USED - 1**
USED - 1
**
I let myself be used. And yet I had all the power. Power over these men. I was only a lad, sixteen, seventeen, and yet these males would do what I wanted.
That big black bloke, six foot two, powerfully built, amazing muscles that seemed to ripple beneath his black skin. His clothes looked too small for him, too tight and it was a wonder the bulge of his packet didn't bust his zip. The curve of his pecs beneath the lumberjack shirt, the curve of his fantastic arse. Such things shouldn't be allowed, turning on lads like me like a switch in the brain.
I lived upstairs on the eighth floor, with my mother, just the two of us in a two-bedroom flat. The public toilet was built into the basement garage and the entrance was at street level, down a flight of steps. The street was only a side street with houses all the way down, and our tower block towered over all.
Luckily our flat looked out over the opposite side so no prying eyes could spy me out as I sneaked down the stairs and turned right into the semi-darkness of that palace of untold wonders. The steps were like the steps to an underground paradise and as I went down my excitement reached a quivering pitch. Who would be in there this afternoon? Or this evening? Or sometimes late at night when ma was asleep and unsuspecting eight floors up?
At night it was so quiet in the flat and I had constant trouble with squeaking unoiled doors. First my bedroom door, then the door to the landing and then two other big doors before you reached the lift. And then the lift itself, clanking like shit! And then, worst of all, the main entrance door to the flats which had to be slammed before it would shut -- great metal and glass thing and the bang echoing along the road.
There was a big patio-like open entrance walkway to the flats leading onto the main road, but I never used that because you could be viewed from all the windows at the front of the building. To the side was a garage with a small forecourt and some steps leading down and I would slip out along there because you couldn't be seen from above. Some of the guys who worked late nights in the garage sometimes came down to the loo. Or if there was someone on duty in the garage I didn't fancy or didn't want to be seen by then I would go out by way of our basement car park and around the back of the building to the public toilet.
The garage attendants were changed on a fairly regular basis (crap wages, one of them told me) and there were usually two on any one shift. If there was a new one I used to go into the garage for a snack bar or a paper and weigh the guy up. If it was a woman, I didn't bother. Sometimes there were two women on duty but mostly two men or a man and a woman.
The male garage attendants had this marvellous uniform, bib and brace and very tight trousers, and it gave you a hard on just to look at them. Even the scraggy guys looked good in this blue and black outfit. But the work-out guys looked like gods in that clinging slightly padded material, especially if he was standing at the loo with his cock hanging out shaking off the drips. Funny thing was it took some of them a good five minutes to shake off every golden drop from their swollen cocks and this usually ended in a hard-on and a foolish, inviting smile.
They got bored on the night shift, bored and horny just sitting around in the little shop, legs wide open on their little seat behind the counter so you could see the size of their packets. Or standing rearranging the flowers in the cans outside, making sure they were watered. Bending over the flowers showing their arses in the tight uniform. Or leaning against the wall just round the corner, smoking a crafty fag and watching who went into the loo.
I loved that posture, leaning against the wall with hips thrust out, one leg slightly in front of the other showing some meaty arse and thigh, rolled up sleeves and big hairy arms, fag in mouth. But that was in the summer, those long summer nights when I lay tossing in my bed waiting for ma to retire, wondering who was downstairs tonight.
Men in shorts in the long summer days, high shorts revealing the lovely shape of their thighs. Postmen pedalling their bikes with the silky material spread across their asses and the heroic muscles pushing down for speed. Men with almost everything revealed, with just enough hidden to create a long and sexy reverie as I sat at my desk in my room trying to memorise French verbs, staring out at the Surrey hills that lay framed in my window, greenness and freshness everywhere, the wind from the open window ruffling my pages and stirring my hair.
Until temptation grew too strong and, before ma had returned from work, I would slip down the stairs like one bewitched, slip down the stairs in my own most revealing shorts and stand at the altar in my holy of holies, my porcelain altar, waiting for the sacred ritual to begin.
Hardly anyone went there to piss, almost everyone to play and if by chance a pisser came among the players he would often linger and sometimes remain to play -- to play with someone's cock, to fondle someone's arse, to kiss some sweet guy's lips, to lick some smooth guy's tits. Sometimes to sit in a cubicle and watch in astonishment as a cock came snaking through the hole in the wall, inviting hand and mouth or cock to cock. Sometimes to sit in a cubicle staring in disbelief at what was taking place next door with some big labourer or dusty builder stretched back on the seat and stroking his enormous tool.
To watch two lovers through the hole in the wall, to watch their play and foreplay, sucking and fucking and rimming and sighing, sometimes three bodies squeezed into the adjoining space, all hands and tongues and tools, glad to know that someone else was watching and turned on.
Sometimes sitting watching, hearing a scratch at the door, opening the door to admit some randy hulk or simpering boy, opening the door to let the radiance in. And soon the watchers would be watching, squeezing to get their eye against the hole and as one bends the randiest begins to probe and enter him from behind and sometimes when he is entered, fully pierced, a big fat dick is squeezed into the hole from the adjoining cubicle and hastily the buggered one slurps and sucks, the double delight of the fore and aft and every sailor girl hangs on to her hat as the sea breeze starts to stir and blow and the hurricane-typhoon tosses the little ship into the air -- and suddenly we are airborne and the vessel floats in an azure sky of feeling bliss.
The big black bloke that I had seen in there often, who always ignored me and hardly did anything with anyone, preferring to watch. That day, that summer day, there was only me and him, me standing at the porcelain pisser-altar and he standing against the wall in that pose I love so much, hips thrust out and legs half crossed, just staring me into extinction.
Me staring back and pulling at my dick, me watching, me waiting, me throbbing and waiting for a single sign that never came. Amazingly we were left alone and no one descended the stairs as if God had closed the door and said these two are sacred, leave them well alone.
He reached into his pocket and brought forth a big ripe apple, rubbed the apple on his lumberjack shirt, rubbed it slowly over the swelling pecs and over the curving belly and rubbed it down around his hidden treasure. As I watched he lazily rubbed his apple to make it shine, rubbed it with no sign of arousal but with obvious pleasure.
Then he licked the apple with his big wet tongue and the redness of the apple against his pale brown skin was like a light, a torch. He licked and touched the apple and did not look at me. I knew he was preparing to bite and I knew what I should do. The apple was poised, his mouth was open, the ivories began to close and slowly scrunch against the ripe red skin.
Ere the first bite was bit I bent before him and unzipped his straining jeans and pulled his beltless trousers down to his knees, his legs still slightly crossed. I heard the first scrunch and my heart stood still. I looked up but he was not looking at me but at the apple which now had a gaping wound in its side, a green-white gash against its ruby skin.
I heard the traffic roaring in the street, I heard the fast blood pounding in my ears. I saw the working of his muscled jaw and heard him rending apple flesh and saw his thick dark lips puckered and perfect as he ate.
At the second bite I drew down his underdrawers, I drew down his cotton whites which whispered gently against his light brown thighs, drew them down to rest against the denim gathered at his knees. This was the Unveiling of the Host, the revelation of the Holy Sacrament of love.
His wonder of wonders lay quietly resting against the massive curves of his thighs, sheathed in its light brown skin, crowned with a soft whorl of small tight curls. As if a great choir sang and the sun shone forth from the heavens and a voice was heard. He paused in his eating, staring at his apple, as I placed my hands upon his thighs, small white hands against the brown warm flesh.
I looked up imploringly at the face of God, his hand raised as if to smite, the soft contours of his neck and chin and face, the apple in his hand, staring only at the apple. He would not relent and look at me so in despair I lay my face against his hallowed thighs and breathed the deep brown musk that rose from him and kissed his wondrous tool in adoration.
Again he bit the apple and as he did a small vibration thrilled through his cock and balls and behold the wonder grew and as it grew the small round O where the dickhead peeped through the folds of foreskin began to widen. I had aroused my god and I could feel his smile before I saw it, smiling at his apple, not at me, the wondrous curve of the thick and parted lips.
My hands went up beneath the cloth of his shirt and touched the troubled nipples and felt them fill the hollow centres of my palms, fill and harden as my fingers cruelly bit, like pincers on the sensitive flesh. I heard him start and felt him swell, the dark meat fatter against my face.
And now it is slowly swelling and throbbing and lifting and I open my boy-mouth to take the man-meat in. It tastes like opium, a musky drug, as it fills my mouth and bumps against my palate. I hold the balls in my hand and feel them lifting as he gets harder and tickles my tonsils with his god-wand. And still he scrunches at his enduring apple even while his lengthening tool begins to probe my throat.
I scratch and pinch his nipples as he fills my willing throat and he moans with apple-mouth and presses forward to fill me further. My body is against his, hands outstretched as if he were my cross. Oh, the dark warm meat, the muscle skin and bone of him, all the lovely length of him against me and inside me. And his scrunching jaws above me and his dreamy eyes. Never a spoken word, only sighs and moanings, slurps and scrunching.
Now the thighs are opened and I push his clothes to his ankles and rub my cock against his lower leg and start to fuck there while his bucking grows more rapid and intense. I suck until my throat is sore and my jaws are aching, knowing he soon will come.
And then it comes, the shooting joyous rush, the semen allelujahs and the sighs of release and splatters against my throat and I swallow furiously to take the holy substance in. Every drop, every single drop, no wasting of the Host, no spilling of seed upon the ground. Me fecundated and renewed, me tasting the fruit of heaven by his grace, me hallowed by this act of God.
He is still, quivers a few more times, and then is still again. Only the jaws still grinding. I rise and stand against him and now he is staring at me, hypnotising me with coal-black eyes, his mouth working slowly on the apple. Bending slightly, he puts his mouth to mine and the smell of fresh apple is like the breeze from the east, the dawn-wind of promise mixed with the taste of his own God-seed.
He opens his thighs further until we are on a level and his still upright cock is against my own pulsing cock. I cling to him, body to body, muscle to muscle, skin to skin as he eats the core of the apple, seeds and all. My arms around his torso I push and push until his wet cock is bathed in my own gushing seed, and more, and more. I am electrified and my whole body tingles with lust and appeasement and he puts his great brown arms around me as my last eruptions are spent upon his hot firm flesh.
It is done, the sacrifice achieved, host and victim at one.
I get out a tissue, meaning to clean my white cum from his brown skin but he motions me away and simply pulls up his trunks, enclosing my seed against himself. This is deeply satisfying, knowing he will carry away something of myself.
Now we suddenly realise how foolish and how lucky we have been, that no one has come in. Now we part with still no word. He winks at me and smiles shyly and goes. And I am left alone with the gurgling water and the memory.
I go back to my room and the open book of French verbs and I feel as if something really meaningful has happened. The breeze blowing through my window seems to have come from a faraway place and to be heavily laden with the stuff of dreams. I keep thinking of his body and his final smile. Suddenly I can't get enough apples and scrunch my way through two or three a day, which gives me the squits.
I think of him going around with my cum on his body and on his briefs and I hope he's not the kind who's taking showers all the time. I keep hoping to see him again and for the next week or two I hang about around the garage and the side street, ever watchful.
Where we live there are a lot of blacks, and every time I see one coming up the street, I think it's him. But when they get closer I see they're not as cute as him, not as big, not as horny.
After a while the memory starts to fade. I've had a few guys in the meantime out of pure horniness but I'm always comparing them with him. I meet one black bloke who's almost like, but he's too thin and in too much of a hurry and he hasn't got an apple in his pocket, only a hole through which to feel his cock and balls. But I gotta have something so I let him suck me off while I sit with legs outstretched on the loo bowl and let him slurp my cock.
The memory fades but the lure of silence and the smell of apples is a small reminder of the heaven which I for a moment glimpsed.
Then one afternoon I'm coming home in school uniform and as I walk past the garage I see someone entirely different from my black but just as appealing. Mmm, he's new and he's so cute. About my height, perhaps an inch shorter, almost squat but squat in a very appealing fashion. The curve of his arse is amazing and I wonder the cloth can take it. He's broad too and with big biceps.
Like with some short guys, they get amazingly developed, thick thighs with barely room for their cock and balls. He's sitting on the seat as I go in, reading a paper. He ignores me for a while like some people do with kids, as if we don't exist and hardly matter at all. But its OK with me, gives me time to have a good penetrating look. Ouch! those fucking thighs are making me hard.
I'm staring at his crotch and suddenly am aware that he's looking at me. He puts the paper down (so good of him!) and scruffs his way to the counter, as if his shoes are too heavy for him. He walks with a pronounced wiggle. His big thighs rub together as he walks and the cloth of his trousers gives a series of little squeaks.
He says nothing, just nods his head upward enquiringly as if to say `What have we here? Who's this little toad?'
He thinks he's a big cheese, early twenties, first job in years, probably forced to take it by the employment agency or he's off his benefits. He thinks he's in control, but he only has to show a chink of interest and then I'm the master.
My tie's hanging loose, my shirt is half open, and I notice him looking at my chest which is hairless and creamy. I'm smouldering as hard as I can and I put my choc bar on the counter top with a limp gesture of the wrist and then fumble around in my trousers pocket for some change.
He's looking bored and he's sighing in exasperation but now I'm centre stage and he's waiting for me. My satchel's hanging off one shoulder and pulling my shirt half off my body and one nipple's exposed. He's watching me and something is beginning to dawn in that thick dumb head.
"So you can pay for this or not? I aint got all day."
"Sorry," I breathe, smiling at him. Now I'm going through my jacket pockets.
Another customer comes in to pay for his diesel and I stand aside to let him go first. Now I'm pretending to rummage through my satchel for my purse and the attendant's leaning with his arms on the counter watching me as I bend over the satchel making sure to show some arse. The shirt's come loose from the back of my trousers and is riding up. It's almost like a strip show!
He's leaning over looking down at me and his arms and chest and shoulders look massive from this angle. He's smirking.
I find my purse and get it out with a smile and rummage for the change. He takes the money and pushes the bar towards me.
"You new here?" I ask.
"What's it got to do with you, kid?"
"Just asking. I live up in the block and get to know most of the guys down here."
"Oh, really?" This has interested him. His scowling eyes have lightened up, dark shade of brown like amber, glittering.
I take my bar and immediately walk away, saying goodbye as I leave the place but not looking at him again. I walk slowly across the forecourt, feeling his eyes upon me. I put the choc bar in my mouth and give it a couple of sucks before I bite.
No one is completely straight, they all have their kinks. At the moment my world is divided in half, those who like boys and those who don't. There are lots of guys who won't touch a boy, not because they're scared (although some are) but because they prefer grown men. Well I got all the manly bits but they still see me as a boy. I understand. They want muscle and beef and sometimes lots of hair.
But others are turned on by smooth chests and cropped boyish heads and nice slender thighs. They like you to be uncut mostly with foreskin not drawn back, hiding your little treasure. But if it's a big treasure, as some boys have, a nice seven incher hanging down his thigh, they won't say no. It's the boy-man bit, the eagerness, the spunkiness, the adolescent's endless itch for sex: that turns them on.
I've had big beefy builders, football hooligans who take the piss out of queers and shag all the women they can pin down, licking my cock and kissing my little arse. I've had their big hairy paws on my chest stroking as soft as down like I was priceless porcelain. I've sat on their hairy thighs with my arms around their hairy dusty shoulders and made them coo for kisses from my mouth. I've had their cum all over me and them smiling down like I was a little treasure who they'd soiled. I've had them give me money, as if they thought I only did it for that. I've had them licking my feet and sucking my toes while I wanked and watched. I've come all over their stubble faces and seen them eat it too.
So the guy in the garage wasn't too much of a challenge. Like, people think kids are stupid and know nothing. Well, some are, and some are stupid or brilliant in different ways. And one of my particular specialities is: blokes.
I was hot for him already, but I never show I'm hot. Never appear too eager, that turns `em off. I walked past the shop and dropped things and bent down. I went into the shop at night in my shortest shorts. In a couple of weeks he knew me and was gagging. In a couple of weeks I wanted him like hell, but never gave myself away. I was a kid, an innocent. I knew he'd be thinking he wanted to show me the ropes, give me a helping hand.
Truth was, he was stupid. I knew that. I was only after his body, let's be fair.
It got to the stage when there was no one around I'd go and sit with him on the seat behind the counter. You could look out over the forecourt from here but people outside could only see your head -- so if there was no one in the shop and no one getting petrol, you were OK. This is what I thought and I guessed he had worked this out for himself. Anyway we only did it when there was hardly anybody about.
He'd be showing me some motor magazine or other, drooling over the machines which he couldn't afford and drooling over me too I guess which he couldn't understand. His nice thigh (boy! did he have great thighs!) would be alongside mine on the seat and I'd wiggle closer so I was more or less glued to his side.
When he wanted to show me a particularly expensive machine I'd put my arm round the back of the chair and my face touching his as I surveyed the wondrous car.
"How'd you like to go for a ride in that?" he asked looking straight in my eyes. He sure had great eyes when he was roused, dark brown jewels sparkling in his head and he sort of ate you with them. He looked at my eyes then at my lips.
I squeezed myself against his meaty thigh and waist and he was more or less in my arms. His shoulders felt great as my arm lay along them.
"Would you take me with you?" I asked, trying to sound temptingly innocent. I held one half of the magazine in my hand and my hand was against his thigh and moving toward his cock. He leaned back and now my hand was definitely on his cock and it was hard against the back of my hand.
"Where'd you like to go mate?"
"Down the coast."
"Sure, I'll take you there. Perhaps we'll pick up a couple of minges and shag `em."
`Minges' was his name for women/girls, referring to the most precious part of their anatomy. Girls! I thought. You wouldn't be looking at girls if I was with you!
Now he was getting really excited. I pushed the back of my hand more firmly against his cock and he stretched his legs more and was obviously turned on but the twerp was thinking this was the thought of girls!
"What if there was only one?" I was being naughty and leading him in my own direction.
"Nah two gorgeous hunks like you and me could easily find two -- maybe more."
"But what if there was only one?" I insisted. "I expect we'd have to share -- three in a bed. Or three in the back seat of the car."
His cock gave a jump. I wanted to grab it, but knew I couldn't do that yet. He wasn't ready for the direct approach. But my idea was turning him on.
He was laughing. "Hey, you're a pervy little bastard. But you have some good ideas. One of us each side of her in a country lane or lay-by. Taking off her bra and snogging."
I was really hugging him now and he hardly noticed when the back of my hand became the flat of my hand and I started to feel his cock under the magazine. He couldn't see it and he wouldn't yet acknowledge that he liked it. This was a wonderful game.
"Yeah," I said, squeezing his cock. "You suck one tit and me the other."
He reached down his hand to adjust his hard cock in his trousers so that it was lying flat against his belly and for a moment his hand touched mine and he must have noticed that I was stroking him. But his mind refused to bow to this fact because he still couldn't see what was going on below.
I was half turned toward him now, almost on top of him. "Mmm", I said "let's get her pants down and finger her minge."
"You randy little bastard!" he squeaked with delight and the magazine was shaking in his hand. I was more or less wanking him and I knew he'd soon be there. His hips were bucking upward slightly whenever he laughed.
"Who's gonna fuck her first?" I asked, giving his dickhead a terrific squeeze.
"Amateurs first," he said. "Then the professionals."
"Yeah," I said. "Taking my trousers down. Now she's gonna get shagged like never before. Hold her open for me while I get my cock inside her."
The thought, probably, of my boy-man cock getting inside a woman with him watching, was too much for him, and over he went. I gave a few extra hard rubs of his pulsing cock and felt him cumming in his pants.
He very nearly blacked out. His eyes were blank for a few seconds. I withdrew to the further edge of the seat and stared at him. He was almost rigid with desire. But slowly, slowly, he came down as if from an hypnotic trance.
After a while, he stood up, the magazine over his privates.
He said, "Watch the shop a moment, pal. I have to go to the loo."
I knew he'd be out there wiping himself off and wondering how this had all happened. Soon, I was sure, the light would dawn.
But in a way, I preferred things as they were. Nothing like this had happened to me before, this indirect and unknowing sex. I wondered how far I could take it before he began to understand that it was me he fancied. It was certainly a big turn-on for me, a most exciting game.
I heard the loo flushing and then heard him go into the little stock room at the back. I wondered what he was doing out there. I was fucking excited myself by this time and I wanted him. It was dangerous -- the fear of angering him, the fear of being caught at it -- but this only turned up the excitement level.
He was taking his time. I went to the stock room and knocked at the door.
"What's up?" he called out.
"Just wondered what you were doing."
"Come in then."
I opened the door and peeped round it. He was standing there in only a white vest and underpants and he seemed to glow in the neon light from overhead. He was turned toward me, legs apart, hands at his side, and still a bit of a bulge in his pants. For the first time I found him attractive in more than a sexual way. He had a line of moustache and long thin sideburns and he had just combed his dark hair which was swept back off his forehead. His bib and brace outfit and his tee shirt lay over the back of a chair.
The muscles of his thighs and stocky shortish legs and the muscles of his arms and the broad expanse of his chest in his vest -- wow, I was falling under his spell. But this was not at all as I had planned it. Or was it just that I was so fucking horny and needed to cum? After I had shot my load, would he look like the somewhat dense bloke I had first thought him?
"What's up?" he wanted to know. "Anyone in the shop? I'm just getting changed. Got a bit sweaty thinking about the girl in the car."
"No, no one about still."
"Fuck, trade is so bad tonight this place will go bankrupt."
He was smoothing down his arms with his hands and smoothing down the short hairs on his thighs, sort of stroking himself. Suddenly, in spite of his bulk, he looked young and vulnerable, and I wanted him.
I sat on the chair and looked at him. My hardon was visible through the thin material of my shorts. It was a warm night and it was hot in this room, even with the door slightly ajar.
His eyes were on my crotch. He said, "Looks like the idea of minge has turned you on too."
"It's true. It's made me feel so fucking horny. My cock's hard."
He was still stroking himself. He said, "Mmm, looks like you got a big packet for a lad of your age."
A moment of absolute madness. I whipped my tool out from under my shorts and waved it around. Stroked it a bit, my hips thrust forward on the chair. He moved toward me, walking somewhat ape-like in his vest and pants, something a bit menacing. The madness and the heat were affecting him too. He had just cum but his cock was getting hard again.
I looked at him as fetchingly as I knew how. I asked him "So how big's yours?"
He stood in front of me, close, arms and legs wide, in a male pose of readiness, for fight or sex. I could still smell the cum on him, it was like opium, a drug.
I knew exactly what he was thinking. He was thinking `This is a game that boys are allowed to play. He's not gay and I'm not gay. It's just a game.'
Then what about the excitement and why was he getting hard? He smiled and stood against me, playing his game. I reached slowly into his underwear, afraid that he might bolt if I was too quick, and drew out his cock. I could feel the big main vein of it beating in my hand -- or was that my own blood beating? It felt so lovely, silky soft.
"Let's see whose is bigger," I explained, but I had to cough because my voice was husky, perhaps strangled.
He let me do it. He watched my hands as if they were creatures by themselves with a life of their own.
I pulled him closer to me, my hand upon his waist, the soft cloth of his vest exquisite as it stretched against his contoured body. His hard cock was against mine. Still he watched my hand. I grasped both cocks in one fist.
Smiling, in a mixed world of his own, he explained, "I only wish you were a woman."
I said, "I reckon you have about a half inch over me. Well I'm no woman mate, but I'm horny thinking of sex."
He said (he used his patient mentor voice, this man of the world) "Two guys have been known to wank together before, if you're so horny."
Like it was up to me. I said nothing just pulled him closer to me so that my thighs were covered by his thickset muscular thighs which strained the material of the legs of his pants. He had his hands on his hips. I had both cocks in my hand, wanking slowly, mixing our foreskins up, drawing back and pushing again over the dickheads. Slowly we got moist, then slippery.
Someone came into the outer room. "Oh fuck," he moaned softly. "It's a sale. Fuck `em, they can have it for free tonight."
The sound of footsteps and then a vehicle drawing away. We hadn't even noticed it arriving, so intent were we on our game of man and boy.
He was pushed heavily against me so that my thighs were shut and my balls tight between our two bodies and my member at an all time high. I dared to put a hand upon his shoulder as I wanked with my other hand. He leant his forehead against my own as he watched me wank. I was dying to kiss him but feared I might break the spell.
Now, about to cum, we were neck against neck, our faces resting on each others shoulders. I could smell the tobacco and petrol fumes in his hair. I could smell his body and his cum. I began to slide into that big and empty space you find just before you shoot your load, knowing now that you couldn't stop if you tried. His open mouth was sucking my neck and I came and spurted seed all over us. And then he came just after and there was cum all over my hand and over our clothes.
We gasped against each other, shuddering, until we were empty and all our seed was spent.
"Fuck!" he gasped, now holding me. "That was fucking good."
"You'll have to marry me now," was what I said.
*
If you liked my story you can find my `Uncle Jules' under the `Incest' section of Nifty and my `Cinema Sex' under `Encounters'.
Comments welcome at charbry@supanet.com
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There is also my rather ancient website at http://www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~emenos/
for anyone crazy enough to want more.
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