Frolicsome Fun

Writing has left me, at least for now. But the fun of exploring sexuality has not--and I want to share it with you! Join me for my new project, Camp Frolic, coming to Texas in fall 2014.

Check it out at www.campfrolic.com, and don't forget to sign up for the mailing list.

Prelude in T, for Tears

Sometimes I get stuck in a rut where I can only write the start of stories. Beginnings are what I like best, don't you? Longing, and the first hints of its satisfaction? The moment before the first kiss?

Here's a story I don't plan to finish. Please finish it for me, in your dreams.
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She was wet. Again. She couldn’t help it. These thoughts came into her head unbidden and left her panties damp. Tonight it was their waiter at dinner with her sister. He had a goatee, and tattoos, and the most winning smile... Was it her fault she immediately imagined wrapping her legs around his back while he fucked her?

It didn’t matter. Kal would blame her. He’d call her a slut and she’d get even wetter at his disdain. As if summoned by her though, the bedroom door opened. Kal smiled at her and Penny’s heart melted. How had she even thought the waiter was appealing compared to Kal? His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his close-cropped hair gleamed silver in the lamplight. Penny loved his supple lips, his broad shoulders. Everything about him aroused her.

The truth was, she’d have been wet by then even if it hadn’t been for the waiter.

It was their little game, Panty Check, a ritual that took place every evening Kal could be at home. “Show me,” said Kal. He stood at the end of the bed, towering over her. She lifted her bottom and pulled down her simple black panties. Any other style was not allowed: Only plain black cotton, Kal claimed, let him properly monitor her arousal. Penny stretched the elastic over her feet and handed them up to Kal. Surely he could already see the dark mark of dampness, and the translucent streaks of dried juices.

Kal brought the panties to his nose and inhaled, a move which always embarrassed Penny. She couldn’t be sure she smelled good. “Well,” said Kal. “So far, so naughty. Spread your legs, little girl.”

Penny obediently shifted back on the bed and spread her legs apart. Kal bent one of his knees to rest on the mattress and swiped her slit with two fingers. “Soaking wet!” he crowed, holding them up to study the clear mucus against the light. Then he returned his fingers to her cunt, sliding them up and down a few times through her slickness.

“Someones been a bad, bad girl,” he said. Penny shivered.

It didn’t matter, then, that it was a game. Kal was her keeper, and she was his pet, at his mercy entirely. She was intensely aroused and definitely afraid. Some nights Kal punished her. Some nights he fucked her. Some nights he left her tied up in an agony of arousal to think about the error of her ways. And some nights he did all three.

Tonight, she thought from the gleam in his eye, he was going to try and make her cry. With thumb and first finger, he flicked her inner thigh, hard enough to make her wince. And then he repeated the motion against her clit. It stung like the strike of a match. Oh yes, tonight was the night he would keep his promise.

They’d  talked about tears for a long time, since they’d first started sharing sexual secrets. “I haven’t cried since my sister was sick,” Penny had told him. “I fantasize about it, losing control like that. But I don’t think I can get there without real physical harm, or more than I want to really allow.”

“You don’t think you can cry?” Kal had asked. “That’s too bad. Every little girl ought to be brought to tears once in awhile.” He’d promised to try and take her there someday.

More recently, he’d used the threat of making her cry to bring her to orgasm. It worked over and over again, while he fucked or fingered her, whispered words pushing her quickly over the edge. “I’m going to fuck your ass while you beg for mercy,” he’d said last night. “I’m going to fuck you hard while you weep and struggle. ” Her climax had started then, while he still muttered in her ear, “And then I’m going to make you come while tears are still pouring down your face. And you’re going to kiss me and thank me and call me Daddy.”

Tonight he was kneeling over her, grinning down. “You know what tonight is, don’t you, little girl?” He accented his next words with more finger flicks against her tender clit. “Tonight is the night I Make.” flick “Penny.” flick “Cry.” flick.

The Mermaid

“They weren't ugly then,” she said, her voice disproportionately defensive. Maybe one day  he’d learn to keep his mouth shut. It didn't do to ask people questions, here. Not that he’d really asked so much as--”Look,” she said, cutting into his thoughts. She lifted her shirt with her arms crossed, so he could see everything.  The soft brown of her areolas. The gentle curves of her breasts.The six raised, red lines above them, three on each side of her sternum, as if her ribs had burst out of her chest searching for light.

The orderlies came and took her then. Removing clothes was Not Done. He supposed the powers that be thought only insanity might cause someone to expose their flesh. He would have to wait until another day to tell her he thought her scars were beautiful. Another day, when he might find a way to inquire, without asking, of what scourge they were emblems.

The patients called her The Little Mermaid. The name seemed right to Adam.  There was something of the ocean about her. Since her very first day at the hospital, he’d felt her presence tug at him like a tide.

Other people noticed her too. Over dinner he heard mention of her misbehavior. “Showed her tits to Adam here, didn’t she?” gloated Linda. He bent his head further over his plate. He hated being looked at. That was one thing he liked about the mermaid. She always seemed to be looking into the distance. Her blue eyes were cloudy. He’d sometimes wondered if she could even see at all, but she never bumped into anything so he assumed it was just that her thoughts were far away.

Time went slowly at the hospital. There weren’t enough walls. Adam had to move a lot to stay out of sight, and sometimes moving too much made people look at him. His preoccupation with the mermaid distracted him a little. She wore pale blue shoes. It was safest to look at feet. It didn’t attract attention unless he stared. He looked all the time for her blue shoes, and if he found them, rested his eyes there until he had to move again.

“You want to know,” she said one day. They were sitting in the common room, their battered chairs close but not too close, lest the orderlies separate them. Intimacy was not encouraged, no matter how innocent.

When he looked closely, he saw that her shoes were really a paisley pattern, a faded swirling wash of green and blue and white. The leather was deeply seamed, thirsty for polish. They had the lugged black sole worn by English street kids, but instead of laces they had green ribbons, which must have been pretty once. Now they dragged, dirty and knotted as the mermaid’s hair, tattered as sea kelp.

“You want to know,” she repeated, her voice mocking. “You wouldn’t believe it. Nobody does.” Adam focused on her lips, parched and cracked as mudflats at low tide.

“I’ll believe you,” he ventured. He wanted to give her a sign of his sincerity. A reassuring touch was out of the question. He tried a small smile.

The mermaid laughed. “You just want to get in my pants,” she said, and got up.

The next time she came near him was days later, at lunch. He was surprised. The mermaid usually sat with the mutterers. Maybe she thought their endless murmur sounded like waves. Maybe she just liked to be left alone. Adam was in his usual seat, half hidden behind the disused piano, left side to the wall. Linda sat across from him, as she often did. She liked to torment people.

Adam squirmed with anxiety. He wanted to know the mermaid’s name. He used his left arm to make a little wall in front of his face and ducked his head to hide from Linda. At last he blurted out, “What’s your name?”

“Emily,” the mermaid told him, between mouthfuls. It was grilled cheese for lunch. Adam wondered if Emily ate fish; they’d had fish sticks yesterday. But that made no sense. She wasn’t really a mermaid. He snuck a glance at her. She didn’t seem to notice, though Linda did.

“Sit up straight, Adam,” Linda said in her prissy voice. Adam fled.

Saturday night was movie night. Adam sat on the floor behind the pool table, listening to explosions and exclamations from the speakers in the next room. The mermaid - Emily, he reminded himself - came and sat beside him. Away from the stench of the cafeteria, he could detect her faint, briny aroma. They sat quietly for a little while. From this nearness, Adam could see the dirt caught in the creases of her blue shoes. Quite suddenly, Emily grabbed his hand.

“Do you promise?” she whispered, holding his hand tightly. There was only one thing she could mean.

“I’ll believe you,” Adam answered.

“They weren’t ugly then.”

“They aren’t --” Adam started, but Emily cut him off before he could finish.

“They were gills,” she said, “for a little while.” Adam kept silent. It made sense. Her scars were gills. Of course. She lifted his hand and pressed it to where one red line crossed her clavicle. The sea rose up in him then. He heard the cry of gulls. For a moment they dove together through deep water.

Her voice brought him back. “You can’t burn down anything underwater,” she said.

“Or drown it,” Adam ventured. It must have been the right thing to say, because she squeezed his hand again before letting go.

Writing Exercises

I've been at a writing workshop/retreat this week. It's been a great experience, and opened my eyes to a lot of possibilities. Here are some random, not sex-related exercises we did with synesthesia. I've never been much at description, so this whole exercise really excited me.

Biting into a Peach

A marching band goes by in the street and I can smell the flowers in every lapel, the float covered in gardenias. Pennants wave, a toddler runs laughing after the piccolo player, juice runs down my face sweet as the temporary princess waving from her garlanded seat in the parade.

Reaquaintance

The sound of grinding gears. I’m touching your skin and the sensation is as faded as the red and blue of your tattoos. It weighs no more than smoke, and is as bitter. There’s a blank between us where there ought to be 1,000 memories. The sound of tearing paper.

Standing Near You

Makes me feel like I’m humming along with the radio while I cook us all dinner.Your nearness is heavy like cream poured swirling into coffee.  Your scent is oatmeal cookies plumped with raisins, rough with oats. I will capture this smell in a box. Later, I’ll open it and find it full of buttons.

Austin, Rally of Texas,  5pm, 110⁰

Motorcycles roar, busses groan and sigh. I’m hungry enough for a hot dog—spiced meat pungent as sweat. There’s concrete blistered with old bubble gum under my feet. Bikers in burning black boots go by. In the blazing blue sky, pigeons glide, hinting at breezes.

The First and Only Time I Played Spin the Bottle (and I didn't even get kissed)

It was cold in the basement. We’d been naked for the photo shoot, but most of us had tossed on coats or boots or even a few clothes as they’d herded us down the stairs. Prospective buyers were touring the studio. It wouldn’t do for them to see thirty rowdy nudes cluttering up the space.

In the basement, our nascent intimacy, born of being posed tangled under lights for hours on end, seemed to fade. We stood or sat in awkward cliques. Some people were old friends and lovers, but many of us had just met. Someone passed around a bottle of wine. “I’m finishing it off,” announced Rachel, throwing back her head and gulping dramatically. Then she waved the empty bottle in the air. “You guys, you guys, we should play spin the bottle!” She was practically dancing with delight at her inspiration. Under her full-length black anorak, her naked breasts nodded in agreement.

There was no hesitation. In moments, we’d gathered in a large circle, the bottle placed in the middle. “Who goes first?” someone asked, and Rachel said she’d spin for it. The bottle spun and pointed at a short young red-head, naked but for her Sorel boots. She spun and won a kiss from a tall blond man she seemed to know. They french-kissed in what seemed a comradely sort of way. We all cheered, and he spun the bottle with a flourish.

This time the bottle pointed to a willowy, dark haired woman, wearing a sarong around her waist and black lace-up boots. “Spank or kiss?” she asked the blond man.

“Oh, spank, of course,” he answered. I was surprised to see him walk to one of the basement columns and brace himself. The dark haired woman pulled down his boxers with a snap, and delivered four sharp, violent smacks. Then she stroked his reddened skin with her slender hand. She had an air of command mixed with a delicate grace. I was smitten. She spun the bottle and I longed for it to land on me.

The bottle rattled on the concrete floor and slid to a stop pointing at a handsome young man I hadn’t notice until now. Unlike most of us, he had on both a shirt and pants, though his white oxford-cloth was buttoned incorrectly. I later found out his name was Emil. “Spank or kiss?” my new ideal asked. Emil opted for a kiss. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him with movie-star abandon. There were whistles and applause. Emil spun.

This time the bottle landed on Jay, our host, a man famous for his sexual exploits and the subject and center of our naked photo extravaganza. Jay did not wait for permission. He strode across the room and took Emil in his arms. His kiss was, if possible, more dramatic than the one that had gone before. Emil kissed him back gamely, arms outstretched as if to express his surprise. Jay’s hands splayed across Emil’s trousered ass and ground his pelvis against Jay’s naked crotch. While Emil was still reeling from this initial assault, Jay sank to his knees and began unbuttoning Emil’s pants.

I had the perfect angle on the action. I could see Emil’s face in profile, laughing with surprise, and his cock, half-hard, appearing and disappearing as Jay’s head moved back and forth. It was clear Emil was not among those of the party inured to the novelty of public sexual hijinks. Jay sat back on his heels. “Ever had your cock sucked by a man before?” he asked.

“Never,” said Emil, the member in question sinking back into its place.

A voice called from upstairs. We were cleared to return to the photo shoot. Our circle dissolved and we trooped back up the stairs. It was time to resume being naked for the camera instead of each other.

A Change In Perspective

This one isn't sexy. Sorry.

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She’s the same age I was. It’s hard to believe. I have plenty of memories from before I was 7. Episodes and glimpses. But at 7 I begin to remember whole chunks of time. I remember what it felt like to be me.

A friend said the other day, “Do you feel like you are still seven on the inside?”

No, I do not. At seven I felt fully formed. There was nothing childish about being a child. I felt like an adult then, as much as I do now. That is, I felt complete.

This is why it surprises me so much to see my daughter at this age. She’s so small. She knows so little. Her bag of tricks for handling life’s obstacles grows daily, but it’s still extremely limited. Yet inside her, I imagine, she feels vast. She lacks nothing. She is conscious of being completely  herself.

“Tell me about when you were my age,” she asked one day. I found some things to say, though not easily. My memories of that time are largely sad and fearful stories. Contemplating those stories, I for the first time saw them from outside myself. I imagined my daughter in my place. And the horror of them deepened, until I was looking into an abyss of my childhood.

I was so small when those things happened. Vulnerable and baby-sweet, flower-fresh.

If anyone did those things to my daughter I would kill them.

Surprise!

I wrote a book. I even had it professionally edited. Apparently, I misuse the word "towards" a lot.

I'm pretty crazy excited. Here's what my Amazon page looks like - I feel so official! God I hope my future employers don't Google me. 

So, yeah, you can buy my excellent book on Amazon, or throw me a more substantial share of the purchase price by buying it from the printer, Create Space.

The book includes 11 stories, some of which are currently available on this blog. I took a few of the stories down (sorry) and others have never been on this blog. I think you'll like it.

The Drive - Part 3

You might like to start with Part 1.
Or check in on Part 2.

The cab was beautiful. Sarah had told me the story while we ate: Her father had bought the truck so they could drive together, but a stroke had kept him from being able to stay on the road. Now Sara and Bruce were a long-haul team in a rig most young drivers would never have been able to afford. As I hauled myself up the two steps behind Sara, I was amazed by the color-coordinated interior. Orange and black seats. Tufted orange leather upholstery on the ceiling. Retro wood-grain trim. It was gorgeous.

Not that I got much time to look around. As soon as I stepped into the back Bruce shoved me forward onto the bed. I gave a startled scream and Sarah laughed. “Bruce,” she remonstrated. “You’ll scare her!”

“She should be scared,” he said. “Showing her pussy like that on the highway! Coming back to our place like a little slut!” He had a hand on my back, holding me down, as he stepped into the small sleeping area and sat down on the bed.

I was scared, Sarah was right. But there was a teasing note in Bruce’s voice that kept me from being terrified. While a part of my mind was saying, What the fuck are you doing here these people could be serial killers! another part of my mind was absolutely certain they were nothing of the kind. I didn’t struggle more than a token amount as Bruce pulled my legs onto his lap and started maneuvering my panties down. Sarah shifted over closer to us, so that my head was in her lap. She began to smooth my hair as Bruce lifted my skirt and began to explore.

“Sarah,” he said, “You won’t believe how wet this little girl is! You’ve got to feel this!” Sarah’s fingers joined his for a moment, then came to my mouth, rubbing my wetness on my lips.

“Be careful,” Sarah said. “She’ll drip on your pants.”

“Too late,” answered Bruce. “She’s that kind of slut.” Without warning, he landed a hard slap on my bottom, across the middle so it really stung. I yelped. “What’s the matter?” Bruce mocked. “Didn’t know you were going to get a spanking for all that naughty behavior?” He slapped me again. It hurt.

“Who said you get to spank me?” I answered, though not trying to get away.

He punctuated his answer with a quick series of stinging blows. “I. Say. Any. Girl. Who. Shows. Me. Her. Pussy. While. Driving. Gets. Spanked!” By the end of this imperious sentence I was wriggling and whining with pain and desire. I had not thought about what might happen in their truck beyond that it would be exciting. This was a little more exciting than I’d quite been prepared for. But as Bruce stopped hitting me and pushed two fingers into my drenched pussy, all thought about what I was doing and what might happen next left my mind.

We were all suddenly desperate. Things happened fast. Sarah grabbed my hair and lay back on the bed so my nose was mashed against her panties.  I opened my mouth to breath hot air through the cotton, taking in the smell of another woman for the first time. Bruce finger fucked me hard. I grunted and quivered and humped him and came. Then I was wrestling down Sarah’s underwear and she was handing Bruce a condom and I didn’t have mental space to feel nervous as Bruce fucked me and I devoured her.

Later, I tried to replay the experience in slo-mo. Finding her clit with my tongue. Bruce’s cock pounding into me and Sarah’s hands gripping my hair, keeping me tight against her. My need to taste and bite and suck. Thrusting my fingers inside Sarah as Bruce fucked me and I came, again, face slick with Sarah’s juices and my fingers feeling her pussy contract around them. Separating each sensation so I could remember it.

It couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes after we got in the truck that we collapsed in a sweaty, exhausted heap. I had my cheek on Sarah’s thigh. Bruce had an arm around each of us. I wanted to never move again.

“Chemistry,” Sarah murmured.

“Goddamn,” Bruce replied.

We rested. And then, far too soon, Sara sat up again. “We’ve got a deadline,” she said. For a moment I was confused. A deadline for what? Then I realized she was reminding Bruce. It was time for them to hit the road.

“I wish I could ride with you,” I said, reorganizing my clothes.

Bruce laughed and gestured out the window with his chin. “I like you down there where I can keep an eye on you.” With a few soft kisses, and a not so soft squeeze of my bruised bottom, we parted ways. They were due in Chicago that night, and I was still a day away from St. Louis.

As I got back in my car I realized I’d left my panties in the truck. Oh well. Given all the fuel I’d gained for my imagination, they’d only be in the way.

The Drive - Part 2

Here is Part 1

Back on the road, coffee refreshed, I turned up the music and went back to my fantasy. Bryan was pulling  me into the house, hands under my shirt, gripping my back. I arched in my seat. My hand gravitated back to my lap. I could feel the heat and wet even through my skirt.  And that’s when I passed my friends in the truck.

I couldn’t see the driver, but I was sure my hand and its activities were clearly visible from the high 18-wheeler seat. That’s what the blast of their horn told me, and their accelerations to meet my speed. I braked, hoping to throw them off, but they stayed by my side easily. The road ahead was flat and empty. For a moment I felt panic. Accelerating was pointless, I already knew they could match me. Pulling over only meant they could get to me in person. Should I grab my cell and call 911? And tell them what?

As quickly as my panic came, it changed into a different kind of energy. I felt reckless and powerful. I had clearly enthralled these truck drivers. Why not give them a show? I began to inch my skirt up higher, keeping my eyes carefully on the road. Nothing kills a buzz like swerving into an 18 wheeler, I told myself. The truck honked again, a short series of blasts that I assumed was encouragement. I took the hem of my skirt in two fingers and shimmied it all the way up to my waist. There was no doubt in my mind the truck driver had a perfect view of my moisture-stained, white cotton panties.

I slumped a bit in my seat. My head rested against the headrest. I tilted my mirror down so I could keep an eye out for cars trying to pass. The truck and my car were blocking anyone wanting to go faster than 75. But there was no one behind me. I put two fingers in the side of my panties, and pulled them out glossy with my juices. The driver wouldn’t be able to see me stick them in my mouth and suck them clean. But I was pretty sure he knew that was what I did next.

I like my flavor. I’m salty and taste faintly of roasted chicken and fresh water. My mind returned to Bryan. He’d love to hear this story - his shy girl exploring her exhibitionist side. He always said I had it in me. Another blast of the truck’s horn shook me from my reverie. They were pulling ahead and signaling right. Did they expect me to follow? My heart raced. That was not in my plan. I signalled and move into the right lane behind them. An orange sign announced, “Weigh Station OPEN”. My audience veered off to join a line of big rigs and I drove on.

There must have been a hold-up at the weigh station, because Flex (I’d begun calling them after their container brand) did not catch up to me again until my next rest stop, more than an hour later. I’d tired of snacks and wanted something resembling real food. I sat down for a sandwich. Bryan had texted me about where I wanted to go to dinner the next night. “In your bed,” I texted back, smiling. My phone buzzed with a response, but I felt eyes on me. I looked up. There was Blue Eyes, grinning and waving like we were old friends. Next to him, hand on his shoulder, was the invisible driver. She was a woman. And she was beautiful.

I blushed again, despite trying for self control. They walked over to me and I reflexively stood up. Maybe  I meant to run, I don’t know. But the woman held out her hand and I shook it. “I’m Sarah,” she said.

“I’m Bruce,” said Blue-Eyes, taking my hand next. He shook it but didn’t let go. “Did you wash that hand?” he asked, and brought it to his nose.

I admit I completely lost my composure. I’m sure I was beet red. “Yes,” I said, trying to pull away. He held me a moment longer.

“What’s your name, Rosebud?” he asked.

“She doesn’t have to tell you,” Sarah interjected, laying her cool hand on top of ours. He let me go. I sat down and then wished I hadn’t. They towered over me, Sarah dark and trim and smiling entrancingly, Bruce full of mischief and clearly not done with me. They sat down too, one on either side of me, so that we filled three sides of the small, square table.

Bruce started to say something but Sarah shot him a look. “Eat your sandwich,” she said to me. I took a bite and began to chew.  “I like your panties,” she said.  My bite stuck in my throat. Bruce pounded me on the back.

“She doesn’t like compliments,” he said to Sarah.

“Aww,” Sarah replied, “She’s just shy.” I felt her hand on my knee. I gripped my sandwich in both hands. I needed to be cool. I needed to get a grip on myself. Bruce pulled his chair in a bit, until his knee pressed warmly against mine. I looked back and forth between them. Their eyes were fixed on me. I felt my heart racing and for the second time that day, what I’d thought was panic flip flopped into electricity. I sat up in my seat. I put down my sandwich.

“I’d really like to see your truck,” I said. There was a silence. Sarah took her hand away. The two of them looked at each other. And then all three of us leaned back in our plastic rest-station seats and laughed.

I ate my sandwich. We talked easily. They took my hands as we walked to their rig.

The Drive

It was a long drive. I knew that setting out, but I didn’t mind. Bryan was at the end of it. After months of teasing, talking, fantasies, love letters, and long-distance kisses, I would finally be next to him again. We could stop sketching out song ideas through the crappy sound of video chat and start making real music. We would make love and make our album. Two days of driving was nothing compared to the anticipation I’d already endured.

I started out early, coffee in my cup holder and an energetic playlist cued up. The highway was empty, and I was soon out of city limits. I sang and sipped and enjoyed the spring sunshine. After an hour I turned off the music and started making up my own songs. I get silly when I’m by myself too long. Every tune turned into a dorky love song about Bryan. I thought about recording them on my phone, or at least jotting down lyrics, but I felt too light-hearted to put any work into song-writing.

“I’m going to kiss and kiss and kiss you,” I sang, “Until your lips turn blue-oo-oo-oo-oo. I’m going to hug and lug and bug you--’till you do everything I want to do-oo-oo-oo-oo--” I deepened my voice for a bluesy, sultry sound- “Everything I want you to do to me.”

Yes indeed. Everything I wanted him to do. I thought about arriving at his house. It was the same fantasy I’d been indulging every night at bedtime, adding details, repeating over and over the imagined sensation of my arms around him, his skin against my lips. Despite having both hands on the wheel, my nipples pushed up hard against my tee shirt and my panties chafed against my thighs.

I was in the slow lane doing 65. Traffic was light, and no one had passed me in quite a while. What the hell. I pulled up my skirt and let my fingertips play over my panties. Bryan on the doorstep, bathed in afternoon sunlight. As we embrace our arms brush: the first touch of skin against skin. If I weren’t so overwhelmed with need to be closer I’d stop right there and savor the sensation. But there’d be time for that later.

My pussy tingled at the thought of our embrace. I planned to be wearing a thin summer dress--too thin, maybe, for the weather, but it would let me feel every nuance of his body against mine. Blue jeans. He’d be wearing blue jeans. I imagined the hard button against my pelvic bone. God I wanted him.

It took control, at this point in my fantasizing, not to skip ahead. It was so tempting to fast forward to us naked in the bedroom (or half-dressed in the hallway, or pushing clothes aside on the lawn) and his cock inside me, pounding into me, while I clung to him and screamed his name, orgasming over and over. It was all too easy to miss out on the irreplaceable pleasure of greetings, the last, melting, tortuously wonderful moments of waiting. But no. I had 8 more hours of driving today and another 5 tomorrow. I would drag out every second of our imagined meeting. I would make those minutes take an hour.

So I said to myself as my fingers crept inside my panties, already slick. I kept my eyes on the road but there wasn’t much out there. Sunlight, rocks, trees, highway. A truck in the middle distance. I let my fingers glide and rest, glide and rest. Bryan’s waistband against my pelvis. Bryan’s hands on my lower back, pulling me in close. Sweet golder shivers coursed through my body. I wanted more.

I lifted my hips and awkwardly attempted to steer with my knee while pulling my panties out from under myself. My right foot came down heavy on the accelerator and my knee swerved the car into the left lane. I grabbed the wheel and pulled right, cursing. The tires hit the raised pavement edge with an alarming noise but I didn’t fishtail. I straightened out again, going 50 instead of 85 while I caught my breath. My panties were halfway down my thighs but for the moment I had both hands on the wheel.

There was an 18 wheeler in rear view mirror, coming up fast. Their air horn blasted at me. A warning? Or had I broken something in my erratic swerve? I listened for a flat tire. No. Everything was fine. The horn must have been an acknowledgement of my idiocy, mocking or punitive. Not that the driver could know the reason. The truck pulled next to me and slowed a little. There was a man in the passenger seat, looking down at me and grinning. He looked left and must have said something to the driver, because they slowed a little more to match my speed. I realized from his leer he was looking at my lap, where my skirt was still lifted and my damp panties twisted around my legs. I hit the brakes to get behind them. He yelled something I couldn’t make out and gave me a thumbs up in the rear view mirror as the truck sped away.

Flexi, I read off the back of their container. How’s My Driving. I sighed and put the music back on.

About an hour later it was time for a pit stop. I pulled into the far end of the lot, hoping to pull up my panties with less drama than I’d experienced pulling them down. There was a pretty view of trees and grass at that end of the rest area. I rearranged my clothes without event, noting the cold of damp underwear against my skin. I still had that ache.

As I walked into the rest area building, a truck pulled past me heading out. I wouldn’t have recognized it but the man in the passenger seat waved and winked. He was young, younger than my stereotype of “truck driver”, and the blue of his eyes was visible even from our distance. I felt my cheeks flush. “God damn, can’t a girl catch a break?” I muttered, and headed to the bathrooms.

If I’d known then what kind of a break I was about to catch, I wouldn’t have bothered to pull my panties back up again in the bathroom stall. I would have balled them up and stuffed them in a trash bin and let myself drip. They were only going to be in my way from then on.

...to be continued...

Half Naked Thursday: I Love Myself

I'm not perfect. That doesn't matter. I'm strong. My body feels good, and my heart is happy. I think these pictures capture all of those things about me. Perfectly. 

The gorgeous, talented, and infinitely charming Cricket Burwell took these pictures. Be sure to take a look at her site, www.cricketburwell.com, and do visit her Etsy shop for amazing re-stayled taxidermy creations.

The Pearl Is In the Lotus

It was the second-to-last week of the semester, and Gene suggested Telephone. It was just the kind of disarming thing he’d do, to make us play a silly children’s game. Our small class of high-school seniors went along with it, of course. There was very little we wouldn’t do for Gene. Even the skeptics among us had been seduced by his lectures, mixing history, philosophy, world religions and what seemed to be his own brand of gnostic gospel.

The class was simply titled, Religions. Our hippie boarding school, strictly secular, allowed teachers the leeway to devise their own curriculum. I’d signed up for Religions on the advice of friend, who’d told me Gene treated his students to dinners at his house with wine and hot tubbing. What she hadn’t mentioned was his incredible personal magnetism. He did not only teach about religion. He offered his students the experience of religion, through his own, mystic person.

It was true, though, about the dinners. Midway through the semester (after Siddhartha, partway through the Bhagavad Gita) he drove the 10 of us out to his house, built into the side of a small Vermont mountain. He’d built it himself, of course, out of hand-hewn logs. We sat around his long dinner table by candlelight. The soup and bread his wife served us seemed permeated with the love Gene radiated. We were giddy on the Chianti he’d poured. We watched the sunset through the tall dining room windows. “Remember this moment,” Gene told us. “Look around at the people around the table. Feel the spirit we all share.” We looked at one another, meeting each other’s eyes. “I want you to fix this moment in your mind,” Gene said. “Say it with me. ‘I will never forget.’” We repeated it, all together. I will never forget.

It worked. I will never forget that night. I’d wanted to sit near him at dinner, but he’d taken hands with Alice and Poplar on the way in, leading us all in a hilarious dance around the dining room before settling at the head of the table with one of them on either side. I’d landed halfway down, perpetually handing butter and salt back and forth. I tried to breath into my jealousy. Be Here Now, I told myself. A knee bumped mine. Red-headed Cooper sat at my right. Had he touched me on purpose? I shifted in my seat, letting my leg graze his again. Would he move away? Easily distracted and sexually innocent as I was, the question of Cooper’s interest occupied me through much of the meal.

The stars were coming out as we devoured the last of the excellent apple pie Gene’s wife had baked. “Who’s up for a dip?” Gene asked. “The hot tub seats 8, if we get cozy.” I thought maybe I could arrange to sit next to Cooper, since Gene was clearly out of my reach. “If you can’t be with the one you love/Love the one you’re with!” ran through my head. I mentioned it was a hippy school, right?

Outside the night was cold and bright with stars. The moon was a far-off sliver. We hurried to undress as Gene uncovered the steaming cedar tub. Cooper called a casual goodnight to us all, not singling me out. “I’m loaning Cooper my night binoculars,” Gene told us. “He’s going to see the owls that live in my upper meadow.” Gene was done readying the tub, and was stripping off his clothes. I felt self-conscious removing the last of my underwear. Skinny dipping was an ordinary enough school activity, but there wasn’t usually a teacher along. I lowered myself into the concealing water rather more quickly than my skin would have liked. Gene, who turned out to have had swim trunks on under his clothes, got in beside me.

“Let’s all take hands,” Gene suggested, “And pass a blessing.” He squeezed my left hand, and, guessing his meaning, I squeezed Poplar’s hand. There was a laugh as the blessing went around, and another as it came back the other way. I sunk more deeply into the water, leaning my head on the side and looking up at the stars. Gene still held my hand. It felt electrified. A current ran from his palm right up my arm and into my heart, making it race. “I want you all to think about the transmission of spirit,” Gene was saying. “We’ve been studying the written word and oral traditions. But just now, we passed a blessing around that had nothing to do with words. I think it was bigger than words. There’s some holy truth to be found here, tonight - right now.” We were silent, listening. Gene let go of my hand, but moved his arm behind my waist, pulling me closer to him, resting his palm against my right hip.

“Let’s do a little silent meditation, here, and try to really experience the spiritual connection we share. In about 10 minutes, we’ll talk some more and share our experiences.” There was a murmur of consent, then silence. Over the bubbling of the whirlpool jets I could hear the slight rustle of breeze in the trees and the distant rush of a car going by. I closed my eyes. Gene turned his body towards me and pulled me back against his chest. Both his arms were around my waist. His palms burned against my belly. I felt incredibly naked. “Rest,” he whispered in my ear. “It’s alright to let yourself go a little, Penny. I’ve got you.”

I was thrilled and elated and terrified. What if he accidentally touched my breasts? What if he touched them on purpose? “Rest,” he said in my ear, and I tried to let myself sag back against him as if I wasn’t rigid with fear. He rocked me, then. Side to side, holding me firmly. It felt almost fatherly. I was ashamed of the throbbing I felt between my legs. This was supposed to be a spiritual experience!

Eventually, Gene unwound himself from me and I leaned against the side of the tub again. He announced the end of our meditation, and began leading a discussion. I had nothing to say, and for once he didn’t prod me to join the conversation. Though he tended to gesture with his hands when he spoke, he sometimes rested one on my knee. I felt as if I had truly received some kind of religious grace.

“The thing I hoped you’d get from tonight is that you are all holy. And when holiness comes together, when we’re present together, we can reach a place of communion with God, or Jesus, or Buddha, or nature, or whatever you want to call it. See if you remember this one, because it will probably be on the final exam--” A groan went up from everyone.

“I know you all hate thinking about that. But it’s ALL final exam, people. Every day. Really. Are you with me?” Nods and laughs indicated assent. “So here it is, gnostic gospels, straight from the mouth of Jesus via St. Thomas to me to you. ‘I am the light that shines over all things. I am everything. From me all came forth, and to me all return. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift a stone, and you will find me there.’ That’s about you. ‘I am everything.’” We were quiet. A few months ago, I would have laughed at this as spiritual mumbo jumbo. Now it made perfect sense. The light was in me. And Gene wanted to share it with me.

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The semester was almost over. Gene gave us our class period off to work on our final papers comparing foundational works from any two major religious philosophies. I’d chosen the Upanishads and Gene’s favorite, the gnostic gospels of St. Thomas. It wasn’t going well. Without Gene’s enthusiastic exhortations to look more deeply, the teachings lost their transparency and became just nonsensical words. In my ignorant hands, the ideas were not moldable clay for building but impenetrable granite.

“You have to take yourself out of the equation,” Gene told me when I went to him for help. “You’re intellectualizing to the point where you can’t let the meaning in.” I felt frustrated. He wasn’t helping me. Maybe it was all meaningless. Gene must have sensed my feelings. “Wait while I go through Poplar’s draft,” he suggested, “And then I’ll have time to work with you.”

It was a long wait. I sat on the floor in the hallway and reread my highlighted texts. I was resisting their meaning, I knew I was resisting. My old cynical self was at war with the spiritual being Gene had awoken in me. Eventually Poplar reappeared. Her face was flushed and I wondered if she’d been crying. “Are you okay?” I asked, but she kept on walking as if she hadn’t heard me. I stared after her. Poplar was usually so light hearted.

“Thou art that,” I heard, and turned to find Gene looming over me. I’d doodled those words all over my notebook. It had been one of the first concepts we’d studied, and remained both my favorite quotes and a source of continuing annoyance. “Thou art welcome in my office,” Gene said, smiling down at me, and I awkwardly took the hand he proffered and rose.

Gene’s office was a narrow, oblong closet at the back of the classroom. One side was lined with high windows and a built in desk. True to form, Gene had installed a shrine on the desk and placed pillows on the floor instead of using a chair. “Welcome to my nest,” Gene said. I attempted to imitate his graceful transition from standing to cross legged. “Push the door shut,” he suggested, “So you can lean on it.” I arranged myself against the door, and Gene moved forward until our knees were touching. His nearness was intoxicating. He was looking into my eyes. I tried hard to look back, though I found their paleness unsettling. It wouldn’t do, I thought to myself, to let my eyes wander to his lips. Of course, to think it was to do it. His eyes twinkled. Did he know I’d been thinking about him kissing me?

“Tell me about Thou Art That,” Gene said. I blushed.

“It’s an essential Buddhist truth,” I ventured. “It means we’re all part of Buddha nature.”

Gene leaned in towards me, his hands on my shoulders. “Not part. It means you--and I--ARE the unknowable, infinite, ecstatic everything.” His eyes pulled me into them, limitless as the sky.

“I want you to try a lotus meditation with me,” Gene said, not dropping my gaze. I nodded.

We were sitting cross-legged, face to face, knee to knee. My long hippie skirt draped over my feet. Gene moved it back casually, and took my top calf in his hands. “Shift this here,” he said, unfolding my knee and lifting my leg over his. He did the same with my other leg, then uncrossed his legs, too, and moved closer to me. I was half reclined against the door, legs half spread. my thighs resting on top of his. His legs wrapped around me, his ankles supporting my lower back. My heart pounded. My nipples pushed hard against their confining layers of fabric.

Gene had the half smile he often wore during teaching, an abstracted sort of smile as if he were reciting a mantra in his mind even as he talked with us. He pushed my skirt all the way up my thighs and placed his hand flat over my panties, thumb against my vulva. “I’d prefer your skin,” he said, tilting his head questioningly. I tried to speak, but only a strangled gasp came out. I nodded instead. Gene moved his hand to the same position but inside my panties. His palm crushed my pubic hair against me. His thumb was firm over my clit and the top of my vulva.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “I want you to picture yourself as a seed. You have hard, hard skin to protect you against the sun and the cold. But now you are in the water, the perfect place to grow. It’s time to soften that hard skin.” His thumb pulsed, just slightly. Pulse. A beat. Pulse. “Breath,” he said. “Breathe deeply and listen.”

“Your hard shell is softening, layer by layer, breath by breath. You feel something awakening inside you.” His slow pulsing caress continued. “It’s growing, emerging with every breath. You become aware there is mud all around you. But Above you, above this muddy pool of dirt, mud and filth, you can sense sunshine and air.”

I wondered if my arousal was the filth. His thumb was making slight circles now. I was growing wet. “Penny,” he said, refocusing me. “You are beginning to grow roots. Can you feel them? Wiggle them into the earth.” Oh god--was he telling me to wiggle? His palm rocked against my pelvis. Involuntarily, my hips jerked a little against him.

“A stem is rising from your heart.” he went on. “It’s growing up towards the light and air. A bud is forming.” His voice lowered. Though my eyes were still closed, I could feel that he’d leaned in closer to me. “Feel your bud swelling in the warmth of the sun,” he said. His thumb plowed downward, between my pussy lips, and rose again, slick. His voice continued. “Feel your petals beginning to unfold.” Everything in me was rising, rising. “Soon you will burst into bloom. Soon all the walls will fall away. You are opening.” I was opening. My petals were unfolding. I was floating toward ecstasy. “You are a lotus,” Gene said, “One with creation.” I quivered and shook and burst into beautiful bloom.

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That night I wrote my paper in one, feverish sitting. Both philosophies called for unmediated experience of the divine within. I felt lifted out of my old life into a world of spiritual unity and enlightenment. I couldn’t wait to see Gene again.

I turned in my paper to Gene’s office mail box that weekend. He’d promised to return them at our next class period, Wednesday. It felt like a long wait. I masturbated each night with alternating thoughts of Gene kissing me and a lotus blossom unfurling inside me. When Wednesday finally came, I rushed to class, hoping to be there ahead of the others and have a minute to greet Gene properly. I wasn’t sure what that proper greeting would be - would he take me in his arms? Kiss me on the forehead like the disciple I was? But I wasn’t the first to arrive. He was already in conversation with Conner and a raised hand and smile were all he could spare me. I took my seat at the far end of the table.

“Today I want to talk again about transmission. The semester’s almost over and I’ve thrown a lot of words at you. But in some cases, words just obscure the truth. We’ve talked about how different versions of documents come down to us through the ages, and how the great truths are expressed over and over again in different traditions. Even in our small circle, words can be distorted, can’t they.” There was a murmur of assent. “So to further our understanding, we’re going to play a little game of Telephone.”

Wonderful Gene leaned over to whisper in Conner’s ear. I envied Conner desperately. Conner gave Gene a questioning look, then leaned over to Anna. Anna whispered to me. The words filled me with a glow I tried not to show. Still, I couldn’t help a glance at Gene. He winked. I turned to the boy on my left and repeated, as clearly as I could, “Penny is a blooming white lotus.”

He repeated it to Poplar. I could hear the edges of his whisper. Poplar turned red and stood up fast. She was staring at Gene. “Penny?” she said, in a stricken voice. “Penny?!” She hung there for a moment. We all did. And then she turned and slammed furiously out of the room.

I sat there, agape. Alice got up and ran after Poplar.

“What’s so bad about being a lotus?” Conner asked. I felt sick. I looked at Gene, but he was handing back papers and didn’t meet my eyes. “Class dismissed,” he said. “Good job, everyone.” I sat, numb and miserable, and left as soon as my paper landed in front of me. I got an A, I noted. I didn’t look inside to read his comments.

There was a substitute for the last few classes of the year, during which we read aloud from a standard World Religions textbook that had never been brought out from the closet before. Rumor was Gene had been fired for getting students high. We girls knew better. I tried not to think about it. But every night, despite the shame, or maybe, over time, because of it: I masturbated to the fantasy of sitting on Gene’s office floor, his mouth on mine and his thumb buried deep inside me.

Read at the August, 2012 BedPost Confessions

Unrequited

My attraction to him is a one way street. You'd think I'd mind, but I don't. He flirts. He hugs me hello. He even offered to kiss me once, but it was an inconvenient time and it seemed sort of like he was doing me a favor.

When we're out, he's constantly looking for the next pretty girl. He gives our conversation only perfunctory attention. Then his blue eyes crinkle charmingly at the corners as he laughs and I'm wet despite myself.

I find I enjoy this unrequited romance. It feels like seventh grade, when I sent my crush a card signed, Your Secret Admirer but made the mistake of adding a smiley face with hearts for eyes. Dark eyed Rakesh, a confident eighth grader, had seen me make that exact symbol many times during our afternoons as library volunteers. "Thank you for the card," he said, and rolled his eyes at my efforts at denial. I lived out the remainder of that spring in an agony of embarrassment.

I've learned since then: there's nothing wrong with letting people know you like them. It's exceedingly rare that anyone takes offense. In fact, most people will be flattered enough to like you back, at least to some degree.

I don't think Jed dislikes me. Quite the opposite. I imagine he considers me, when he considers me at all, a casual friend. I just don't hold his interest.

Meanwhile, I'm at liberty to enjoy looking at him.

It could be a blow to my ego. The women he wants are taller than me, more polished, more tattooed, more explicitly, pin-up ready sexy. I could think about all the things I lack that would make him want me. Why don't I use his disregard to run myself down?

Maybe I'm too busy enjoying the tingle of an itch that will never get scratched.

The Composer

It was done--tonight's symphony. Tim looked up from his laptop with an anticipatory grin. It was true, composing was part of his day job, but he took satisfaction in his work. And there was a special savor to writing a piece for someone he knew personally.

Tonight's piece would test out his newest modifications to the machine. Over the last few weeks, he'd created a new sensation module and programmed it into his composing software. When he'd finally sat down to write today's symphony, he could feel the rightness of the new element. Today's composition would have a richer tone than any he'd written before.

He got up and stretched, then moved to the boxlike machine that took center stage in his office. There were just a few more adjustments to be made before he met Amity for dinner. He moved the seat down to fit her stature and rechecked the small screws that fastened the newest part of the apparatus. He'd already brought in clean towels. All that was left was to make sure the data had transferred and the symphony played smoothly. His laptop was already queued to begin playing in test mode as soon as he pressed the machine's power button. He'd chosen the round white button with a sense of irony: it had been made to ring a doorbell. In this case, ringing a doorbell was an entirely inadequate metaphor.

With an almost inaudible hydraulic sigh, the machine came to life. Tim opened the front access panel so he could more fully assess the movements of the components. Buzzes, whirs, clicks, and tiny puffs of air being released hinted at the music Tim heard in his mind. It would take the melodic moans and sighs and shrieks of Amity to truly bring it to life.

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Tim's machine always startled Amity a little when she walked into the room. He had the top of the line Orchestral, of course, but he'd modified it in so many ways it looked less like a luxury device than a 20th century artist's rendition of a time machine. Lights blinked, mysterious plastic and metal parts protruded. The side panels were off, of course, and tangles of wires ran down the machine's four-foot height to spill onto the floor. It would be a humorous sight, if she didn't know exactly how intense an experience the machine could deliver.

Tim hadn't told Amity anything about the new module. She wondered what part of her body it might be intended to stimulate. It always seemed to her the machine did everything imaginable - and then Tim would come up with something more. With a shiver of anticipation, Amity undressed.

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Amity was so beautiful naked. Tim spent a moment admiring her, before coming to give her a kiss and help her into the machine. The Orchestral had been designed for easy self operation, but Tim's unending tinkering made his version a bit more difficult to enter. Amity ducked her head to avoid some low hanging cables and seated herself on the towel-covered platform. She lifted her feet to avoid some loose wires as he spun her to face the front of the machine. The genital armature would need to be readjusted a little, and he still hadn't perfected the auto-engage on the toe grip. That had been last month's new addition. Amity hadn't thought it would add much, but she found herself very much mistaken. It's amazing how sensitive the nerves are on the feet.

At last he had everything adjusted and was able to close the front access panel. The last steps were to latch the headband and wrist belts from behind. Technically, these modifications were not approved by the company. Safety was paramount to Orchestral Instruments. A bound "listener", as machine users were euphemistically called, could not end their experience at will. But, understanding the diversity of their market, they closed their eyes to Tim's occasional moonlighting in secondary-market accessory design. The head restraint, in particular, was a safety concern. Still, Tim often made more from such off-brand add-ons than he did from official Orchestral modules. And Tim never left his test subjects alone in the machine. Their biometrics unspooled on his computer screen, and he watched them with rapt attention as he listened to his work being performed.

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Every sensation had an instrument. Every touch had a tone. The best of Tim's pieces could be played in a concert hall without anyone knowing their secrets. The reverse was true, too: A great piece of music, fed into his software, would create an extraordinary experience. The kinks of that, so to speak, had a bit more to be worked out--Tim felt the machine did not yet have its full complement of instrumentation--but the day would come when one could simply feed in Beethoven or Mozart and feel the music as naturally and completely as it had rung in the composer’s head.

Inside the machine, Amity would be hearing the notes through multiple speakers as she felt the experiential analogs stimulate her nerves.The music would seem to guide and control the sensations, though in fact they were one in the same. Perhaps even colors and shapes would appear inside her closed eyelids, as her mind struggled to make sense of the complexity. Synesthesia is the natural state of a mind being overloaded. A well composed piece could induce sensual immersion unmatched by any other form of stimulation. Tim, watching Amity’s biometric readouts as the music began, listening to the small moans and sighs tonight's symphony was already eliciting, was himself deeply aroused.

Tim had often debated with himself about his response to his work. As tester, he ought to remain detached. And yet the joy of his work was in vicarious experience. Why else would he bury himself in endless hours of code and tinkering, composition and isolation, if not to enjoy giving others the most perfect sexual experiences anyone could imagine? And, too, many of Orchestral's customers purchased his symphonies as gifts. Though the machine held only one listener at a time, many users had appreciative audiences. Tim was, in a way, calibrating the experience for them, too. And tonight... well... tonight required his vicarious immersion. He'd written himself a part in the score.

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Tim had been right about the extraordinary nature of tonight’s score. It took only a few measures before Amity’s rational mind began to fade away. The orchestra had begun with her toes, her most recently discovered erogenous zone. Clarinet and violin had licked and sucked, as a slow drum beat pulsed around her breasts. It was impossible to tell if the attendant throbbing in her belly had been the bass reverberating or the emergence of arousal.

Amity’s slip into pure sensation was aided by her utter immobility. Her forehead was locked against the front panel, her hands tied behind her back. Twin tubes encased her breasts, with tiny electrode-embedded clips lightly gripping her nipples. Her waist was belted to the seat so she couldn't damage the delicate mechanisms that embraced her clit and teased her labia. And soon, she knew, her cunt and ass would be pinioned between dueling invaders. Her legs were, in theory, free, but her two longest toes were held in a delicately inescapable grip.

A harp sent shivers along her spine, and then a single, clear, pure note sounded, a concert piano, and something cool touched her lips. So, this was the new component: a mouth piece. No wonder Tim had been so excited to have her try it out. Oral stimulation was something that had never been satisfactorily realized by machines. At best one might find a pacifier like knob intruding, something to suck and bite in the heat of passion. Amity liked those, but so much more was possible. If Tim had created something he felt was worth testing, it was sure to deliver.

To highlight his new creation, Tim had written in a piano solo. He watched the biometrics eagerly, as the mechanical tongue began to explore Amity’s mouth.

Amity opened her mouth as the tongue pressed against her lips. She tested it with her teeth. It was pleasantly bitable without feeling like it might be damaged by her teeth; perhaps made of silicone over metal. It slipped into her mouth, thinner than she’d expected, more flexible. The tip met her tongue, withdrew, and entered again. Unlike a real kiss, Amity realized, there were no lips. She’d have to mention the lack to Tim. The music gained force and the tongue claimed more of her focus. It swelled in her mouth, like a cock waking from slumber. Amity sucked on it, drooling a little. Alarmingly, it continued to swell. Rampaging chord progressions echoed Amity’s heart as she began gasp. “Tim wouldn’t let me choke,” she told herself. “He’s watching; he wouldn’t let it hurt me.” Despite these thoughts, she found herself struggling against her restraints. Was the machine malfunctioning? The tongue was thrusting now, and Amity gasped for breath. She tried to clamp her teeth on the thing, but found it slick and hard now it had stretched to its full girth. It forced her mouth open painfully wide and pushed against the back of her throat. Amity choked, and the tongue drew back.

Amity’s breath came hard and fast. She wasn’t really hurt. The tongue subsided a little and moved more languidly. Other instruments rejoined the symphony, one by one. As the strings began, again, to tingle within her nipples, Amity realized how aroused her fear had made her. Low woodwinds moaned and throbbed. Her body thrummed and sang. She could feel a baton against her pussy (Orchestral eschewed any other term for the “vaginal and anal stimulators”). Her labia opened and closed against it, as if to pull its gently vibrating shaft inside her. Her ass was already being tantalizingly stretched by a staff the size of her pinky. It would grow, she knew. It would grow, and throb, and thrust deeply inside her. She hoped.

The music rippled in and out of minor key. Amity’s mind’s eye conjured up storm clouds and gusts of wind. The tongue had changed shape again, forming a ball in her mouth that filled it completely without blocking her breath. The two batons inside her warred against each other almost painfully. Amity felt herself riding into a jagged orgasm, sharp and jarring and bone-achingly spasmodic. She cried out through the gag in her mouth. The constriction of sound seemed to free something in her, and she screamed in a way she’d never allowed herself to scream before. Her cunt hurt from clenching its phallic invader.

The music fell and rose again, drums beating heavily. Her nipples were being sucked and pulled intensely, her breasts constricted. Jangling tones sent flickers of pain into her spine, while a sweet, high clarinet still drew faultless pleasure through her clit. The rod in her pussy only pulsed gently as the one in her ass rolled and battered at her. Amity was close to another orgasm, as shattering as the last, when the tongue suddenly shrank and slipped away. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been clinging to it. Her eyes flew open in alarm. And then light flooded in as a small hatch opened where the tongue had been, and something warm touched her mouth instead.

Amity opened her mouth eagerly. The light disappeared, blocked by Tim’s body. His warm, human shaft tasted wonderfully sweet. For a moment, Amity lost touch with the music, wholly absorbed in the texture of Tim’s cock against her tongue. As it drifted in and out of her awareness, the symphonic storm passed. Luminous tones spoke of sunlight emerging. A warm, golden feeling grew in Amity. Her veins were full of honey. The transcendent sensation that swelled and shook her was hardly even recognizable as orgasm. Tears ran down her face. Tim cried out and thrust into her. His cum pulsing into her mouth mingled with the last melting notes of music. It was over.

Tim withdrew from her mouth slowly. Amity had responded to his composition even more intensely than he’d intended. He wanted to treat her tenderly. He opened the box, released the wrist and head restraints, and took Amity awkwardly in his arms. She draped herself against him, sleepy and satisfied. “There’s something you’re forgetting,” she mumbled against him.

“What is it, Amity?”

She breathed in his scent: sweat and sex. His shirt was soft against her cheek. What had she meant to tell him? A fragment of melody came to mind and she hummed it into his neck. Tim joined in, adding the next phrase. Amity felt an answering surge of arousal. “Take me to bed,” she said. “I want your skin this time.” Tim bent to undo the belts and clamps of his mechanical wonder, and carried his lover away.