The Little Lovers

I keep them in a fish tank. I know it sounds cruel, but believe me, it's not. They can leave anytime they want. I put in the staircase early on. Two flights up the tall glass wall, four flights down the outside to the floor. They've never made it past the first landing.

I watched them, on their first trip up. After five or six steps they stopped to exclaim at the view. One ran down to make different poses on the couch, while the other laughed and shouted directions. Before long they were together on the couch again, wrestling delightedly.

They love novelty. If I bring them a new pillow, a new bit of furniture, they welcome it enthusiastically. A few months ago I made them a private bedroom in the back corner, using construction paper to covers the glass and a bit of plywood for a roof. They made several, ecstatic "tests" of the bed, then never used it again.


Overall, they are creatures of habit. While they don't seem terribly interested in me, they are agitated if I rush through my morning and evening visits.  They relish eyes on them, though they don't make a performance out of things. It's more like they can't bear to constrain their pleasure to the confines of a box.

It's hard not to smile, watching them.

How'd I get them? They were a gift from a friend. Well, not a gift exactly. She asked me to take care of them for a few months while she was out of the country. And then she came back with this Danish guy and it just wasn't going to work. So I said, fine, I'll keep them, they're no trouble.

They're not. I mean, not in terms of taking care of them. I set up some basic plumbing to keep things clean and provide water, so that's no problem. I deliver table scraps and the occasional treat. They entertain themselves.

Sometimes they can be a bit of a mental burden, though. It can make a person feel inadequate, after a while, witnessing their unending happiness. I used to sit around and watch them a lot. A tap on the glass was enough to wake them. For a moment or two they might look at me curiously, speaking their incomprehensible babble and making gestures I could only rarely interpret. Then his arm would graze her side or she'd turn to him with a question, and they'd be back at it again, their observer forgotten.

My friend Sylvie used to pester me to take them out. Her brother-in-law's childhood neighbor had a some and he used to spy on her playing with them. For some reason the idea makes me squirm. It's alright, them together in their tank, going at it with innocent abandon. It's another to imagine myself taking part. "What would she do with them," I asked Sylvie. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

"Oh, all kind of things! Just let them roll around on her tummy, I guess. Bobby said they liked to straddle her fingers. And one time, he saw her put them down between her legs and when they climbed up again they were all-"

"God, Sylvie, that's enough!" I interrupted. 'They were all-'. Ugh. It was best not to think about it.

It must have been that conversation which started me dreaming. The dreams were disturbingly vivid. In the first one I remember, I took one out and put him between my legs on the bed. I was both him and myself at the same time, in that way that dreams can be. Imagine standing in front of a vulva as tall as you are. In my dream it was red, steaming and glistening. There was a round pink nub peaking out near the top and if I stood on tiptoe I could get my mouth around it. At the same time as my tongue explored the texture, I could feel the pleasure of slickness and tiny teeth. There was painful tugging on my pubic hair and I realized he was pulling himself up by it so he could get a better angle on my clit. His sucking and licking intensified. I felt the probing of little feet  climbing my cunt and then slipping -- too easily-- inside. I was close to orgasm, but I was terrified I'd crush his legs if I let go. And then I woke up.

The dream left me feeling disgusted with myself. I took a shower, spreading my labia to the hot spray to wash away every trace of arousal. When I saw them in their tank on the coffee table, I had to look away.

I felt guilty for neglecting them, though. When I got home from work that night I got them a dish of ice cream - a spoonful each of chocolate and vanilla in my smallest saucer. It was far more than they could eat, I knew, but I didn't feel like being parsimonious. Of course, they were thrilled. It was only moments until he'd wrestled her down into the bowl and was licking ice cream off her while she wriggled and screamed giddily about the cold. Soon she'd pulled him down beside her and was piling ice cream on his middle while he shivered and laughed. The ice cream melted to a creamy pool while they thrashed and cooed. With a sigh, I brought them a tea cup of warm water to rinse themselves in and cleaned up the puddles from the tank floor.


To be continued... after I read the complete story at BedPost Confessions in May