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.
---------------------------
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.
-------------
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
Showing posts with label BedPost Confessions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BedPost Confessions. Show all posts
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Promises, Promises
I've had a bit of a shaky week. Maybe some of it was hormones, I don't know. I lacked my usual relaxed attitude, that feeling of centered calm that lets me greet the successes of my friends with compersive joy and accept their occasional offenses with equanimity.
Which is to say, I lost my temper. Quietly, privately, I raged. Being rather pathetically uncomfortable with anger, my default is to turn it against myself. Thankfully I've learned to stop myself from self-harming behaviors. (Well, unless you call scarfing large quantities of chocolate self harming. It's an okay choice, I think, relatively.) Instead I slept a lot, moped on friends' shoulders, and waited to feel better.
Of course, things that cause rage don't generally just go away on their own. They have to be looked at, and examined, and understood. They've got to be Addressed, and not while half asleep and sick on sugar overdose. I did a bit of journaling. I let myself vent. And I think I figured out the issue.
I haven't been writing. I haven't been working on any personal projects. I've poured energy into my job, BedPost Confessions, and being a mom. And then, tired out, I've collapsed on the couch. Every. Single. Night.
I don't watch much TV, but I read and tweet and surf and add things to my Amazon wishlist. I while away the evening until I'm too tired to get ready for bed, and then go to sleep miserably wishing I wouldn't have to get up in the morning. It's nothing out of the ordinary, I know. It just--finally--got to me.
I've got things to do. Books to write. Stories to tell. Filth to spread delicately on lily-white computer screens in patterns of perverted beauty. So. I'm recommitted. I will spend an hour a night on work that is mine only. And you, my beloved readers, will reap the benefit.
As a token of my sincerity, here is the first part of a story I've finally completed and which will be fully edited later this week.
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.
...to be continued...
Which is to say, I lost my temper. Quietly, privately, I raged. Being rather pathetically uncomfortable with anger, my default is to turn it against myself. Thankfully I've learned to stop myself from self-harming behaviors. (Well, unless you call scarfing large quantities of chocolate self harming. It's an okay choice, I think, relatively.) Instead I slept a lot, moped on friends' shoulders, and waited to feel better.
Of course, things that cause rage don't generally just go away on their own. They have to be looked at, and examined, and understood. They've got to be Addressed, and not while half asleep and sick on sugar overdose. I did a bit of journaling. I let myself vent. And I think I figured out the issue.
I haven't been writing. I haven't been working on any personal projects. I've poured energy into my job, BedPost Confessions, and being a mom. And then, tired out, I've collapsed on the couch. Every. Single. Night.
I don't watch much TV, but I read and tweet and surf and add things to my Amazon wishlist. I while away the evening until I'm too tired to get ready for bed, and then go to sleep miserably wishing I wouldn't have to get up in the morning. It's nothing out of the ordinary, I know. It just--finally--got to me.
I've got things to do. Books to write. Stories to tell. Filth to spread delicately on lily-white computer screens in patterns of perverted beauty. So. I'm recommitted. I will spend an hour a night on work that is mine only. And you, my beloved readers, will reap the benefit.
As a token of my sincerity, here is the first part of a story I've finally completed and which will be fully edited later this week.
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.
...to be continued...
Monday, December 12, 2011
A Year of Sex
A long time ago my husband (then boyfriend) and I did a collaborative art project called A Year Of Bad Sex. It was an illustrated calendar: I created the stories and layout, G drew cartoon illustrations. Each month memorialized one of my mediocre early sexual encounters--until December, which celebrated Great Sex with him. For some reason, our photocopied creation wasn't a huge seller at the holiday craft fairs we offered it at.
Sometime I'll have to try and recount the embarrassing encounters chronicled in those single-panel sentences compiled for 1997. But today I'm here to recommend a much more arousing and in-depth year of sex - Mia Martina's A Year of Sex: tales from New York City's erotic underground.
The moment I heard about this book, I knew I had to read it. Real life tales of New York sex parties? Yes please! And not just vanilla swingers parties, either--kinky dungeon parties where real people live out my fantasies. Yup, that's a must-read.
The book was more than I bargained for. It's not just Mia's straightforward retelling of experiences that I can only imagine. She also falls deeply and beautifully in love. I found myself a little in love, too, with someone so willing to live life fully and then write it all down.
As part of her online book-tour, Mia has graciously allowed me to post an excerpt here.
We arrive at Carmen’s apartment building, and instead of taking the elevators, we walk through the lobby, turn a corner, and open an unmarked door. The door takes us out of the building to a lush garden courtyard. Wild, hairy plants, trees, and large planters of elephant ears resting among wooden benches greet us. Walking down the pathway, I am struck by a memory of playing hide and seek behind the floppy and slick green leaves of elephant ears in my back yard. Without fail, playing hide and seek would cause my panties to get wet from arousal. I feel my pussy swell and moisten.
The courtyard is fairly dark and secluded, with only a few small lamps lighting the walkway. We make our way to the edge, along a narrow pathway on the side of the building. A metal fence with looped barbed wire rises from a low concrete wall. Carmen sits on the edge of the wall. I place one leg on either side of her; my short skirt is pulled taut. We kiss, and I feel full of energy.
Carmen clutches my ass. “You ready for your spanking?” When I nod yes, Carmen takes my hands and places them on the fence. Holding my breast, she walks behind me and breathes hard against my sticky neck. She raises my skirt and with surprise remarks, “What kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?” I like her question—even though she already knows that I’m not wearing any knickers. She discovered this while stroking me under the table at dinner. But I like any questions that make me admit to being a slut, whore, or pervert.
She asks again, “What kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?”
“A slutty one.”
“That’s right. And what happens to slutty girls?
“They get punished.”
“Very good. Hold tight to the fence, try and keep your dirty mouth shut, and take your spanking like a good girl.”
Gripping the fence, I take her hits. The sound of each blow echoes around the courtyard. I wonder how many people can see us and how many people hear the sound of my ass being spanked. I like the idea of being caught and being called disgusting sinners. Better yet, I like the idea of someone lurking in the garden and joining us in silent masturbation.
Carmen’s words echo my thoughts. “Now the neighbors can see what a dirty whore you are. You like to tease people by showing them your bits when you cross and uncross your legs in public. Tonight, you’ll show them everything.”
From behind, Carmen reaches her hand around to my pussy and splays my lips with her fingers. Her touch tickles my skin. Carmen fondles my labia, mashing her fingers into my wetness. Keeping her fingers on my clit, she continues to spank me. After 50 swats, I want to squirm away and cry out. Carmen senses my need to scream and shoves her wet fingers into my mouth. I bite down. She slaps me and holds my mouth shut with her hand. She clutches me tight and spanks me hard. Then her fingers, hot from the spanking, reach for my pussy. Carmen taps her fingers against my clit and hugs her body against mine. Sweat collects around my jaw line, where our skin makes contact. As I come, she speaks in my ear, “What a good slut. My little pet. I adore you. You sweet dirty whore. You will forever be mine.”
The book is only $4.99 to download. Go get it - you won't regret it! http://ayearofsex.com
About Mia— Mia Martina began recounting her sex-party and open-relationship adventures in the podcast "I Want Your Sex" in March 2008. She recently relocated to Austin, Texas after 10 years in New York City. Mia is the co-founder and producer of BedPost Confessions, an Austin based monthly reading and performance series about sex and sexuality.
site: http://miaontop.com
book: http://ayearofsex.com
event: http://bedpostconfessions.com
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Travelogue, Chapter 1: Penelope Sets Out
Leaving is easier than one imagines, Penelope found.
As soon as she’d made up her mind, it was simply a matter of following through. No one told her not to go. Instead, they were vicariously enthusiastic about her upcoming adventures. Everyone had a travel tip. In her email and on scraps of paper, she was presented with scores of contacts for “a friend of my sisters who lives in Amsterdam” and “my high school exchange parents - they don’t speak any English, but you would totally hit it off.” She discarded all these, along with her CD collection, mismatched kitchenware, and far too many pairs of shoes. This was not going to be the kind of adventure one writes home about. Adventures can only go so far when you stay with friends of friends of friends.
And so, without very much money and barely a plan, she gave up her apartment, quit her job, and kissed her lover goodbye. In a week from making her decision, she was boarding a flight to London with all the worldly possessions she cared to keep: a couple changes of underwear, a sexy dress or two, sweater, sandals, toothbrush, lipstick and a novel for those moments when adventure failed to materialize.
At least she didn’t have to buy a ticket. The first leg of her journey was to meet a man she’d met online. They had a tenuous connection, really. And yet she supposed he must have been as intrigued by her as she was by him. After all, she was flying business class at his expense. He told her he'd give her his flyer miles so she could travel in comfort. "Besides," he said, "In coach, you're likely to meet some interesting vagabond. I want you thinking about me when you're over the Atlantic." He didn't figure, she thought to herself as she waited in the endless line at customs, on Marco.
No one could have figured on Marco. Penny closed her eyes for a moment to remember him as she’d first glimpsed him. Handsome. Gentlemanly. And utterly seductive. Had it only been eight hours ago? It felt like a much longer journey. As the line wound on through cordoned walkways, she tried to relive the long flight to London. She wanted to fix it in her mind: her first adventure.
-------------------
Her flight left late - an 8 pm departure delayed until 9:30. She was a bit tired from the ordeal of the airport, but so excited about finally leaving on her adventure that she didn't care. It was a full flight. Mr. Craness had reserved a seat at the side of the plane in one of the two-person rows rather than the four-across middle row.
The passengers boarded mid-plane and Penelope found her seat was only a couple rows back, over the wing. She was eager to settle in and daydream, but when she saw her seat-mate, all thought of silent meditation left her. He was drop-dead handsome. And he was smiling at her.
He rose as Penelope approached and settled her bag on the empty seat next to him. "Would you prefer the window?" he asked, leaning forward solicitously.
"No, no, I'm fine on the aisle," she told him, trying and failing to meet his gorgeous dark eyes. What was his accent?
"Or may I switch seats so you and your husband can sit together?"
"I'm not married," Penelope returned thoughtlessly, tucking her skirt under her as she sat down. She glanced up at his eyes again and saw a faint twinkle. She realized her mistake instantly. Of course he’d been fishing for information. She gave him her best skeptical look.
"Ah. I'm transparent," he said. "Forgive me. I wanted an excuse to talk. I'm Marco," he said, extending his hand. She reached across awkwardly to shake it. "Penelope. But everyone calls me Penny."
"Penny? The smallest coin? Surely you are worth more than that?"
Penelope laughed nervously. Marco’s gaze was really too disarming. She rummaged through her purse as if for something important and carefully arranged it beneath her seat.
They were silent for a while as the airplane taxied and announcements were made. Penny got out a magazine but didn't open it. How could she start their conversation again? It was important to say something before he gave up on her and went to sleep for the whole flight. After all, one is not often trapped next to someone so attractive for eight hours at a stretch. As the flight lifted off, she at last found the courage to ask what he'd been doing in the US. "Visiting some old football friends," he told her. It seemed he'd been a professional soccer player some years past. (Was he really old enough to have a past?) They talked about the sport for a while, Penny embarrassedly admitting her complete ignorance. She asked general questions, like "What was life like on the road?"
"We didn't travel first class, I tell you that," he said. "And you - why are you going to England? I don't think it is business."
"No," she admitted, "I'm just going as a tourist."
"Just a tourist? I think it's more than that. You have the look of a woman who is going to meet her lover." He nudged her arm familiarly. She liked it. Still, she shook her head no. Their conversation rested. This time the silence felt comfortable. She read for a while.
The flight attendant came through offering beverages. “Just water,” said Penny, but Marco grabbed her hand as if they were a couple and asked for red wine for them both. He rapped their hands against the armrest emphatically as he declared, "We must celebrate the beginning of your journey!" Penny couldn't help laughing.
When the wine came, Marco raised his glass to her and she touched hers against it in toast. As she took her first sip, Marco pounced.
"And what is he called, this lover of yours you are traveling so far to see?" Marco asked. Penny nearly choked on her wine. It seemed she wasn’t much of a liar.
But why not answer him? It slipped out so easily. "Louis."
Marco's hand touched hers again, and he smiled wickedly. "I don't think 'Louis' is what you really call him." Penny tried to look puzzled. "I think, when you are alone... you call him something much more respectful."
Penny took another swallow of wine to hide her discomfiture. How did he know?
"I can read so much in a woman's eyes," Marco continued. He ran one fingers slowly down the inside of her arm. His voice was pitched low. "What do you call him - Sir? Master?"
"Mr. Craness," she choked out. It was horribly embarrassing to admit, and yet she felt she couldn’t help herself. It was like she was under a spell.
"Ah, yes, Mister Craness, very proper." Marco's voice massaged the words, making them sound lascivious. Penny felt herself flush.
"Don't worry, little Penny. Mister Louis Craness won't mind my enjoying your company. I know all about his kind."
The cabin lights dimmed as the flight attendant collected their glasses. Penny thought she might read a little while. She felt restless, even vaguely claustrophobic. Despite being in business class, there wasn’t quite enough room. Or maybe it was the tension of sitting next to a handsome man inside the intimate hum of jet engines. She reached to turn on the light, her arm brushing Marco’s shoulder. A searing pain struck her shoulder and she made an involuntary cry of pain.
“What’s the matter?” Marco asked, immediately attentive.
“It’s just a muscle spasm,” Penny said, but Marco was all concern and sympathy. "Let me," he said, inveigling his hand under hers where she gripped her shoulder.
"Ah," she protested, "No," but already his fingers had found their way to a spot that offered relief.
"Breathe out," he said, and her breath released. Why should she not let him help her, if he was willing? He took her shoulder in both hands and moved it, pulling the scapula towards him gently. It felt marvelous. She could feel the pain and tension draining out of her. At the same time, Marco’s nearness took on a new intensity. Handsome, handsome Marco was giving her his full attention, touching her with his warm, intelligent hands.
"You're good at that," Penny said, to break the silence as much as anything.
"It's what I do," he said. "Now that I'm retired from football, I do massage. Or, massage is part of what I do." He lifted her upper arm, rocking it back and forth as his fingers probed the base of her neck.
"What else?" she asked. She felt her neck and jaw relaxing.
"I specialize. I invented a new technique. I call it Hypno-Massage."
Hypno-Massage. How corny, Penny thought. She laughed and as quickly tried to stop herself. “That sounds very interesting,” she ventured.
"Would you like to try it?" he offered.
That sounded like a come-on. The whole idea sounded like a come on. But Marco was still working on her shoulder, and his touch was entirely sincere. "What do you do?" she asked him.
"It's hard to explain. I'd love for you to experience it." His voice was earnest. "I think it would be a wonderful way for you to start your journey. In the right frame of mind - relaxed, confident..." She could tell this was a seduction. Maybe she was a little hypnotized already, because she didn't feel the need to object.
"Alright," she said. "What do I need to do?"
"Nothing, cara. Just put your seat back so you can rest your head."
"Are you going to hypnotize me?"
"Yes, but, you know, it is perfectly safe. You won't go to sleep, you can stop anytime." His voice was soothing. She put her seat back and Marco turned out her light. She felt warm and at ease. "I think," he said, his voice getting lower, "You would like some pleasure. Something to prepare you for Mister Craness."
It was too much. I should stop him, she thought. His knowing tone when he mentioned Mr. Craness. The offer of pleasure. They were on an airplane -- practically public transportation. As her mind protested, Marco was massaging her upper arm, melding pain with kindness as he unwound her muscles. "Pleasure," she heard herself saying in a sleepy voice. "We're--there's no privacy."
"Don't worry. I won't undress you. If you would like, I will touch only your arm." He gazed at her sincerely, and she smiled. It had been a long day. Why not relax. Her eyelids were heavy.
"Wonderful," she said, and let her head fall back against the seat. Marco's thumb ran down her arm, erasing tension. Her whole body began to relax. Her eyes closed.
"Let yourself go," he said into her ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek. "Focus only on sensation." His thumb pressed a knot near her elbow. Pain flared and then faded. He continued kneading her arm.
"I'm going to make my touch lighter," Marco murmured. "But it won't tickle. You'll remain relaxed." His fingers began to run slowly up and down her arm. It felt incredibly sensual.
"Feel my fingers tracing lines of light on your arm," he told her. She could visualise it, glowing white behind his fingers. His thumb grazed the inside of her arm and she shivered with pleasure.
"That's right," he said. "Sink into the sensation. Feel your arm is your whole body." He traced a circle on her shoulder. "Here is your head." His fingers trailed down her deltoid and lingered at its base. "Here," he said, his voice getting lower, "Are your breasts." He pinched her there, very gently. She felt it in her clit. "Yes," he said, "Good. It is as if I am playing with your nipples." His fingers pressed and squeezed. Her chest felt tight. The pressure of her clothes against her breasts became noticeable, and her nipples hardening against her bra.
His fingers slid lower down her arm and for a moment she felt bereft. He was making small circles above her elbow crease, around and around. "Do you feel this in your tummy?" he asked. Speaking felt difficult, so she nodded minutely. "Yes, you do. Good girl. This is your tummy, and here--" he traced the fold of her elbow-- "we are lower still." Her pussy throbbed. Marco traced a triangle along the crease of her elbow, pointing downward. "It feels good, doesn't it? You know where this is." She did. Her body did. Her hips were rocking slowly beneath the airline blanket. His touch lightened. He might only have been stroking the fine, invisible hairs of her arm as he made tiny circles. She could feel the circles like fire around her clit. Moisture was seeping out of her, and her breath was short.
"Mmm," said Marco. "You like that. How beautiful you are when you are deeply aroused." His fingers didn't stop their subtle caresses. "Soon you will reach your peak," he continued. "Soon. Already you feel the energy building, don't you. You crave a finger inside you. A cock, filling you. You long to be fucked."
Every word became true as he said it. Her legs were parted lewdly underneath her blanket, and she longed for his hand to leave her arm and touch her pussy. Privacy be damned. She was past caring. "Shh, shh," he said, pressing a finger to her lips. "Soon you will cum for me, but quietly, quietly. Pay attention to my hands." She tuned back in to the inside of her arm. His fingers were brushing her skin rapidly now, from just above her elbow to halfway down her forearm. His strokes were rapid, as if he were brushing something off her skin, and she felt each one as an electric force, pulsing against her clit.
"Yes," he said, "You're ready. Relax. Let it unfold." She realized she'd tensed every muscle in her body. With a breath, she let go. Her orgasm bloomed in her like a peony, unfurling layer after layer of iridescent pleasure. Marco's hands steadied her, one firmly behind her neck, one still tracing circles on her arm. She gasped and arched silently, on and on, and finally subsided. Pleasure still lingered at her core, sending little spasms through her. She turned to look at Marco and saw his gorgeous smile. She smiled back, and their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss.
She would have gone on kissing him. She imagine she would have climbed on his lap and ridden him if he'd asked her -- but he drew away. "Do you feel wonderful?" he asked, holding her face in his hands.
"I do." She did.
"You are delightful company," he said. "But now--let me help you sleep. After all, you'll be meeting your Mister Craness in the morning. You need to rest." He tucked the blanket around her. His fingers brushed her arm and she moaned. "Mmmm," Marco hummed at her. "But it's time for rest now. Listen to me." He moved his palm over her face, closing her eyes. "Sleep, and wake rested."
She don't think he did anything else. There was no repeated suggestion. Maybe he still had her hypnotised or maybe, replete, she was just ready to drift off. Either way, she fell asleep, and woke surprised as her breakfast tray arrived.
As soon as she’d made up her mind, it was simply a matter of following through. No one told her not to go. Instead, they were vicariously enthusiastic about her upcoming adventures. Everyone had a travel tip. In her email and on scraps of paper, she was presented with scores of contacts for “a friend of my sisters who lives in Amsterdam” and “my high school exchange parents - they don’t speak any English, but you would totally hit it off.” She discarded all these, along with her CD collection, mismatched kitchenware, and far too many pairs of shoes. This was not going to be the kind of adventure one writes home about. Adventures can only go so far when you stay with friends of friends of friends.
And so, without very much money and barely a plan, she gave up her apartment, quit her job, and kissed her lover goodbye. In a week from making her decision, she was boarding a flight to London with all the worldly possessions she cared to keep: a couple changes of underwear, a sexy dress or two, sweater, sandals, toothbrush, lipstick and a novel for those moments when adventure failed to materialize.
At least she didn’t have to buy a ticket. The first leg of her journey was to meet a man she’d met online. They had a tenuous connection, really. And yet she supposed he must have been as intrigued by her as she was by him. After all, she was flying business class at his expense. He told her he'd give her his flyer miles so she could travel in comfort. "Besides," he said, "In coach, you're likely to meet some interesting vagabond. I want you thinking about me when you're over the Atlantic." He didn't figure, she thought to herself as she waited in the endless line at customs, on Marco.
No one could have figured on Marco. Penny closed her eyes for a moment to remember him as she’d first glimpsed him. Handsome. Gentlemanly. And utterly seductive. Had it only been eight hours ago? It felt like a much longer journey. As the line wound on through cordoned walkways, she tried to relive the long flight to London. She wanted to fix it in her mind: her first adventure.
-------------------
Her flight left late - an 8 pm departure delayed until 9:30. She was a bit tired from the ordeal of the airport, but so excited about finally leaving on her adventure that she didn't care. It was a full flight. Mr. Craness had reserved a seat at the side of the plane in one of the two-person rows rather than the four-across middle row.
The passengers boarded mid-plane and Penelope found her seat was only a couple rows back, over the wing. She was eager to settle in and daydream, but when she saw her seat-mate, all thought of silent meditation left her. He was drop-dead handsome. And he was smiling at her.
He rose as Penelope approached and settled her bag on the empty seat next to him. "Would you prefer the window?" he asked, leaning forward solicitously.
"No, no, I'm fine on the aisle," she told him, trying and failing to meet his gorgeous dark eyes. What was his accent?
"Or may I switch seats so you and your husband can sit together?"
"I'm not married," Penelope returned thoughtlessly, tucking her skirt under her as she sat down. She glanced up at his eyes again and saw a faint twinkle. She realized her mistake instantly. Of course he’d been fishing for information. She gave him her best skeptical look.
"Ah. I'm transparent," he said. "Forgive me. I wanted an excuse to talk. I'm Marco," he said, extending his hand. She reached across awkwardly to shake it. "Penelope. But everyone calls me Penny."
"Penny? The smallest coin? Surely you are worth more than that?"
Penelope laughed nervously. Marco’s gaze was really too disarming. She rummaged through her purse as if for something important and carefully arranged it beneath her seat.
They were silent for a while as the airplane taxied and announcements were made. Penny got out a magazine but didn't open it. How could she start their conversation again? It was important to say something before he gave up on her and went to sleep for the whole flight. After all, one is not often trapped next to someone so attractive for eight hours at a stretch. As the flight lifted off, she at last found the courage to ask what he'd been doing in the US. "Visiting some old football friends," he told her. It seemed he'd been a professional soccer player some years past. (Was he really old enough to have a past?) They talked about the sport for a while, Penny embarrassedly admitting her complete ignorance. She asked general questions, like "What was life like on the road?"
"We didn't travel first class, I tell you that," he said. "And you - why are you going to England? I don't think it is business."
"No," she admitted, "I'm just going as a tourist."
"Just a tourist? I think it's more than that. You have the look of a woman who is going to meet her lover." He nudged her arm familiarly. She liked it. Still, she shook her head no. Their conversation rested. This time the silence felt comfortable. She read for a while.
The flight attendant came through offering beverages. “Just water,” said Penny, but Marco grabbed her hand as if they were a couple and asked for red wine for them both. He rapped their hands against the armrest emphatically as he declared, "We must celebrate the beginning of your journey!" Penny couldn't help laughing.
When the wine came, Marco raised his glass to her and she touched hers against it in toast. As she took her first sip, Marco pounced.
"And what is he called, this lover of yours you are traveling so far to see?" Marco asked. Penny nearly choked on her wine. It seemed she wasn’t much of a liar.
But why not answer him? It slipped out so easily. "Louis."
Marco's hand touched hers again, and he smiled wickedly. "I don't think 'Louis' is what you really call him." Penny tried to look puzzled. "I think, when you are alone... you call him something much more respectful."
Penny took another swallow of wine to hide her discomfiture. How did he know?
"I can read so much in a woman's eyes," Marco continued. He ran one fingers slowly down the inside of her arm. His voice was pitched low. "What do you call him - Sir? Master?"
"Mr. Craness," she choked out. It was horribly embarrassing to admit, and yet she felt she couldn’t help herself. It was like she was under a spell.
"Ah, yes, Mister Craness, very proper." Marco's voice massaged the words, making them sound lascivious. Penny felt herself flush.
"Don't worry, little Penny. Mister Louis Craness won't mind my enjoying your company. I know all about his kind."
The cabin lights dimmed as the flight attendant collected their glasses. Penny thought she might read a little while. She felt restless, even vaguely claustrophobic. Despite being in business class, there wasn’t quite enough room. Or maybe it was the tension of sitting next to a handsome man inside the intimate hum of jet engines. She reached to turn on the light, her arm brushing Marco’s shoulder. A searing pain struck her shoulder and she made an involuntary cry of pain.
“What’s the matter?” Marco asked, immediately attentive.
“It’s just a muscle spasm,” Penny said, but Marco was all concern and sympathy. "Let me," he said, inveigling his hand under hers where she gripped her shoulder.
"Ah," she protested, "No," but already his fingers had found their way to a spot that offered relief.
"Breathe out," he said, and her breath released. Why should she not let him help her, if he was willing? He took her shoulder in both hands and moved it, pulling the scapula towards him gently. It felt marvelous. She could feel the pain and tension draining out of her. At the same time, Marco’s nearness took on a new intensity. Handsome, handsome Marco was giving her his full attention, touching her with his warm, intelligent hands.
"You're good at that," Penny said, to break the silence as much as anything.
"It's what I do," he said. "Now that I'm retired from football, I do massage. Or, massage is part of what I do." He lifted her upper arm, rocking it back and forth as his fingers probed the base of her neck.
"What else?" she asked. She felt her neck and jaw relaxing.
"I specialize. I invented a new technique. I call it Hypno-Massage."
Hypno-Massage. How corny, Penny thought. She laughed and as quickly tried to stop herself. “That sounds very interesting,” she ventured.
"Would you like to try it?" he offered.
That sounded like a come-on. The whole idea sounded like a come on. But Marco was still working on her shoulder, and his touch was entirely sincere. "What do you do?" she asked him.
"It's hard to explain. I'd love for you to experience it." His voice was earnest. "I think it would be a wonderful way for you to start your journey. In the right frame of mind - relaxed, confident..." She could tell this was a seduction. Maybe she was a little hypnotized already, because she didn't feel the need to object.
"Alright," she said. "What do I need to do?"
"Nothing, cara. Just put your seat back so you can rest your head."
"Are you going to hypnotize me?"
"Yes, but, you know, it is perfectly safe. You won't go to sleep, you can stop anytime." His voice was soothing. She put her seat back and Marco turned out her light. She felt warm and at ease. "I think," he said, his voice getting lower, "You would like some pleasure. Something to prepare you for Mister Craness."
It was too much. I should stop him, she thought. His knowing tone when he mentioned Mr. Craness. The offer of pleasure. They were on an airplane -- practically public transportation. As her mind protested, Marco was massaging her upper arm, melding pain with kindness as he unwound her muscles. "Pleasure," she heard herself saying in a sleepy voice. "We're--there's no privacy."
"Don't worry. I won't undress you. If you would like, I will touch only your arm." He gazed at her sincerely, and she smiled. It had been a long day. Why not relax. Her eyelids were heavy.
"Wonderful," she said, and let her head fall back against the seat. Marco's thumb ran down her arm, erasing tension. Her whole body began to relax. Her eyes closed.
"Let yourself go," he said into her ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek. "Focus only on sensation." His thumb pressed a knot near her elbow. Pain flared and then faded. He continued kneading her arm.
"I'm going to make my touch lighter," Marco murmured. "But it won't tickle. You'll remain relaxed." His fingers began to run slowly up and down her arm. It felt incredibly sensual.
"Feel my fingers tracing lines of light on your arm," he told her. She could visualise it, glowing white behind his fingers. His thumb grazed the inside of her arm and she shivered with pleasure.
"That's right," he said. "Sink into the sensation. Feel your arm is your whole body." He traced a circle on her shoulder. "Here is your head." His fingers trailed down her deltoid and lingered at its base. "Here," he said, his voice getting lower, "Are your breasts." He pinched her there, very gently. She felt it in her clit. "Yes," he said, "Good. It is as if I am playing with your nipples." His fingers pressed and squeezed. Her chest felt tight. The pressure of her clothes against her breasts became noticeable, and her nipples hardening against her bra.
His fingers slid lower down her arm and for a moment she felt bereft. He was making small circles above her elbow crease, around and around. "Do you feel this in your tummy?" he asked. Speaking felt difficult, so she nodded minutely. "Yes, you do. Good girl. This is your tummy, and here--" he traced the fold of her elbow-- "we are lower still." Her pussy throbbed. Marco traced a triangle along the crease of her elbow, pointing downward. "It feels good, doesn't it? You know where this is." She did. Her body did. Her hips were rocking slowly beneath the airline blanket. His touch lightened. He might only have been stroking the fine, invisible hairs of her arm as he made tiny circles. She could feel the circles like fire around her clit. Moisture was seeping out of her, and her breath was short.
"Mmm," said Marco. "You like that. How beautiful you are when you are deeply aroused." His fingers didn't stop their subtle caresses. "Soon you will reach your peak," he continued. "Soon. Already you feel the energy building, don't you. You crave a finger inside you. A cock, filling you. You long to be fucked."
Every word became true as he said it. Her legs were parted lewdly underneath her blanket, and she longed for his hand to leave her arm and touch her pussy. Privacy be damned. She was past caring. "Shh, shh," he said, pressing a finger to her lips. "Soon you will cum for me, but quietly, quietly. Pay attention to my hands." She tuned back in to the inside of her arm. His fingers were brushing her skin rapidly now, from just above her elbow to halfway down her forearm. His strokes were rapid, as if he were brushing something off her skin, and she felt each one as an electric force, pulsing against her clit.
"Yes," he said, "You're ready. Relax. Let it unfold." She realized she'd tensed every muscle in her body. With a breath, she let go. Her orgasm bloomed in her like a peony, unfurling layer after layer of iridescent pleasure. Marco's hands steadied her, one firmly behind her neck, one still tracing circles on her arm. She gasped and arched silently, on and on, and finally subsided. Pleasure still lingered at her core, sending little spasms through her. She turned to look at Marco and saw his gorgeous smile. She smiled back, and their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss.
She would have gone on kissing him. She imagine she would have climbed on his lap and ridden him if he'd asked her -- but he drew away. "Do you feel wonderful?" he asked, holding her face in his hands.
"I do." She did.
"You are delightful company," he said. "But now--let me help you sleep. After all, you'll be meeting your Mister Craness in the morning. You need to rest." He tucked the blanket around her. His fingers brushed her arm and she moaned. "Mmmm," Marco hummed at her. "But it's time for rest now. Listen to me." He moved his palm over her face, closing her eyes. "Sleep, and wake rested."
She don't think he did anything else. There was no repeated suggestion. Maybe he still had her hypnotised or maybe, replete, she was just ready to drift off. Either way, she fell asleep, and woke surprised as her breakfast tray arrived.
Read at BedPost Confessions, November 2010.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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
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
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Red Riding Hood and the Wolf
1)------
Little Red Riding Hood grew up kinky. Who wouldn’t, after those early childhood experiences with a wolf? Especially the part where he devoured her.
2)----------
One foggy night Red went to a party, dressed in her favorite crimson dress. The men gathered around her, but her attention fixed on one: The guy with the glint in his eyes that told her he was a hunter. She wasn’t at the party for more than a drink or two before they left together, his hand on her arm.
3)----------
He walked her to his car, but she pulled him across the street into the park. It was dark among the trees. Glimmers of street lamp stood in for the moon. He growled into her ear and Red arched her back against a tree. “Eat me,” she urged, and he knelt down between her legs, ravenous.
4)------------
The smell of Red overwhelmed him. He dove into her and licked and sucked as he never had before. He bit her gently, then harder, as her cries of pleasure swirled around him. Time seemed to stand still. He felt as if he’d never be done with her until he’d consumed her. The taste of blood filled his mouth. And then - someone was pulling on him, hard, from behind.
5)--------
He tried to resist. He braced his feet in the grass and searched for a grip on her thighs. But something strange was going on. He couldn’t fold his arms around her. There was a terrible pain at the base of his spine. Someone was pulling his - Tail?
With a howl, he let go of Red. Helpless with confusion, he loped away.
Red smiled at the man now standing in front of her. He was tall and rugged and his belt was already undone. “There you are,” she breathed. “Hard and ready as ever. Fuck me, my woodman.” And he did.
Read interstitially at BedPost Confessions, November, 2010
Little Red Riding Hood grew up kinky. Who wouldn’t, after those early childhood experiences with a wolf? Especially the part where he devoured her.
2)----------
One foggy night Red went to a party, dressed in her favorite crimson dress. The men gathered around her, but her attention fixed on one: The guy with the glint in his eyes that told her he was a hunter. She wasn’t at the party for more than a drink or two before they left together, his hand on her arm.
3)----------
He walked her to his car, but she pulled him across the street into the park. It was dark among the trees. Glimmers of street lamp stood in for the moon. He growled into her ear and Red arched her back against a tree. “Eat me,” she urged, and he knelt down between her legs, ravenous.
4)------------
The smell of Red overwhelmed him. He dove into her and licked and sucked as he never had before. He bit her gently, then harder, as her cries of pleasure swirled around him. Time seemed to stand still. He felt as if he’d never be done with her until he’d consumed her. The taste of blood filled his mouth. And then - someone was pulling on him, hard, from behind.
5)--------
He tried to resist. He braced his feet in the grass and searched for a grip on her thighs. But something strange was going on. He couldn’t fold his arms around her. There was a terrible pain at the base of his spine. Someone was pulling his - Tail?
With a howl, he let go of Red. Helpless with confusion, he loped away.
Red smiled at the man now standing in front of her. He was tall and rugged and his belt was already undone. “There you are,” she breathed. “Hard and ready as ever. Fuck me, my woodman.” And he did.
Read interstitially at BedPost Confessions, November, 2010
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