky antiseptic cream. That was, if you can imagine sticky anti-septic cream with tits. Her sensible, well-mannered and entirely persuasive sales technique was hard enough to compete with, but armed with those devilish little orbs, it was impossible.

  Again though, at this time, I hardly knew the havoc she was about the wreak. It all started going wrong when my MD called me into his office and pointed out that I had outstanding holiday.

  ‘You want me to take it now?’ on the brink of my biggest ever sales deal.

  ‘The deal will handle itself,’ he said sharply, ‘It’s a waiting game now, you know that. You’ve been going at it like buggery. Take some time off.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘But nothing. Delta’s fine. Take your holiday.’

  ‘But I need to be here.’

  ‘You need a Holiday.’

  ‘I’ll take it in a couple of months.’

  ‘Look, if you don’t take it now, you lose it.’

  ‘When does it run out?’

  He paused. ‘Five weeks, Andrea says.’ Andrea was his secretary.

  ‘I’ll take it in five weeks then.’

  ‘Well if you take it in five weeks, you’re into next year. It’ll have to be four weeks.’

  ‘Okay four weeks.’

  I had five days to take – indeed, I was being forced to take them – and with weekends, this meant I could have nine days.

  4

  I have an In Mode and an Out Mode. When I’m in my In Mode, Out Mode is impossible. Of both modes, the In-Mode is undoubtedly the most sinister.

  In Mode is an obsessive state whereby I hunt down the things I’m not meant to see. This could be almost any part of a female’s body, but is most likely to be scouring for bare knees that are slightly parted, in the hope of seeing a pantie-covered pubic triangle, or peering down a bra in search of a secret bud of a nipple. In Mode hours are spent loitering in places where such discoveries might be made. It’s a long-haul hobby with, you might think, very little pay off. When I’m not in In-Mode, I’d agree with you. But when I am in it, virtually nothing save a terrorist attack or an act of god could blow me off this obsessive course. I’ll trail beaches for hours, linger around national monuments both at home and abroad, take detours across cities in order to follow a girl in a skirt that only barely hides her buttocks. I might go to a swimming pool and spend twice as long in the changing rooms as the pool itself in order to peer under the stalls. I’ll nonchalantly glance down female colleagues’ shirts in the hope of seeing a pale nipple, creating a treasured memory that simply should not be possible in a homogenised, over-lit office at eleven thirty on a grey Tuesday morning. It should, perhaps, never happen. The In-Mode compels me to invest in, charge up and carry (where feasible) a collection of cutting-edge photographic equipment, chosen, usually, for their coalescing of discreet portability, optical zoom capability and exceptional picture quality. The hunt could take me anywhere. Opportunities lie in every situation.

  Train carriages, top-decks of buses, office staircases, parks, seaside resorts, café windows, puddles, neighbours’ windows, neighbours’ gardens, windy days, unexpectedly wet days, super-hot days, in the rainbow-lit darkness of nightclubs, in the underwear section, clothes shop escalators, angled shoe-shop mirrors, supermarket checkouts, outdoor restaurants, third storey buildings, river sides, beach car parks, city car parks, jumble sales, car boot sales – anywhere, in fact, where flesh might unexpectedly appear, often only for a second and sometimes never at all. This is my In Mode, and it’s taken up years of my life.

  My Out Mode is the more palatable of my modes, one that denies the existence of the In Mode, one in which the In Mode makes no sense. Out Mode is where I put all my energies into acquiring erotic experiences with actual females, an active state of mind that straddles the real world, but pushes at the very edges of what the chattering masses might sagely call ‘normal’. Most of them let me try whatever sexual fad I’ve dreamt up – or more accurately, whichever perverse notion appears to have detained me. Perhaps this acquiescence is born out of drugs, alcohol or a desire to appear liberal on the mattress. It’s nearly always short-lived.

  The blood-pumping, adrenaline injected thrill of rubbing my glans on the smooth, delicate calf of a seventeen year old, or creating a foot-vagina with the insteps of a drunken forty year old, her legs hitched up ridiculously on my shoulders, her real vulva glistening somewhere below; these are the kind of multi-coloured slips of silk and rough hessian weave that make up my patchwork quilt of perversion. Some of these things have happened, some were denied me, and some are on my bizarre wish-list of debauched erotic experience, endlessly being shuffled and added to.

  But as far as my colleagues and friends are concerned, these virulent undercurrents simply do not exist. I am Jack. I sell websites and SEO packages, I know about return on investment and overcoming the tired old arguments that potential clients always serve up. I like steak and chips and lager and TV. This is my third mode. I’ve never found out what happens when the jumping hoops of the third mode cease to exist.

  5

  I should probably tell you how I ended up selling websites and search engine optimisation packages to the small, medium and occasionally large-sized companies across Essex and the wider country. I was a bit of late starter, really – in many ways actually – but let’s stick to sales for now.

  I wouldn’t have got into selling stuff to people if I hadn’t met Leticia one summer in Ilfracombe, North Devon. I had been drifting for some time following a stint as an unemployed person at my mum’s Suffolk home. Before that I had spent the winter working as a dish pig in the bowels of an Alpine hotel near Turin. But that summer, I found myself in Ilfracombe, after going to see a friend in Barnstaple who, as it turned out, couldn’t see me because his grandmother had unexpectedly died and he’d had to go to Bournemouth to console his mum. Barnstaple’s a long way to go from Suffolk, so I had to stay somewhere – somewhere cheap.

  I found just such a place in Ilfracombe, an old Victorian seaside resort that attracted just enough modern-day ice cream lickers and pasty munchers to keep it ticking over. I moved in to the Deep Blue Backpackers not far from the harbour. I probably only planned to stay for a few days but I ended up staying for three months. It was summer you see, and I decided to use my dishwashing skills – honed in Italy – in order to keep myself alive for that long, happy summer.

  Job hunting, however, requires a lot of motivation at the best of times, and when the sun is out and the hostel you’re staying in is full of pretty and frequently drunk A Level graduates, one tends to lean a little bit more than one should on one’s overdraft facility – in preference to scrubbing pots and pans in dark, steamy kitchens. So I stayed, chasing the drunken hussies who came to Ilfracombe to celebrate leaving school, and despite the fact that my age – several years in advance of my quarries – was a jovial matter of concern for them, I still managed to tickle the red painted toes of a delightful, curly haired eighteen year old. I also laid her down on the sofa of the hostel living room at about 3am one night, hoisted her light summery blue dress up, pulled her little summery pants down, and fucked her tight summery A-Level graduate pussy.