Morton's Island Ch. 01

"Thank you. Now we may proceed. Please sit. May I get you another drink, perhaps. Something a little more interesting?"

Emily was mightily disappointed. Was this what he meant by 'deficiencies'? All the men who had ever seen her naked, until now, had been fulsome, if not gushing in their admiration. The most she could detect in Morton was, perhaps, a faint twinkle in his eye, though she could easily have imagined even that. But she was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve. There's a first time for everything, she thought.

"Perhaps a Campari? On the rocks," she said, in neutral tone, "if you have ice, that is."

Morton searched the cabinet for the bottle that said 'Campari', poured a healthy portion into a crystal tumbler, added two ice cubes using the tongs, stirred with the glass stirrer, then crossed the room. As he transferred the tumbler to her hand he said,

"You have a very nice body."

"Thank you," Emily said, glancing at him over her glass.

"Of course, you do understand that supervision of my progress would involve your person, in an .. er .. intimate way," he continued.

"I understand," Emily said. Then,

"So you did you like my strip? I wondered."

Morton looked at her and at first she thought he had not understood. But he said,

"Yes, indeed. You did that very well. Indeed, very well."

Emily was thinking 'So why the limp dick? Was this the 'deficiency'? Was the guy impotent? '

But Morton had continued.

"You have perhaps observed problem number 1. You asked if I enjoyed your strip and I answered that I did. This was entirely truthful, but it occurred in my head. My head was most aroused. However...."

Unnecessarily, Morton drew attention to his flaccid penis.

Emily gulped inwardly. But she was into it now, she was naked and she was not about to leave. Where was this going?

"I suppose in my youth and previous life certain 'connections' that one would expect in a male of my age have never been activated. My life has been entirely cerebral, you see. So there you have it. You begin your counseling with, as it were, a clean sheet."

Morton allowed the hint of a smile to cross his features.

"Now as to my ultimate goal, this is very easy to work out. Let's take 8 hours for sleep. I get by quite well on 6, or even 4, but let's take 8, the accepted number. Then half an hour for breakfast, an hour for lunch and, say an hour and a half, or even two for dinner --- I do enjoy a leisurely dinner. Now, adding this up and subtracting from 24 leaves more than 12 hours -- for sexual activity."

Emily blinked. Had he said what she'd heard?

"Let me try to understand," she said. "Your goal is to .. er .. have sex 12 hours a day, every day!?"

"Yes. Well, I would not say 'have sex' but rather 'be in a state of sexual arousal', and not only mentally. This is fine as far as it goes, but I have made the experience that one's brain goes into overload. It becomes too much for one. It goes on strike, if you will. There is simply no way I can attain my goal of 12 hours devoted to sexual pleasures in a purely cerebral fashion."

"Now," Morton continued, over Emily's stunned silence, "I am fairly sure that once the appropriate connections are established and my arousal finds, as it were, expression, my brain will not overload. That is where you would come in. Let me see, what's the best way of putting it? Aha! A personal trainer, perhaps. Someone who will assist me, first in establishing the connections that are absent, and thereafter assisting me to achieve my goal."

"And you expect this to be 12 hours a day, every day?" Emily said, in a tone of incredulity.

"I do."

Emily thought. Should she or should she not? She decided she should.

"Mr Morton," she began...

"Oh please," Morton cut her off. "Just Morton. It's what I like."

"Well, Morton then. This -- your goal -- is very unusual. In fact, quite honestly I doubt that it is possible. Perhaps some women can have sex 12 hours a day --- I suppose there really are nymphomaniacs out there. I do truly doubt, though, that even a nymphomaniac can enjoy sex for 12 hours every single day. And a man? Well, he is limited by his physiology, isn't he. He simply cannot do this at all."

"Did you say 'cannot'?"

"I did."

"And on what basis do you say 'cannot'?

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"Ah! There we get to it. I thank you for being forthright. Amusingly, all of the ladies I've interviewed so far for this post said 'No problem!'. Are they all liars?"

Emily considered carefully. A weirdo, for sure. But a dope he was not. Be direct, he'd said. Ok, she would be. She responded,

"I would have to say, er, Morton, that Yes! They are. Any woman who tells you that your goal is attainable is not being truthful."

"Indeed. And you think this because no woman has ever heard of such a thing."

"Yes."

Morton Henry Stanley rubbed his hands.

"I really like you, Emily. You are forthright and honest. You are very pretty and you have a body that appeals to me. Very much so. In fact, in spite of my infirmity, I can feel mild stirrings already, as it were. So let me pose the question directly. Would you be prepared to be my personal trainer, to assist me in achieving my goal?"

Emily thought furiously.

"I understand your skepticism, Emily," Morton continued, "and I appreciate it. You may be right that my goal is unattainable, but how does one know until one tries? I daresay some of the goals I have already achieved in my life would before they were actually realized have been regarded by most people, possibly everyone, to be unattainable. This did not prevent me from trying, and attaining them."

Emily now thought long and hard. Her life was at a turning point. Two relationships had already gone bad. Either she was no good at relationships, or she picked lousy guys. She'd lost her lucrative job with the Ad-Agency, and that was before the recession. What were her chances now? She'd maintained her standard of living by moonlighting as an 'escort', but did not enjoy it. The money was good, but the clients the Escort Agency landed her with were either aggressive, or conceited, or physically repulsive, and more than a few combined all three attributes. Morton may be a weirdo, but he was neither aggressive, nor physically repulsive, and while his 'goal' suggested an element of conceit, the way he described it did not. Naïveté, perhaps. What harm was there in giving it a go? She wondered about the money. But finishing school had left its mark. To ask would be mercenary.

"I answer your question this way," she said, carefully. "I will help you in your attempt to achieve your goal, even though I believe it is unattainable."

Morton clapped his hands.

"Excellent," he said. "I'm very pleased. I suspected you would be right when you took off your clothes. I very strongly suspected it."

He continued, pensively,

"You know, I regard what I do as 'art'. Whatever this may be, I pursue it with the same passion a painter, or a composer pursues his or her art. As I mentioned to you, I have conducted very thorough researches and these naturally covered the full spectrum of pornographic movies. I have to tell you frankly that I was shocked. Not because of the scenes and acts depicted, though some of these seem to be rather disgusting, but because the 'actors' --- I presume this is what they are --- show no trace of enjoyment. How can one find an act erotic when it is painfully obvious that the protagonists are 'going through the motions'? They are doing what they do solely because someone has paid them to do it. Who could possibly find such images arousing?"

Emily had been silent, wondering where he was going with this. Since Morton was looking at her expectantly, she said,

"Well I suppose plenty of people do. It is a huge industry. Aimed, I have to say, almost exclusively at men."

"It is indeed. I've researched it very thoroughly. Worldwide it's amongst the top ten in revenues. And a sorry picture this paints, if I may say so, about the manner in which consumers of such rubbish obtain their sexual pleasures. D'you know, I even came to think it's a blessing that I am, as it were, starting late. If my peers, who presumably went through a normal sexual development, are sexually aroused by such trash, then I can only feel pity for them, and thankfulness that the same fate was spared me."

Emily wanted to speak, but she couldn't think of anything to say. This did not matter, since Morton continued blithely on.

"Now I'm gabbling away about this, and I'm sure you find it very boring."

Emily managed to get in a "Not at all" before Morton continued,

"What I wanted to emphasize, though, is the way in which you disrobed. As I said, I did enjoy this. You did it very well and I found it most arousing. But more important than this, much more important, was that you yourself enjoyed it. You yourself were aroused."

Which took Emily aback. She had to think about it. Morton had fallen silent, which gave her the time she needed. Had she enjoyed it? The question must have shown on her face because Morton began again to speak.

"You are uncertain, I can see. But I am not. I do pride myself on my ability to assess people. It has been of great assistance to me in my previous life, as it surely will be in the life I am about to embark upon. I watched you most carefully, and I would be amazed if my conclusion that you were aroused is incorrect."

Emily had decided. She had to admit it. She had enjoyed it. Maybe the guy was not so weird after all. Well weird, but in a weird way, as it were!

"This is important in two respects. First, you enjoyed stripping in front a strange man for itself, not for reward. You have in your bag the agreed honorarium for this consultation. This was unconditional. You could have walked out at any time, whenever you wanted to. But you did not. When I asked, offering no reward, you stood before me and took off your clothes."

Emily was chewing on this, wondering what she could say, but again Morton continued, over her silence,

"Now I am not naïve. I'm sure other thoughts went through your head. But there is a second point. The manner in which you disrobed suggests that you have at least the potential to regard sexual fulfillment as an art form."

It was time to speak, Emily felt. This strange man should be under no illusions as to how she had maintained her standard of living. It would not be fair. An escort surely does not consider what she has to do to please her clients as 'art' in any sense other than the 'art of deception'. But as she opened her mouth, Morton interrupted.

"Please, say nothing. I do not want to dwell on your past life, as I shall not on mine. I want you, like me, to think of yourself as a blank page. A page on which will be written not only my sexual development, but your own as well."

Again Emily opened her mouth to speak. What did he think? She was a virgin!? Before her tongue could give voice to utterance, Morton continued.

"Now," he said, with emphasis, looking at his watch. "It's three o'clock. What do you think? Dinner at eight, perhaps?"

She found her voice.

"You mean, here?"

"Yes, of course. Where did you think? You'll have a few things to sort out. Five hours should be sufficient, don't you think?"

Emily looked dazed.

"You mean, you want me to move in here, tonight?"

"Of course."

"And stay...?"

"Of course. How else shall we achieve our objective?"

Emily gulped. This was not in her plan. She said, hesitantly,

"Can I have a night to think about it? Sleep on it, perhaps?'

"What is to think about? We've agreed. You have no boyfriend --- that, as you recall, was established prior to your visit. You live alone."

"But.... But...." Emily was thinking furiously. What else was established? That she was unemployed? Yes. It had been.

"But what?"

Morton seemed genuinely puzzled.

"My friends will wonder ..."

He waved a hand.

"You'll think of something. And you won't be needing clothes, will you. And as for toiletries, that sort of thing, you will find the hotel more than adequate for your every need. It's nauseatingly opulent, you know. Not really my style. But where else can one rely on utter discretion," he sighed.

"So there's no need to pack anything. The clothes you came in are all you'll need. There are plenty of these around," Morton pointed to the discarded bathrobe, "for when we eat. The rest of the time...."

He left the sentence unfinished.

Emily fell silent. She'd run out of 'buts'.

"So. Shall we say dinner at eight?" Morton said, looking at her expectantly.

Pause. What could she say?

"I suppose so, then. Ok," she heard herself utter.

"Splendid," Morton exclaimed. Then he continued, in a business-like fashion,

"Now there are just a couple of small details. First, I'm sure you have a cell phone in your bag. Please leave that behind. If you bring it, you may be tempted to use it, and cell phones can be located. No-one must know you are here, as no-one knows I am here, except of course the staff, to whom I am, and you will be, without identity. Please accept this as a condition. You are free to look around the suite if you wish. No harm can possibly come to you here. You will always be free to leave whenever you wish. It is not, I hope, a too unreasonable infringement of your personal liberty to require that you tell no-one --- not a soul --- that you will be here."

Emily did a double take on this. Tell no-one? Not even Pat? As escorts, they always made sure the other knew, just in case. And she truly would feel utterly naked without her cell phone, a thought that almost made her giggle.

If she went through with this, naked was the way she would be. All the time!

How did she feel about that?

"Are we clear on this?" Morton looked up at her inquisitively.

"If you say so. Then, ok. I won't tell anybody."

"Good. Now, second," Morton raised a pamphlet from the table by his chair and extracted from beneath a sliver of paper. "You will have some bills to pay in advance, rent, phone and such."

He took up a fountain pen and removed its cap.

"What name shall I write in?" he asked, looking up at her innocently.

Pause.

"I'm sure your bank will not accept a check written out to 'Emily'."

Emily thought. Ohwell. She was in it now, and a check is a check.

"Jane Gilbert," she said, sounding calmer than she felt.

Morton scribbled in the name, muttering to himself 'Jane. What a nice name', signed with a flourish and handed her the check. She rose from her seat, received the check, took a quick glance, and almost fell over.

"But.... But....?"

"What now?" Morton said, almost crossly.

"But...."

Should she, shouldn't she? She should.

"How do you know," she said, firmly, "that I won't just bank this check and disappear?"

"I don't," Morton answered.

"You are so sure of me?"

"No! I am fairly sure. But not certain."

"Then....?"

"Well, if you were to do that, then you are not the woman I am looking for."

"You see?" he continued, spreading his arms, and smiling.

"A no-lose proposition."

Chapter 3

"OhYes! That's good, that's very good."

Jane's tongue continued to lick the base of Morton's rock hard penis, on the way brushing briefly across his scrotum.

"Keep doing that, please."

Jane did, even though her neck was threatening to break in half.

She maneuvered Morton into a position more comfortable for her and began to lick his cock tip and slide it in and out of her mouth.

"OhMiGod! That's exquisite. Come over so I can taste you."

She shifted to the 69 position and her body shook slightly as Morton's tongue brushed against her pussy lips. Her own oral skills were well developed, but she'd been surprised when Morton displayed an expertise with tongue, lips and mouth second to no man who'd been there before, as it were. Now, on day three, she was surprised no longer. She just enjoyed, and moaned slightly as her lips were expertly parted and his tongue-tip explored their sensitive innards, flicking here and there, spreading out her juicy petals. She adjusted her rump, willed the tongue to go higher, where the tip of her clit peeped out from its hood. But she knew it would not. Not yet. Morton loved to tease, keeping her on a plateau.

Resting on her arms, she repaid like with like, sliding her mouth over Morton's penis, slowly, up and down, tonguing its tip, going deeper, holding, sucking, then withdrawing.

The tension heightened, in infinitesimal steps.

Her arms tired, her thighs began to shake. Both recognized the signs and they flipped over more perfectly in tandem than many a ballroom pair. Jane allowed Morton's penis to slide out of her mouth. It sprang forwards, recoiling from his stomach. She began to suck on his balls, first one, then the other, drawing them deep into her mouth, until a scrotum that had dawn tight was again loose. Only then did she raise a hand and ease his penis gently back towards her mouth. Morton adjusted the position of his rump accordingly and began to moan himself as her tongue ran up and down the underside of his shaft.

His head buried deep between her thighs, Morton's mouth pressed against her pussy lips, his tongue darting in and out of her vaginal opening, caressing their walls. Her thighs opened wider, inviting access. Then he'd move out briefly and flick the underside of his tongue across the tip of her clit, causing her to shudder. She felt her orgasm build, then hold, build, hold again, and began to suck on Morton's cock in earnest.........

When she'd left the Marlborough Suite that day --- was it only three days ago: it seemed like an eternity? --- Jane had been utterly bewildered. Where was the catch? She'd subconsciously headed for the nearby tube station, but stopped herself. No! Returning, she entered the cab at the head of the line and gave the driver the address of her bank branch.

"Please wait," she'd said, in regal tone when they arrived. She'd always wanted to say this to a cab driver! Double yellow lines meant nothing to them.

Her hands shook as she filled out the deposit slip. Could you deposit a sum this large at a teller's window? Her heart beating furiously, she approached the counter and slid the slip together with the check into the drawer. They disappeared. The clerk withdrew the slivers of paper and examined them, agonizingly slowly. How often, she wondered, had a customer approached him with a check made out in the amount of one million pounds? How would he react?

The clerk appeared to mutter something into an intercom. Jane noticed.

"Is there a problem?" she said to the window, amazed that she'd been capable of utterance.

"No, madam. No problem."

The clerk retrieved the receipt from his machine, stamped it, stamped the check and placed the receipt in his drawer, which slid forwards. Trying to suppress a sense of urgency, Jane retrieved the receipt, glanced at it, consigned it to her purse, which went into her bag. Breathing an internal sigh of relief, she turned and headed for the door --- to find her way barred by a stout gentleman in a pin-stripe suit.

"Good day, Madam," said the suit. "I'm the Manager. Would you perhaps care to come this way?"

His hand indicated a gap in the counter which had opened up to allow the suit to emerge and was obviously the route he intended she should take.

"Is there a problem?" Jane said, trying to keep nervousness from her voice.

"Oh No, Madam! Only, so large a sum. I'm sure Madam will not want to keep that amount in a current account."

"Ah! Yes! Quite," Jane said.

"The bank offers many investment possibilities. So, perhaps?"

The arm invited.

"Look, can this wait," she said, "I have a cab outside. It's on a double yellow."

"Oh certainly," said the suit. "Perhaps Madam would care to make an appointment?"