Monday, September 15, 2008
Between Us, A Girl (Part 3 of 4)
All smiles and tumescence, the three of us collapse onto the comforter. (Someone’s going to need to wash the cover tomorrow.) The bed creaks a bit and stops. For a moment, no one moves and no one speaks. A car goes by outside… then silence. Actually, I take it back. It isn’t silence. I can hear us breathing. I hear three sets of lungs sucking in air and letting it out. I hear three tongues wetting three sets of dried lips. And for a second, I imagine I can hear your heart beating in your chest and Kristy’s in hers. But then I decide it’s only my heart I’m hearing, my heart beating in my own chest, my temple, and my cock. I get up and pour some more champagne in my glass. I take a drink and then pass the glass around.
Sitting back down on the bed, I put a pillow behind my back and sit up against the headboard. Everyone readjusts their positions around me. You curl yourself up at my left side, head on my chest, hand on my stomach. My left arm curls around you in a way it knows from a thousand nights. My hand caresses your butt, round and smooth and familiar in a good way. Only Kristy’s smell on your face and in your hair makes you different. You’re the same as always, except that perhaps you were attacked by a perfume girl while walking through Macy’s at the mall. Except this scent is one you wanted to sample. But she missed your wrist, my dear. Right scent, wrong pulse point.
Kristy is lying along my right side, but with her head down around my feet. She’s propped up on her right hand, her elbow planted in the mattress. Her chest is flushed and her cheeks are rosy. She blows hair out of her eyes and smiles at me, her toes grazing my underarm. I jump, spilling a few drops of champagne on my chest.
She laughs. “Oops! Sorry!”
I put my champagne down on the table. Without the champagne glass, I have a free hand. Kristy gives me a look oozing of “Duh!” smiles, and rolls over onto her stomach. She is nuzzled up against me. Her skin touches my skin all along my right leg. With her left hand, she absently touches, then strokes the top of my feet. I can’t resist the curve, the surface of her upturned calves. I run my hand over her calves, the backs of her thighs.
No one is talking, but a number of hands are quietly exploring whatever skin they find nearby. Every touch, every movement is slow and gentle. The pads of my fingers wander from your bottom, up along your sides, around under your arm to your breasts where they circle, and then slowly drift back to your bottom. Lazily, I repeat. You slide your body closer to the headboard, just enough so that my fingers can slip between your cheeks and find wetness. You squirm.
Kristy shifts back to her side. She leans over my legs and starts to caress your legs. At the same time, she opens her own legs, bending the top onr and bringing that foot up close to her other knee. This move is enough to expose her hairless pussy. And it is just close enough for me to reach with my right thumb… My thumb slips inside her pink lips, bringing out more juices to spread over the already slick skin, making the lips slippery and wet, massaging the lips now between my thumb and index finger. I close my eyes. I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time, but my hands can finger fuck two women at the same time. So alike, so different.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Between Us, A Girl (Part 2 of 4)
Walking up the driveway from the car, you and Kristy are holding hands. No one’s talking but the crickets. Moths quietly orbit the porch light as we walk up the steps. I go first, opening the storm door and unlocking the front door. I hold it open. You go in first, then Kristy. As she passes through, Kristy leans against me, stretches, and kisses me on the lips. Her hair smells of herbal shampoo and her lips are firm but soft. She turns and follows you into the house. I close the door, sigh, and turn out the outdoor light.
“I have to pee.” And with that, Kristy excuses herself and heads for the nearest bathroom.
You follow me to the kitchen. We exchange a mutual, wide-eyed, “What have we gotten ourselves into?” look and start to laugh. You lift your skirt quickly, flashing me. “I think I may have left my underwear in the car.”
I dramatically roll my eyes. “I really don’t think you’ll need them any more tonight. Just one thing though…”
“What’s that?”
“You slut!” I laugh as you throw a cloth napkin at me. “So,” I continue. “I guess I don’t have to ask you what you think of Kristy.”
“No, I guess not.” I’m wondering whether or not you’re blushing. I can’t tell in this light. “I was nervous that this wouldn’t work out, because… you know… I met her online and we only talked on the phone a couple of times. But she’s so funny and sexy. And she’s really making this all so easy, don’t you think?” You pause as you get out the champagne flutes. “What do you think of her?”
I’ve taken the champagne out of the refrigerator and removed the foil and the wire cage around the cork. I carefully twist the cork out. Pop! “I think I should let you pick out all of my girlfriends.”
“Josh, you don’t have girlfriends.”
“I know. I’m just saying that, if I did have girlfriends, your taste is clearly much better than…”
“Careful.”
“Present company excluded of course. Finding you was my one moment of good taste after a decade plus of whackos, weirdos, and really mediocre kissers.” I smile broadly.
“Convoluted, but better.” You kiss me. “Seriously, are you still OK with this?”
“Hey, show me a man who wouldn’t be OK with this. It’s not just your fantasy. Let’s go find our girl.”
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Between Us, A Girl (Part 1 of 4)
She’s younger than you led me to believe.
Kristy arrives at the restaurant in the kind of exuberant rush that only comes from one’s twenties. Her face is a little flushed and she is having trouble deciding whether to put her extra large bag down before shaking our hands, or to shake our hands first, or perhaps even give us a hug and a kiss with the bag a less welcome fourth party. As you and I get up, she turns and the black leather bag strikes me firmly in the thigh. “Oops! Shit. Are you OK?” After a laughing apology, she puts the bag down, shakes my hand, and gives you a hug. She then plops down on the seat as if all the wind she has saved up for this occasion has been spent.
“What are we drinking?” she asks, patting you on the hand as the two of you scoot into the booth next to one another.
“Chardonnay,” I answer, sitting back down. The server brings over another wine glass, fills it, and is gone before any of us notice that we aren’t talking.
Silence. Awkward silence.
“Look! I brought a toothbrush!” Kristy says suddenly , pulling a red toothbrush from her bag. We all laugh, breaking the spell. Maybe now I can relax.
You raise your wine glass and propose a toast. “Here’s to new friends and new experiences!”
“And to things that go bump in the night!” adds Kristy, smiling.
Not to be outdone, I counter, “And to things that come in threes!”
“Threes? You mean like triplets?”
Everyone smiles and we drink. But then…
“Shortcakes. Or is that six?”
“Wise men.”
“Pawnbrokers’ balls!”
Over our salads, Kristy launches into a lengthy description of her position on Internet censorship, which touches on everything from her email habits to Renoir nudes on the Louvre web site to nude modeling for college art classes when she was still in school to playing with the libidos of the people in the class by walking over to them fully naked between poses and commenting on their work… and finally back to meeting you on the Net. She talks for what must be 15 minutes without stopping, moving from one topic to the next with an ease and rapidity that makes it all seem to make sense at the time. I look over at you and we both open our eyes wide as if to say, “Wow.” We smile and you reach across the table to hold my hand.
And so the dinner goes. We talk, laugh, drink more wine. We are sitting in one of those semi-circular booths where the seat wraps around the table. I am sitting on one end; you’re sitting on the other end; and Kristy is sitting back behind the table and between the two of us. There are plants and mirrors along the wall. There is just enough light for me to be able to tell that the tablecloth on our table is mint green.
For much of dinner, I feel as if I’ve split into two people. There’s the me that’s continuing to participate in the conversations we’re having — the current one that you started having something to do with movies. But then there’s this other me that’s watching, studying all three of us from some place away from the table. Some part of me is looking at all of us as actors in a play and it’s an odd feeling. What would that other me say about the two of you? I know you bought this deep blue dress especially for tonight. You wouldn’t let me see it until tonight. When I saw you in the restaurant lobby before dinner, it stopped me in my tracks. The dress isn’t overly dressy, but it shows off your legs and your beautiful shoulders. And the color is so nice with your auburn hair. What earrings are you wearing? The red glass ones from last summer’s arts festival. Poor man’s rubies.
And then there’s Kristy. She arrived wearing a short cotton slip dress, white with small flowers, and a denim jacket. On her feet are white socks and a pair of clunky black shoes. Her hair is short and dark. In this light, I can’t tell what color her eyes are. Her earrings are silver, with one extra loop passing through an extra hole in one ear. But she’s not such a rebel that she doesn’t shave her legs and pits. She’s not as curvy as you, but she’s definitely not boyish either. Before she sat down, I could tell she had nice round hips and in silhouette her breasts seem full and large for her frame. The two of you make an interesting pair.
“Can I have a bite of that?” Kristy asks you during the main course. “I love trout almondine.” But really, I think to myself, what she wants to do is play with your space. She scoots over next to you as you get a piece of fish and some sauce onto your fork. You don’t have to reach the fork out to her, as Kristy leans across the left side of your body toward the fork in your right hand. This move puts her head inches from your face— her hair close enough to smell, her cheek close to your lips— and her upper right arm just brushing your left breast. I take a sip of wine and study your face. Kristy looks up to see that I am watching her and winks.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Wake Up, Sleepers
Even though there was ice on the driveway yesterday morning. Even though there is still snow melting beneath the hedges. Even though the town’s salt trucks and snow plows still stand at the ready for at least another three weeks. Even though the trees haven’t budded and the crocuses have barely poked their heads through the dirt. Even though the robin in the backyard looks lost and lonely and the squirrels look thin and daring. Even though the only spring peeper I’ve heard quickly gave up finding a mate and went back to sleep. Even though all this says it’s still winter… I say it’s spring.
And in spring, a man’s fancy (whatever that is) turns to thoughts of love. Or sex. Mostly sex, actually.
Sex with you, specifically. Failing that, sex with her or her or her. But yes, first and with all due fidelity, sex with you. Now. Please. Didn’t you hear me say I’m calling it spring?
Slow, languorous sex while buds on the trees pop open over our heads like popcorn. Me inside you, smelling spring rain in the distance, feeling the new grass on my skin, feeling your skin on my skin, feeling the sweet slickness of you wrapped around me, our warm shared core sheltered from the nagging spring breeze…
Do you see it now? Slide with me into spring and then from spring to summer. Let’s drink from each other and make necklaces and cock rings from dandelions! Let’s fuck against trees and make birds tilt their heads when you cry out when I first push inside you! Let’s roll naked down grassy hills, stay up to see the stars, get up to see the sunrise!
It’s spring and I’m starving for life. So, love me raw. Rub me, suck me, ride me until we’re red and breathless and hungry for water and salt.
Spring, spring, spring! Kiss me, quick!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Adventures of Maggie the MILF and Cereal Boy
There's something inevitable about desire given permission. It's a roller coaster going over the crest of that first big hill. Once you've gone that far, all you can do from then on is throw your arms back and scream. What's going to happen is going to happen. So perhaps even foreplay is excessive in this situation...A couple of weeks ago, I was on IM with Blue. It was a Tuesday morning and I was complaining that I had to go to the grocery store. She challenged me to find something at the grocery to write about. The following story is the result of that particular trip.
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There’s nothing but sand as far as the eye can see.
OK, it isn’t literally sand. It’s more like beige linoleum punctuated by occasional outcrops of unpacked boxes of canned goods and by little old women with blue hair in their mobility scooters. But, my point is, the supermarket is a sexual desert on weekday mornings.
And here I am, pushing a cart down the juice aisle, with no oasis in sight. Three aisles down and I cannot find a single distraction to lighten the drudgery of grocery shopping. It’s not as if I don’t have an open mind and an active imagination, but there isn’t much to work with. Most people are at work this time of day and won’t show up here until late afternoon or early evening. Without a decent salad bar, this store doesn’t even have much of a lunchtime crowd.
Not that it’s entirely empty. The Coca-Cola man is restocking shelves in the soda aisle and there’s Wally, the middle-aged produce clerk, spraying his greens. The cashiers are discussing “American Idol” and their grandchildren. Apart from me, the only customers seem to be the two dozen old folks who arrived in vans from the nearby retirement community just as I pulled up. “That’s going to slow me down,” I thought, ducking into the Starbucks in order to give them all a good head start. But the grocery carts don’t have cup holders, so I only got a small coffee, which the sleepy barrista has the good graces to not repeat back to me as “Tall.” With a slight caffeine rush, I’m able to dodge the first three seniors without breaking stride.
But now I’m stalled in the cereal aisle. I took too long choosing a granola bar and now a little old man is reading the ingredients of Shredded Wheat. Or he would if he could find his glasses, which are currently on top of his head. I’m not in enough of a hurry to ask him to let me get by or to turn my cart around. I’ll wait. Killing time, I start to scan the latest varieties of Captain Crunch and try to find whether anyone is giving away anything cheap and plastic inside the box.
Into this reverie falls inspiration in the form of a child’s pacifier, which lands at my feet as if it’s been spit out by Tony the Tiger himself. I look around to find a young woman and a grocery cart with a toddler sitting where my produce usually sits. The little girl is around one, towheaded, and giggling in self-satisfaction at making her mother stop the cart. Her mother is in her late twenties, early thirties, but seems younger in her white tank top and denim skort. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a scrunchie. I wonder if the diamond stud earrings are real? Who would wear real diamond earrings to the supermarket? I wonder if her breasts are real? Those are remarkable breasts. I should pick up the pacifier. Her legs are nice, too.
“Five second rule?” I ask, smiling, as I start to hand her the hot pink binky.
The hand that reaches out has a wedding ring and an engagement ring with a pretty serious rock. But, seeing me see, she quickly turns her hand over and opens her palm. I gently place the pacifier in her hand. As she closes her fingers, they brush against my hand. I look up into eyes the color of honeydew melons.
“Well, that and a good washing. For now, though...” she says, smiling back at me and rubbing her little girl’s legs which are swinging out the back of the cart. The young woman sticks the pacifier in her own mouth, sucks on it a bit, pops it out, and hands it back to her daughter. “That should work.” She looks at me again and laughs a little. “Can’t be too careful.”
She steps away from the cart. I watch her walk slowly back and forth, looking at cereals. Her ass is nice, too. She looks at me, probably noticing where I was looking. “What do you think? Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Sure. You seemed to be surveying the stock pretty carefully just now. Sydney and I trust you. Which cereal should we buy today? Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”
“Well, Cheerios are a classic. A little high in sodium, but much lower in sugar than Lucky Charms. But babies and Cheerios are kinda predictable. And you two seem more like trend setters, more cutting edge. So Lucky Charms may be better for you. For one thing, they’re magically delicious. They have Lucky the Leprechaun. And this month, they seem to have these blue moon and red balloon marshmallow shapes that should be really easy to spot when Sydney drops them on the kitchen floor.” I grin and hand her a box of Lucky Charms. She puts it in her cart, laughing.
“Thank you. Well...” she says, biting her lip just a bit, then smiling again. “We have to get moving. Much to do in the life of us cutting edge gals.” She takes hold of the cart handle and starts to roll away down the aisle.
“You two take care,” I call after her. “Watch those flying binkies.”
She looks back at me over her shoulder. “Why don’t cereal boxes ever have free prizes inside for grown ups? I’d really go for Special K with a free bullet vibe.” She laughs again, turns, and vanishes around the end of the aisle.
Whoa.
How much of what went before is fact, how much is part and parcel of the fantasy that follows? I can’t tell or won’t tell. But I found my inspiration in the flirting and suddenly the grocery became a place with at least a chance of someone taking a chance.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be back in this same grocery, needing to buy the dozen eggs I’m forgetting today after our first encounter. Walking quickly through the produce section to the back of the store, I’ll be trying to get in and out in as little time as possible. Ten items or fewer.
And yet, I won’t be able to help looking up the cereal aisle when I pass. And there will be Sydney in a cart, her mom squatting nearby, retrieving a fallen something or other. I’ll smile and walk slowly up the aisle. Sydney will see me and make a silly sound. I’ll wave and make a face. She’ll laugh. Her mother will look up and have to grab the cart to keep from falling over. Her skirt will be too short for this particular pose and I’ll catch sight of shaved pussy. And she’ll know that. She’ll look up to confirm either my smile or blush. I won’t be sure if she’s surprised to see it’s me.
“Are young mothers so rushed these days that they usually run out to the Stop & Shop without their underwear?” I won’t be able to say “panties” in the cereal aisle. And really, if you haven’t tried it, don’t judge.
She’ll stand up, not looking at me, but smiling and touching Sydney’s cheek as if caressing her own breast. But then she’ll turn and pin me to the Hungry Jack pancake mix with directness and her pale green eyes. “They do if their husbands won’t fuck something they’ve seen a head come out of.”
Not much will be said as we both head together to the same checkout line. I’ll have my eggs; she’ll have a few items she may or may not need. I’ll walk her to her mini-van and stand by the door as she puts her daughter into her car seat.
“Look, this is what it is,“ she’ll say, looking me in the eyes. “Serendipity. Tomorrow I’m moving to Sharon and I’ll be shopping at Roche Brothers. But today, you’re here and I’m here. I’ve got two condoms and Sydney’s got a bottle and a Teletubbies DVD that will keep her looking the other way for close to an hour.” She’ll trace a forefinger down my chest and smile. “Carpe diem, Cereal Boy.”
“Are you sure?” Why is it that, even in my fantasies, I always look a gift horse in the mouth? My fantasies need both a rewind and a rewrite. And perhaps gift horses with their jaws wired shut.
Then she’ll move closer to me, her shirt touching my belt, her face inches away from my face, looking up. “Look. Yesterday, it was you I was flirting with. Today it could have been someone else, right? But it wasn’t. It was you again. That’s fate, right?”
Of course she’ll be right. It’s suburban kismet.
She’ll look away for a second. And when she looks back, I’ll see her eyes soften, as if saying “Please?” But she won’t say that. Instead, she’ll go all Karla DeVito and Meat Loaf. “What’s it gonna be, boy? Yes or no?”
The back of a Dodge Grand Caravan is not the same size as a king, queen, full, or even twin size bed. It’s cramped even on the diagonal. But, given that, its windows are tinted so any passersby at the edge of the parking lot won’t see anything. And, not only does the DVD player fold down from the cab ceiling, it also comes equipped with wireless headphones. Sydney won’t hear a thing except for Dipsy and Po.
I will help fold down the stowable third row seats and spread a beach towel on the carpeted floorboard. And while this young woman checks on Sydney one last time and locks the doors, I’ll remove my sneakers and shorts. There’s so much about this situation that should make me too nervous to be excited, and yet my cock will be making a tent out of my boxers. It’s not a mercy fuck, something that’ll become even more obvious when she returns to where I am, kicks off her sandals and we start to kiss. Her skirt will never come off, even though I’ll take off her tank top and bra almost immediately. My shirt will stay on, even though my boxers won’t. I don’t know why. Completely naked would be reckless?
There’s something inevitable about desire given permission. It’s a roller coaster going over the crest of that first big hill. Once you’ve gone that far, all you can do from then on is throw your arms back and scream. What’s going to happen is going to happen.
So perhaps even foreplay is excessive in this situation. We’ll be beyond that within the first two minutes. Our tongues will be playing tag while I knead her breasts and she clutches my ass. My cock will nestle between her legs under its own volition, seeking and finding her wet center like some sort of instinct-driven dowsing rod. She’ll grab my cock with one hand and slide the head along her slick labia. Yes, we’ll be beyond foreplay.
“Fuck me,” she’ll say. And she’ll say it in such a way that it will be a command, a request, and permission all at the same time. And with no other words, she’ll hand me one of the condoms, flip around, kneel with her ass facing me, and bend over, head down on the towel. I’ll rip open the condom wrapper and slip the condom over my bobbing cock. I’ll start to think I should play a little more, perhaps rub by cock back and forth across her clit, maybe flick her with my cock. But I’ll quickly remember the sound of that “Fuck me” and slip my cock inside her in one short, then one long deliberate stroke.
And it will be a hard, sweaty fuck. I’ll grab her by the waist and pull her back into me as I thrust my cock deep inside her. Sometimes she’ll take one of her arms and push against the inside wall of the van, pushing back against me until I can feel me hit her. I don’t know if the van will be rocking, but each stroke will be a slam of skin on skin, accompanied by her soft, hissing commentary. “Yeah… right there. Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck...” And somehow, somehow we’ll keep going. In and out, body slamming into body, my balls and her breasts swaying, her hand pressing back between her legs, fingers finding her clit. I’ll stay hard; she’ll stay wet. And neither of us will want to come until we drop.
Afterward, she’ll pop her head up over the seat to check on Sydney. “She’s fine. Happy as can be.” She’ll toss me a diaper wipe for the used condom. Her face and chest will be flushed, but she’ll look lovely. “What a fucking asshole her husband must be,” I’ll think. I’ll smile. She’ll smile back and crawl back over to me. Kneeling, with her palms on my chest, she’ll say, “The DVD is only about half over. So… we can go again if you think you can.” Laughing, she’ll push me over, straddle my lower legs, grab my cock and start licking it before I have a chance to answer.
“Yeah,” I’ll softly say. “I think I can.” That will be obvious, of course. My cock will have never quite gone down all the way. But, as she licks it and plays with my balls, my erection will come back with a hard certainty. I’ll run my fingers through her hair as she runs her tongue along a visible vein before taking my cock into her mouth and throat, bobbing twice, and then letting the head pop out of her tightened lips, making a sound like a distant, wet champagne cork. Kneeling on top of my legs, one hand still grasping my erection, she’ll lean over and grab the second condom. Ripping open the wrapper with her teeth, she’ll take the condom out, roll it onto my shaft, and lower herself onto me.
The second time will be a luscious anachronism. With time running out, with all of our knowledge of how temporary and precious that last 20 minutes of DVD will be, one would think that we would be frantic, that we would fuck like crazed mechanical monkeys on oversized batteries and Red Bull.
But it won’t be like that at all. Instead of hurried animal thrashing, this time the sex will be slow and languorous. It will be in the moment. It will be fucking with our eyes open, committing everything to memory—the quality of sunlight as it comes through the tinted mini-van windows, the color of the beach towel, her crooked smile and the bounce of her breasts when she slowly moves on top of me. If we hurry, the end will come all that much sooner. If we take our time, perhaps time will return the favor and take longer. Of course, I won’t think this. It will just happen, because that’s the way it is supposed to happen.
I’m not a big one for talking during sex. Not small talk, not dirty talk, not much talking at all, really. Noise is good, but coherent thought seems intrusive and sometimes out-and-out comical. But this will be different. As she rides me, rocking her hips, slowly sliding my cock in and out of her pussy, she’ll tell me little things about herself, things that have nothing to do with being a mother, nothing to do with being a wife. She’ll push against my chest and stomach with her hands and I will hold them in my hands, moving with her, listening, looking in her eyes, occasionally reaching up to cup a breast. She went to college on a tennis scholarship. Her best friend from high school lives in Japan. Her first boyfriend was named Walter. She’s never been spanked or tied up or fucked up the ass and wonders if she ever will be. She has a gold vibrator she calls Jesus because he gets her through her days.
“How do I feel, Cereal Boy?”
And I’ll know what she means, what she wants to hear. She’ll lean forward until her face is near mine, her breasts grazing my chest as she continues to move. I’ll place my hands on her smooth ass, her curving waist and hips. And I’ll describe for her how tight her pussy feels wrapped around my cock. I’ll tell her how I can feel her warmth and her juices through the condom. I’ll compare the feeling of her cunt to hot fudge sundaes and to Beethoven’s Ninth and this will make her smile. “Thank you,” she’ll say, leaning back and placing my hand on her belly. “Now make me come.”
Is her belly less toned than it was two years ago? How would I know? Are there faint traces of stretch marks? I won’t notice. It won’t be important. I’ll slip my thumb between us and press her clit against my cock as it slides in and out of her. Only then will she close her eyes. And as she gets closer and as she starts to bite her bottom lip, I’ll wonder who or what she is thinking about. Then she’ll open her eyes and look into mine and she won’t look away as she comes, allowing only one cry out loud before holding it in, letting go and staying quiet, all at the same time.
“Now you,” she’ll say, starting to roll her pelvis, slowly riding my cock, enjoying my cock, committing it to memory.
She’ll be dressed seconds after the DVD starts to roll the credits. As I finish getting my own clothes and shoes back on, she’ll already be tickling Sydney and finding her a snack.
I’ll get out of the van, thinking it best to just let the moment go and walk away with a smile and a wave. But she’ll call after me. “Wait a second!”
She’ll run over to me and hand me my carton of eggs. “You wouldn’t want to forget these, would you?” And then she’ll rise up on her tiptoes and kiss my cheek as if we were old friends.
“Maggie. My name is Maggie.”
I’ll smile and start to say something, but she’ll already be turning around to go. But then she’ll wheel around and jab a finger into my chest, look me in the eyes, and say, “Just remember me, Cereal Boy. Think you can do that?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
# # #
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Tweed, Part 2
For those of you keeping track, this is the sequel to Tweed, Part 1, which appeared here in October. To refresh your memory, it's the story of a visiting American professor and his "hands-on" efforts to teach literature to his young English student. I'd like to thank Kelly and Blue for their technical advice and encouragement while I wrote this episode. I couldn't have done it without you! There should be a third and final installment coming sometime… OK, fine. Maybe not soon. Depends on the encouragement, I guess. 
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Monday, November 17, 2003
Session with Sarah S.
She came.
I spent most of this morning wondering if she would show up at all, given that she missed our extra session last Friday. I tried hard not to think about her, keeping myself busy with reading papers and journals and having yet another cup of tea. (God, I miss coffee!) But I must admit that I was watching the clock as the hands slowly approached the top of the appointed hour. Sarah. Cheever. Sarah. Cheever. If I skipped one name just one time, I would jinx it. Sarah. Cheever. Sarah… Just when I thought time had definitely become stuck in some universal epistemological resin, there was a quick knock at my office door. Time restarted. It was her. Sarah.
She smiled brightly, said a quick hello, and edged sideways past me and into my office as soon as I opened the door. Her hair smelled of shampoo. She hung up her coat and scarf on the hooks by the door. She briskly walked over and sat down in the straight-backed chair near my desk, put her book bag on the floor, got out her copy of The Stories of John Cheever, and sat there, ready and eager. Smiling. Waiting. I closed the door and sat back down at my desk.
What followed was actually an excellent discussion of the assigned Cheever story, "The Chimera." Not only was Sarah prepared, but her ideas were on the mark, her questions well-considered, and her insights… insightful. We discussed what it means to be an American, what it means to be a WASP and to live in the suburbs. We discussed whether, at the time of the story, there was an established moral code in the suburbs, whether the suburbs were an Eden or a false Eden. We discussed Cheever's view of America in the 1950's compared to Updike's. She spoke at some length about the characters in the story, about the nature of disappointment in one's life, about whether or not the narrator was in control of his life or at the mercy of destiny or momentum. How does Cheever even mean the word "chimera?" Is the Olga in the story the unrealizable dream, or is she the fire-breathing monster from Greek mythology? We talked and talked and talked… not so much my lecturing or questioning as is so often the case in my tutorials… but real discussion. Before I knew it, our time was nearly over. No one spoke as I closed my book and Sarah closed her book.
The desk chair creaked as I leaned back and removed my glasses. "This was a very good discussion, Sarah. You obviously gave this story a lot more thought than the last one." I don't know why I was gushing. Did I want to encourage her? Did I feel guilty -– or maybe sheepish — about our last session?
"Thank you," she said, biting her bottom lip and trying not to smile. "I really tried."
"Well, it showed. If you do as well on your final paper this week, I'm sure your term grade will be much better than you were thinking it would be a couple of weeks ago. Just one more lecture and one more paper to go and you can be well rid of me." That's when it hit me. I'd spent so much of the week thinking about our last session together that I'd forgotten that this would be the last time we met together privately. This was our last tutorial. I hadn't forgotten that the term was ending but, for some reason, I hadn't put the two things together until this moment.
"Don't be silly. I've enjoyed your class and our tutorials." She looked directly at me. "Even that last one, although I may never forgive Updike for all the trouble he put me through."
I smiled. There was another pause, another silence. She wasn't getting up to go.
"Professor?"
"Yes, Sarah?"
"I suppose," she said, suddenly blushing and looking down at her lap, "I suppose… we should…" She was having trouble saying it, whatever it was. She shifted from side to side on the chair, knees together, arms crossed at her waist.
"Yes. Go on. We should what?"
"I suppose we should discuss last Friday." She quickly looked up at me. "I'm really very sorry that I didn't show up for the extra session we agreed to. I was doing a bit of late homework for another class and completely lost track of the time. I know that's no excuse, Sir. And…" Now she wasn't looking at me, just trying to get the words out. "And I know that it was wrong of me to not show up or even ring you to reschedule. Not that rescheduling would have been good. But… I know that it was disrespectful to you and didn't show the proper seriousness about my studies or your course." She swallowed. "I'm very sorry, Sir."
It's funny the things you notice when you shouldn't be noticing them at all. She wore a barrette in her short brown hair that was in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. She was sitting with both feet on the floor, knees together, staring at her hands which were clasped in her lap. Her fingernails were short, but they had a clear polish. She wore silly, fun bracelets, but no rings. And she was wearing black tights under a green wool skirt. I noticed all of these things in that instant. I guess the clock had stopped again.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. She was reminding me that she should be punished. She wanted me to spank her.
"What do you think we should do about that, Sarah?" I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my desk. In spite of her good tutorial, I tried to sound stern, but couldn't be sure I wasn't blushing too. I felt warm and my hands were tingling. I would be lying if I said that I hadn't thought about spanking Sarah again or that I hadn't thought of tens of ways I would do it. It's just that now, presented with the opportunity, my mouth had gone dry and my heart was trying to break out of my chest.
"I don't know, Sir. I suppose that's up to you." Her voice was soft and low. And her eyes… her eyes were big and blue. Waiting. Waiting to see if what we clearly both wanted to happen would in fact happen. "This is the dance part of our show," I thought to myself. And now for the trained bear on the unicycle. That's me.
"There's our agreement, isn't there?" I asked, looking Sarah directly in the eyes, trying to keep my balance. Her pupils were dilated and sparkling. Again, she bit her lower lip before she spoke.
"Yes, Sir."
I pushed my chair back and stood up. I walked around the desk until I was standing in front of her chair. She looked up at me, still waiting. "Kick off your shoes and stand up," I told her. She was wearing a pair of black clogs, which she easily slipped out of. She stood up and we faced each other, perhaps two feet apart, maybe more. She glanced up at my face every now and then, but mostly looked off to the side, or looked at a place somewhere on my chest. It gave me the opportunity to look more closely at her face. She looks good when she blushes… but I seem to have thought that before.
"I see you remembered to wear a belt this time." There was a thin, leather belt around the waist of her skirt. It was black, like her tights. Her blush deepened.
"Yes, Sir. I forgot last time and those extra swats hurt." She looked down quickly. I could see that she was smiling a little at herself for saying so much in the situation. She rubbed her fingers across her lips as if to tell them to hush.
"Give me your belt, please."
She quickly looked up at me. Her eyebrows were raised in surprise. Even though it was in the agreement that she should wear a belt, I don't think Sarah thought that I might want to use the belt. Not for real. Not like this. Or maybe she did. I obviously don't know. But still, in spite of all that or perhaps even because of it, she didn't hesitate for more than a few seconds.
"Yes, Sir." Looking back down, she undid the buckle and slid the belt out of the loops. Slowly, she folded the belt in two. As she handed me the belt, her hand touched mine. Her hand felt neither cold nor hot; it felt the same as mine. "We're in this together," I thought. "We're the same." For just a second she looked up and our eyes met. But quickly the decorum of the situation prevailed. She looked down and backed up, resuming her place in front of me.
"Now take off your skirt."
She didn't hesitate at this demand. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, catching it on one heel and then tossing it over onto her book bag with a soft thump. Her lack of modesty might have been because of the tights or because her shirt was long enough to cover her hips. The combination gave her a sort of neo-1960s mini-skirt look. I noticed that her feet turn out a little and that she had a hole in her tights just above the little toe of her right foot. Both things made me smile inside. Funny the things a person thinks in a situation like this. What would she make of my flamingo boxers if she were to see those? Very unexpected.
"I'm going to ask you to turn around now."
"Yes, Sir." She was standing, facing my desk. I was standing to her left. The chair she had been sitting in was to her right. The department chairman had stood in that very spot just the afternoon before. He was wearing shoes and trousers at the time, of course.
I began to give Sarah directions to get her positioned for the spanking. "Spread your feet apart. No, a little more. Good. Now, put your hands on your legs above your knees. No, grab your knees and put your weight on them. Lean forward a little. Put your weight on your arms and let your legs support you. More, more… No, no! That's just not right at all!"
I put the belt down on the desk and started to position her by hand. I grasped her hips from behind and pulled her a few inches further back, away from the desk. "That's better. Now, legs spread again." I bent over and patted her left calf, getting her to move her feet just the right distance apart. "Hands on knees." She did as she was told. "Bend your knees just a little. Good. Now, lean forward. Arch your back. No, arch it!" I pushed down on the small of her back with my right hand and tipped her chin up with my left hand. "Keep your head up. Look at that pencil holder on the shelf. Keep your eyes on the pencil holder and keep your back arched. If you don't, I'll add on mores swats with the belt. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Professor. I'll stand still, just like this." She was in the right position, but something still wasn't right.
Oh. Of course.
"No, no. This isn't acceptable. You need to tie your shirt up. It's going to get in the way." The shirt was so long that it completely covered her bottom, even in this bent position. Sarah quickly straightened up without moving her feet and tied the shirt in front with a large knot. What I could see of her belly above the waistband of her tights looked soft and smooth. "Better. Now back to how you were standing before. Hands on knees. Back arched. Pencil holder." She quickly and precisely resumed the position she had been in before. "Excellent."
Slowly, I walked around her, looking at how she was standing. She tried to stare ahead at the pencil holder, but I saw how she looked at me whenever she could, watching me examining her, watching me look at how she was standing there, bottom out, ready to be spanked. Except she still wasn't quite ready. Both she and I knew our agreement said that, if I were to punish her, I would be spanking or paddling her bare bottom. Her lovely, pale white bottom still wasn't bare the way it was last week. And agreement or no agreement, I wanted it to be. I had thought of nothing else since last Monday — Sarah's pink-spanked skin, soft and warm beneath my hand.
I walked behind her, hesitated, then slipped my fingers into the waistband of her stretchy black tights and her panties (low slung, pink cotton knickers, definitely not Victoria's Secret) and started to pull them both back and down over her upturned ass. My arms weren't long enough, so I had to squat behind her so that I could finish pulling her tights and panties forward and down her upper legs until they bunched up close to where her hands grasped her knees. For that short moment when I was squatting behind her, my face was only inches from her bare bottom, her thighs, her shaved pussy that smelled of soap and musk at the same time. "Who are we kidding?" I thought, resisting the strong desire to reach out and touch her with my hands, cheek, nose… with anything. "This isn't about a missed appointment. This is about sex. I didn't mean for it to be in the beginning, but it is now all the same." I stood up and stepped back from the brink between Sarah's legs. Remember the game, Professor.
Again, I slowly walked around her, admiring the view from a higher vantage point. With her head up and back arched, Sarah's round bottom was tipped back and up, all porcelain curves with a crease down the middle, ending in the rounded backside of her vulva, peeking out where her legs met. It was the loveliest thing I had seen since last week, when last I saw it, before and after that first spanking. Her breathing was noticeably faster. Mine was as well. Each of us was dealing with his or her own anticipation, anxiety, trepidation, nervous giddy impatient lust in a similar way. She had stopped watching me examine her. She was ready. So I needed to be ready as well.
"Sarah?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"While our tutorial today was quite good, I am still very disappointed in how you are approaching your work with me. We had an appointment last Friday, which you missed. Not only did you miss the appointment, but you didn't call me to cancel the appointment. You didn't call me to explain why you couldn't make it. That shows a lack of consideration by you for my time and a lack of respect by you for your studies with me."
"Yes, Sir. I know. I'm sorry."
"As punishment, I will be giving you twenty swats on your bare bum with my hand, followed by ten lashings with your belt. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir." Her voice sounded different. It sounded anxious, but not scared. Almost impatient. Almost as if those two short words really meant, "Spank me, NOW!" And that, even if she didn't know exactly what to expect from my hand and from the belt, she was ready to try it if I would just get on with it.
"Back arched. Look at the pencil holder." I placed my left hand flat on the small of her back to let her know that I was about to start. "Are you ready?"
"Yes. I'm ready."
She took in a deep breath and held it. I drew back my right arm, pivoted my hips, and then brought my hand down fast on her bare bottom. SMACK! There were no soft swats, no warm-up smacks with a cupped hand this time. No, each time my hand came down on her ass, it was fast, with force, and it clearly stung. SMACK! The color rose up in her skin almost immediately, brighter then darker pinks. SMACK! There were no warm-ups because these were the warm-ups. These were what would come before the belt. SMACK! She didn't waver or flinch as each blow landed, fingers together, fingers apart, two smacks per cheek then one dead center. SMACK! SMACK!
Around the eighth swat she began making little sounds, little cries each time my hand hit her reddening ass. SMACK! "Uhnnh!" One sound followed the other, time and again. They weren't loud cries of pain. They weren't whimpers or pleas. And I couldn't see her face, but I knew she wasn't crying. But the sounds… her sounds reminded me of the sounds someone makes when on the receiving end of a hard fucking. SMACK! "Uhnnh!" And I thought at the time that maybe I was wishing that to be true. Something was familiar. These little cries weren't the "Oh, Gods!" or the use of my name that sometimes sound too thought out, too contrived for anyone to actually say when there's a cock pounding away at them from behind and a forefinger up their ass. These were more like what you hear when conscious thought goes out the window and the mind drifts away, lets the body be and lets it voice sounds unfiltered, springing from some primal Cro Magnon fucking grunt. SMACK!
That was it. That was twenty. My hand stung. It was warm and I could tell my fingers were more filled with blood than usual. They felt tight, inflated. Tumescent. And Sarah? She was breathing in small gasps through her mouth… rapid in, slow out. Her eyes were closed and there were a couple of tears on her cheeks. But her back was still arched, her head still up. And, even though she was swaying a little forward and back, her hands were still on her knees. I took my left hand from her back and let it slide down onto her naked bottom. Her skin was soft, but shinier, tighter than before. And warm and fiery pink with some scattered red blotches. If my hand did that, what would the belt do? I tenderly rubbed both cheeks and she pushed back into my hand. OK, I thought, caressing her flesh. We'll see this through to the end.
For a moment –- just a moment -– I thought of John Cheever. I thought of how unhappy I've always thought Cheever must have been to see the world as he saw it and to live it half hidden from view. And I thought how this particular moment, here in my office with Sarah standing with her tights around her knees, was almost like a Cheever story. Here we are, the protagonists using sex to try and dislodge themselves from the mundane sameness of their lives. But what if there's nowhere for this to go? What if Sarah's life outside this office isn't mundane at all? What if this moment is all that there is or can ever be? The term ends this weekend. I walked back to the desk and picked up the belt.
Sarah's belt was about an inch and a half wide, leather, black with grain on one side, smooth and pink on the other side. I held it by the buckle and let it swing free, feeling the weight. Then I doubled it back over on itself, grasping the fold in one hand, the buckle and the other end in my other hand, bunching it together slightly and then pulling my hands apart, making the belt snap loudly when the two leather pieces slapped together. Sarah quickly looked at me over her shoulder, breaking her position for the first time. Her moist eyes were wide. I snapped the belt again and she resumed her position, looking at the shelf. She bit her bottom lip and waited.
I honestly didn't know what to expect the first time I swung the belt and hit Sarah's round, waiting bottom. I aimed for the center of her cheeks, trying to catch both equally, trying to strike horizontal. But the blow fell a little askew, catching the farthest cheek more. WHAP! The sound of the leather striking her skin was a shock. The sound of Sarah crying out was more of a shock. "Aaaaa-oww! No, please!" She straightened up immediately as if her spine were spring-loaded. Her hands flew off her knees and she used them to quickly cover her ass. But she didn't turn to look at me. She looked down, sniffing.
"Please, Sir. I won't…"
"I'm not discussing this. You have nine more to go."
"But, Sir. It really hurt and…"
"Resume your position. Now."
Slowly, she removed her hands from her bottom and bent over again, putting her hands back on her knees, trying her best to arch her back again and to look up. She was quietly crying. I could see the mark the belt had left on her skin. The reddish pink mark was the same width as the belt, extending beyond the pink area I had made before with my hand.
I tried to not hit the same spot the second time. I tried to catch more of the nearer cheek. I tried to get a different angle. I tried, but it didn't matter. WHAP! "Aaaa-owww!" This time there was no "No." This time her hands didn't fly back. She kept her hands on her knees when the belt smacked her skin, but against her will her back straightened, her head fell, and her ass clenched as if to defend itself from the blow it had already taken. It was clear this position wasn't going to work.
"Sarah, stand here and face the chair." I put down the belt. I placed a hand on her waist and gently, firmly turned her to the chair she had been sitting in for the tutorial. Her panties and tights fell to her ankles. I positioned her a step away from the side of the chair with her feet less than a foot apart. I had her bend over, putting her hands flat on the seat. Her arms were straight and bearing the weight of her upper body. "Keep your arms straight. You can hang your head down if you want." Her legs looked shaky, so I took a thick book from my shelf — a collection of Romantic poetry — to place under her heels. This would take some pressure off her legs and tip her ass up and out just the right amount. Again, as before, I squatted behind her. I quietly asked her to stand on her tip toes so that I could place the book under her heels. And again, as before, my face was only inches from her bare skin, her reddening bottom, her still white thighs. And her pussy? It had changed. The colors were deeper, the lips larger, wetter. She smelled less of soap and more of some secret she couldn't keep. I ran my hands up her legs as I stood. She shuddered.
I picked up the belt, doubled it over again, and resumed. WHAP! She cried out again, but not as loudly this time. The surprise was gone. WHAP! The sound of a belt traveling quickly through the air along its arc path was surprisingly quiet. I guess I hadn't expected that, perhaps thinking more of the swish or whistle of what I thought a cane or switch must sound like. But the belt was fairly quiet until it landed with a WHAP, bringing another red stripe to Sarah's skin. One blow landed too high, near the top of her ass. Another blow landed too low, just below her cheeks on her upper leg. I could tell that those hurt more than the others. WHAP! WHAP! She was still crying. But without asking, between each stroke, Sarah would take a deep breath, pivot her hips, and tip her ass up and out, presenting it to the belt. Asking, taking, crying. No wonder I couldn't quite identify what her yelps sounded like each time the belt hit her bottom. Part pain, part something not pain. I understood, but didn't understand. That doesn't mean I didn't know. I aimed the last two swats low on her cheeks, straddling the area where the back of her vulva was peeking out from between her legs. WHAP! WHAP!
And that was it. It was over. The room wasn't quiet. I was breathing heavily. Sarah was quietly crying. It was clear I had finished. But she didn't move. I stood for a moment, watching her… watching her legs shake, watching her arms tremble, watching her breathe in quickly and then slowly exhale. Her bottom was a bright reddish pink with darker splashes of color in the middle of each cheek. Here and there, I could see a mark where the belt had fallen where nothing else had touched her. Three inches of a red stripe here, two inches at a different angle there. X marks the spot.
I put the belt on the desk and reached out my hand to caress her warm, tender skin. "Sarah, we're done."
With that, her position broke. Her arms let go and she nearly fell forward off the book. I caught her with one hand around her waist and she spun into me, her feet still wrapped together in her tights and knickers. I held her as she stood there, sobbing. Her face was buried in my shirt, her hands holding on to my shoulders, then pressed flat against my chest. I held her and let her cry.
And my hands? My hands were gently, very gently rubbing her bottom. I could feel the heat coming off her skin. I could feel how the skin on the reddish parts was tighter than where her skin was only pink or where it was still white. I ran my hands over her ass, trying to take the pain away, trying to convince her jangled nerves to think of something else, trying to get her brain to come back down to Earth.
My brain was a happy, kaleidoscopic mess. My brain was in my hands, touching her perfect bruised bottom. My brain was in my nose, smelling her hair, and in my ears, listening to her sob into my chest. And my brain was in my cock, hard as any 17-year old's, straining at the fabric of my boxers and my pants, straining toward Sarah. And I know she felt it there between us. As she swayed slightly from side to side, she was leaning more into the leg with the bulge, the leg with cock. So we both knew what we knew. And that was that.
I don't know if I stopped touching her after a minute or ten minutes. I don't know how long it took for her to stop crying. But we both managed to stop. We managed to step away from each other and step away from the brink. She was still my student; I was still her professor. And so I stared at my shoe as she slowly bent over and gingerly pulled up her panties and tights. She undid the knot in her blouse, stepped back into her skirt, her shoes, and quietly slipped the belt back into the loops. Finally, she put on her coat and scarf, and then picked up her book bag to leave.
As I walked her to the office door, she stopped near me, turned, and looked up at me. "So, I will see you again next Monday." It wasn't a question.
"But Sarah, the term's over. Your paper is due Friday and I'll post your marks by Sunday. Sadly, today was our last session."
"I'll see you next Monday anyway. We can talk about my paper." And with that, she quickly and unexpectedly leaned up and kissed me, smiled, opened the door, and left. It was the sweetest mugging I had ever endured.
I'm not ashamed to admit that I masturbated as soon as Sarah's footsteps faded from the stairs. What would Updike have done? What would Cheever have done? The touch of her skin, the ripening of her pussy that I witnessed with my own eyes, and that single kiss on her way out the door had cracked open the fossiliferous bedrock of my year in England, the last decade of my same old life. Shake or be shaken? Chimera or saving grace? There's next week. And when we step off that precipice, will she and I fall or will we ascend like paper ashes — miraculous, glowing, fading to white and then gone?
I cannot hold my breath for seven days. I must leave this room and hope that, after a pint of bitters and a good night's sleep, I find my way back tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. So, don't lock the door, Mrs. Morris. And when a girl comes next Monday, a girl with twinkling blue eyes and a secret up her skirt, send her right up. We have an appointment.
End Episode 2
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Catching Snowflakes
Hard as it is to believe, we're still a few days shy of the solstice and the beginning of winter. Seeing whereas we've already had a large snow and an ice storm, all within a week's time, I'm not standing on formality. It's winter. And so, I'll jump the seasonal gun just a little and offer you the following story, which is dedicated to winter-loving friend, Blue.* * * * * *
"Over here! We can be the first ones!"
I watch you walk slowly through the deep snow, lifting and placing your boots to keep from falling. You've started walking up a small, treeless hill and away from the trail we've been following. In the 24 hours since it snowed, several people and their dogs have been on this trail through the woods. But you're right. No one has been up this hill. Not a single footprint can be seen anywhere in front of you. The snow in front of you is smooth and white.
You turn and wave for me to catch up with you. You're enjoying this. Your cheeks and nose are pink, but your eyes are bright blue. You aren't cold. You wore a skirt! Granted, it's a heavy skirt and you're wearing thick tights beneath it. But it's as if you don't even notice that it's just above freezing in the middle of the afternoon. In my down jacket, I feel overdressed. Then again, I'm from south of the Mason-Dixon line, not north of the US-Canadian border. We aren't even playing the same game.
I'm only halfway up the hill by the time you've reached the top and disappeared. By the time I get to the top, you are part way down the other side. I stop to take in the view, which is terrific. Instead of looking back down toward the forest and trail, this side of the hill looks out over snow covered farms, which stretch on for miles, disappearing into the next county. There isn't even a house as far as the eye can see.
You are spinning in circles and laughing. And then, plop! You fall over, back first, into the fresh snow. "Come here and make snow angels with me!" You move your arms in sweeping motions, pushing the snow aside to make wings. You're very happy. I'm cold, but amused to see you out in your element this way. I walk over and stand above you, smiling.
"Go on! Fall down! Just one angel!" you say, propped up on your elbows, smiling. "I just want to see if you can do it."
"I'm not spinning."
"Fine. Don't spin. Just fall. Kerplop. Right there." Your smile is even brighter in the snow. This is going to be cold. Backwards I fall.
Despite my size and weight, it doesn't hurt to land. The snow softens the impact. I sink six inches or so into the snow. For a moment, I close my eyes and listen to the silence of the hillside, of my head cushioned in snow, the quiet crunch of the snow. For a moment, it's peaceful. I haven't started feeling chilled yet. There's still time to make some wings and get back up on my feet before my pants get wet and the snow in my boots starts to melt.
Then again.
You throw yourself flat on top of me before I have a chance to either make wings or move out of the way. Short of tossing you off, there's no way I'm getting up. Then again, with your warm lips pressed to mine in a long kiss, I'm less likely to remember that I was even thinking of getting up. Your tongue touches my lips, looking for my tongue. It feels so warm. Our breath forms a little microclimate around our faces as we kiss and kiss and kiss. In a cartoon, this is where we would melt deep into the snow, disappearing from view in a cloud of red steam.
Your hands are on my shoulders, your forearms on my chest, supporting half your weight as we kiss. But the rest of you is moving, pressing, grinding against me. Beneath two thick coats, one pair of pants, a skirt, and a pair of tights, our bodies react as if this is summer at the beach or autumn in the backseat of a parked car. It's just like dry-humping with extra padding.
You sit back on your haunches, smile, and toss your mittens aside. You unzip your coat. And I allow you to unzip my coat. So when you lower yourself again, the coats part to either side, no longer in the way. I feel your body radiating warmth, reflecting warmth back from me as our bodies press together again in the snow. Without those layers of goosedown and holofil, you quickly find just the right spot in my pants to ride. I arch up to kiss you harder, seeing the bright white of the snow peeking through the strands of your hair, draped around my face.
"Stay there," you say getting to your feet, straddling my waist. Carefully, you move your feet in the snow to either side of me, reversing directions. Now you are standing, straddling me, facing my feet. You look back over your shoulders and laugh. You sway your hips from side to side, slowly sliding your skirt up your legs, revealing more and more of your legs in their ribbed tights. Slowly, you bend your knees. Your skirt is almost up to your ass as you sway back and forth, getting lower and lower.
"I don't want you to get cold," you say, pulling your skirt out and away from your ass as you completely lower yourself, straddling me. And me? My head is inside your skirt. Your skirt is a tent. Inside the tent, my face is looking up at the afternoon sunlight filtering through the wool knit cloth and looking at your bottom in tights, near my face. I raise my head enough to kiss you through the cloth. Meanwhile, your hands have unzipped my fly.
At first, I'm not aware of the cold. I feel you lick my cock slowly, several times. Then I feel you grip my cock with just your thumb and forefinger, stroking me, sliding the skin up and down the shaft, but touching only in those two places. And so the feeling of the strokes masks how the rest of my skin, skin that was just wet from your tongue, is now cooling in the winter air. I feel the cold air more where it slips into my open fly, sinks around the base of my cock, settles through my hair and tickles my scrotum, taut and shriveled and no doubt resembling a large walnut.
So, no. I don't feel that my cock is cold. But it is. And I know just how cold it is when, after a few minutes, you wrap your mouth around the head. I feel the incredible heat of your tongue, the warmth of your breath. Everywhere that isn't touched, every part of me that isn't in you feels cold, suddenly exposed now that I know what warmth really feels like. Inside the tent, my breath and your round bottom have made a toasty nest. It smells of wet wool and wet you.
You make quick work of me. Once again, you take your mouth away and just use your fingers to stroke me, more quickly now. But this time, I really do feel the cold air on my skin. I imagine the head of my cock growing icy and white. So when you take it into your mouth again, that's enough to push me over the top. You take me deeper into your mouth and suck me dry, each hot spurt disappearing into hotter mouth tongue throat. And then, quickly, before it gets cold, you tuck my still wet, fading cock back into my pants and rezip my fly.
Your pussy is inches from my face. I raise my head just a bit and nuzzle you with my nose. The cloth of the tights is damp. I can feel it, smell it with my nose. I can also tell that you don't have anything on under these tights. I can feel how my nose is rubbing, sliding over your labia, between your labia. You lower yourself, back up slightly, wanting more.
"Take my gloves off," I say. To you, I suppose the sound of my voice is muffled, coming from between your legs and from under your skirt. But you hear me and take off my gloves, first the left and then the right.
My hands get slightly sweaty inside gloves, so they start to get cold as soon as the gloves are off. I find the edge of your skirt and quickly slip my hands beneath. I slide my hands along the outside of your legs, sliding along the smooth surface of your tights beneath your skirt. I can see my hands now, inside the tent formed by your skirt. I skim along the outside of your hips and up toward your waist.
By touch and by sight, I sort out skirt from tights. I slip my fingers inside the tights' waistband and start to pull them back and down. You move forward a little, which makes it easier. I pull the tights down and back, slowly exposing your ass, exposing your pussy. You reach one hand back under your skirt and grab the crotch of your tights, pulling them away and holding them there, freeing my hands, which I now use to spread you open, pull you apart until you open like parting drapes, billows of pink cloth. Then you slowly back up, positioning your pussy an inch in front of my waiting nose, mouth, and tongue.
At first, I simply graze the insides of your thighs with my cheeks, with my afternoon razor stubble. Closer and closer, I slowly lift my face toward you. I touch and then I withdraw. And in this dance, you moan a little, and back up, lower yourself, chasing my face with your fluttering vulva.
Without touching, my nose hovers an eyelash away from you. I breathe in your smell. Stronger than the winter's brisk snow freshness. Stronger than the wet wool. Stronger than peppermint and pine and gingerbread. The smell of your pussy is stronger than all of those and a hundred times more inviting. I begin to fuck you with my nose.
At first, it's just a touch of nose on labia. Nothing more. But then it's more insistent, a rubbing of this side, a rubbing of the other side, a long slow trip of nose down the middle, clit to hole and back. Soon you are riding my nose. Perhaps you don't mean to, but your hips are wiggling, your back flexing.
It isn't so much that I hear your breathing as I feel it transmitted through your thighs into my ears. I hear your breathing, your moans, the way you say my name. All these sounds are coming to my ears through you, not through air. All in stereo with a background track of blood rushing through arteries and veins.
I grip your legs with my hands and pull you in, planting my nose as deep inside you as I can. At the same time, my tongue finds your clit and begins tracing an infinity sign, circling around, leaving, circling below and then trailing back. You taste like you.
Soon you stiffen. You stop moving. I suck your lips, your clit into my mouth, and tongue them with a rapid flick. And with that you're there. I have to hold on tight to stay with you, as your climax makes you shudder and rock and cry out. But I do hold on, still licking, through the first wave, the second wave, and then a third. I loosen my grip and let your legs loose.
When you get up and pull the skirt away from my face, the sunlight on the snow blinds me for a moment. It suddenly hits me that my pants are cold and wet from lying in the snow. You quickly pull up your tights and turn, offering your hand to help pull me up. Your face is pink and your eyes sparkle.
"I know a good way to warm up when we get home," you say, laughing. You turn and start walking back the way we came. This little hill is no longer pristine. But then, I think, it will snow again tonight and no one will ever know the difference. "Come on! Hurry! Your legs will freeze!"
No one needs to know. Winter keeps secrets.
Monday, December 12, 2005
I’m back! Miss me?
So, yes. I've been absent for a while. Freya has dropped me from her links and I can't say I don't deserve it. Things happen. Perhaps the year will end with a flurry of writing instead of snow? To start, a little something that got into my head after someone mentioned dreams:You pad back from the bathroom, throw on your nightshirt, and quickly get under the blankets. The room isn't quiet. The toilet is still running and the baseboard radiators are ticking as they expand and contract. The room isn't quiet, but it is quieter than it was a little while ago. During our noisy, bed-moving sex, the radiators could have taken on the toilet with chainsaws and we wouldn't have heard. Now, we surrender to silence, to gravity, and to the extra firm — yet soft — support of our new pillow-top mattress. You snuggle close, coveting my warmth in these first winter nights of a New England December.
I'm tired and I'm horizontal. And so, there's nothing more complex in my mind than to hold you close and fall asleep. It's so simple, it's primal. Your small back is pressed to my belly. My arm is wrapped around you and your arm is wrapped around my arm. I self-consciously listen as the pace of our breathing slows. I can't feel your heart because the beating of my own heart seems to shake us both. I close my eyes and start to drift off, feeling your hand clutching my hand, feeling us both humming with energy. Asleep, I start to dream.
At first the pictures in my head are confused and random. Green swirls. Red sparkles. Shapes change into other shapes, eventually forming the background to a more believable reality…
You and I are walking through a pine forest. The trees are so tall, they disappear into the sky. They seem hundreds of years old, as if they've always been there. We are walking on a trail that winds between the trees and moss-covered outcrops. We come upon a deep stream and a small waterfall. Suddenly naked — since dreams are like that — we dive into the water. Sun breaks through the trees in golden streaks, lighting up the water in patches. I open my eyes underwater and see you swimming by beneath the water, your red hair billowing like a cloud behind you.
I catch you near the waterfall. You slip up onto a flat, mossy rock with your chest, shoulders, and head out of the water. Me? I'm a fish. In this dream, I don't have to breathe air. I can stay underwater. I can spread your small pale legs under the green dream water. I can slip slowly between your thighs and begin to lick your labia, oddly pink in a world of greenish light. Not needing air, I can lick and flick with my tongue slowly, at my leisure. The sound of the waterfall above is an oddly distant roar. But you? You I can hear. Your purr descends through your legs, through your pussy, and I hear it transmitted from your wet slick lips to my own. I suck your clit into my mouth. I swirl it, I bop it back and forth. I slip my tongue inside you as if this is the round, sweet hole of a green Life Saver. I savor. I swirl. You taste of salt-water taffy. Your fingers are in my hair.
Strangely, in this dream I am aware that my cock is hard. It's no big deal, floating there as I eat you, making you hum and purr and clutch my head between your thighs. But it's there and I know it's there. And then… and then it's there and I feel something touch it. Something not you. A fish? No, not so much a touch. More of a caress. A stroke. And it's more like a hand than a fish. It's rubbing the head of my cock, running fingers along the shaft as if to trace the veins. I feel so hard that I ache. The water darkens and the hand beckons, pulling me upward…
Waking in the dark is both sudden and gradual. There's something that's not sleep, but it isn't clear. Things register, one at a time, in their own sweet order. So I realize I'm not wet even before I realize that I am in bed, not beneath a waterfall. Something is the same, though. My cock is hard. That isn't a dream. I slowly realize that you are awake and that it is you stroking my cock. It has stiffened in my sleep, angled up to nestle between your legs. You are reaching between your legs to rub the head of my cock. You run your fingers along the shaft, rub moisture from your pussy onto the head, press its wet warmth into your clit. I'm awake.
Desire overrules my fuzzy contented lethargy. I actually pull away. I pull away from the soft warmth of your hand. I pull my cock out from between your legs and get out of bed. You make a disappointed sound and start to get up on one elbow as if to ask me why I could possibly need to get up. But you don't get that far. By the time you've gathered your thoughts to be clever, I've reached over and flipped back the covers. Quickly, and with purpose, I grab your ankles and swing you so that you are lying across the bed. I pull you toward me until your ass is nearly coming off the bed. I push your legs apart and back toward your head, exposing your wet pussy. I grip your right ankle with my left hand and use my right hand to position my cock. I slide the head up and down your pussy, getting my cock wet, playing with you, making you want my cock inside you.
And when I do slip it inside you, I only give you the head at first. It's my turn to tease, you water nymph. You're my waterfall. And here's your fish, your eel. Just the head, resting inside you as my thumb circles your clit and you arch your back. Take this fish. You are holding your left leg back now with one hand, playing with your breasts with the other. You want me deeper inside, don't you? But I wait, wait for your pussy to start humming. I know that hum. I know the way your juices change, the size of your lips, the tone of your voice. And when I know the time is right, I thrust deep inside you. Pulling out, I grab your other ankle and hold your legs apart and back… and thrust in again. The head of my cock hits your cervix and you shudder and scream. It's my turn to fuck you hard. You're so tight! Your fingers press your clit against the shaft of my cock as it slides in and out of you.
You feel my climax coming as surely as you feel your own, as surely as I feel yours. And so we race to the finish, race to finish together, me forcing my cock deep inside you as I come, flowing inside of you just as you tighten, stop breathing, and then slip over the cliff of your own waterfall, grabbing me and pulling me on top of you where our lips meet. Cock and pussy quiver, shudder, sigh.
This time, the sleep is deep and all of our dreams — and there must be dreams – all of our dreams remain unremembered, unrecorded, just wisps of what might be tomorrow night and the night after.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Tweed, Part 1
Monday, November 10, 2003Session with Sarah S.
She arrived at my office breathless and flushed… and five minutes late. I heard her, or rather I heard some sort of dull bang, outside my door before she could knock. I opened the door and found her there, knees bent, squatting, trying awkwardly to hold onto her remaining books. She held them to her chest, trying to maintain her balance and to pick up the book she had just dropped. It noticed it wasn't one of mine. Economics."Sarah." It wasn't a question or a greeting. I addressed the top of her head as if this was expected, which it both was and wasn't. If I were British (and perhaps appearing in My Fair Lady), I'd call her an exasperating creature. But I'm not British and the word "ditz" crossed my mind briefly before she looked up and smiled somewhat sheepishly. I managed not to smile.
"Good afternoon, Professor. Am I late?"
"Yes, Sarah. You're late."
It must have been about then that she realized that this squatting position did not work well with a short skirt. She tried to stand up too quickly and lost her balance, dropping the remaining books, and falling toward me. I caught her by one arm; she steadied herself with a hand on my chest before pulling away. "Sorry, Sir." She picked up her books and I ushered her into the office, closing the door behind her. This tutorial was off to a great start.
"Let me have your coat," I said. She placed her books on the floor and took off her coat, which I hung on the hook near the door. "Please have a seat," I said, indicating that she should sit in the wooden, straight-backed chair next to my desk. She was wearing a long-sleeved, green knit top, and a pleated black skirt that came to just above her knees. She sat down.
"You might want to take out your copy of the story," I said as I went to my side of the desk and sat down in the large, leather desk chair. Her face flushed.
"I forgot it, Sir." I must have literally scowled. She couldn't look me in the eyes.
"I can't believe this. Five minutes late and you still didn't bring a copy of the story we are discussing? Does that strike you as being an auspicious start to the new beginning we discussed and agreed to?" I was disappointed with her.
She had her hands folded on her bare knees and was staring at them, not looking up at me. "No, Sir. I guess not."
"You do remember our agreement? Don't you, Sarah?"
"Yes, Sir." Her voice was quiet, shaky. She twisted her feet slightly from side to side. She knew that she had already gone too far.
The agreement. How had that that happened, anyway? A few weeks before, I had gone out drinking one evening with one of the other professors. Over a pint of ale, I bemoaned my inability to get even my most promising students to take their studies seriously. To be fair, this wasn't unknown to me in all my days teaching American Literature. I was however surprised and disappointed to find that the students here in England could be — and often were — just as academically lazy as the students back in the States.
That's when he said it. "Have you tried corporal punishment?" He had said it quickly into his glass as he raised it to drink.
"What did you say?"
"Corporal punishment. Give ‘em a good wollop or twenty on their bottoms. You'll see. Then they'll take you seriously."
"You're joking! These are college-aged men and women. We can't even do that to our own kids back home."
"This isn't Pennsylvania, bucko. It's England. It's a miracle an Immigration officer didn't give you a swat or two at Heathrow when you arrived." He was serious. It took very little snooping around to determine that he was also correct.
So the visiting professor was introduced into the ways of the English educational system. And that is how I entered into an agreement with Sarah about her work in my class. It still surprised me that she agreed. At the time, I'm certain that I had no idea why she did. I was nervous as a cat to initially suggest it and twice as nervous to now be there in that situation. But there is exactly where I was and we each had our part to play.
The discussion that followed was wholly uninspiring. I gave her another copy of the short story to use during the tutorial session. She did not delve any deeper into the story than she had in her emails. Her analysis was dry, superficial, and impersonal. The questions that I had sent her beforehand and asked her to think about, to be ready to answer for our session… were left unanswered. It wouldn't be fair for me to say that she hadn't thought about them at all. But somehow, she stopped short, refusing to dig a little deeper into the material, to put it into context. Why was she insisting on being so mediocre? Who had told her that she wasn't or shouldn't be intelligent?
After 25 minutes or so, I stopped. I closed my book and took off my glasses. I stared at her sternly. She started to look down, but then looked up at me from below her eyebrows.
"I don't think we're getting anywhere with this," I said to her.
"What do you mean, Sir?"
"I mean that I intend to punish you. Today. Now."
She quickly sat up straight in the chair. Her blue eyes got wide. "But why, Sir? I read the story! I answered the questions."
"I should not have to tell you why. You should know. Stand up." I got up from my chair by the window and walked slowly around the desk to be on the side that faced out into the main part of the office. She slowly stood up. She was backed up against the chair as far as she could go, feet together, arms to her sides, looking down at her hands, which were nervously fumbling.
"Look at me," I commanded. I was standing in front of her now, about two feet away. She looked up. Her eyes met mine, looked away, then came back. She bit her lip. She brought one thumb up to her mouth and made as if to nibble the fingernail, but thought better of it and threw both of her arms down to the side. She was very nervous. Maybe frightened. Maybe excited. But clearly it was time for fight or flight… for both of us.
"Sarah, we had an agreement that you would do your work for my class and in this tutorial to the best of your abilities. You have failed to do that. You arrived today without your copy of the story. You didn't prepare answers to the questions I sent you. You showed me disrespect by being late for today's session…."
"But…" She started to interrupt me, but the look on my face stopped her cold.
"What's more, you've shown disrespect for yourself. I do not feel you've given your brain much of a workout thinking about this story. Is it a great story? No. It isn't a great story. But that doesn't matter. Your assignment was to think about it, take it apart, make some sense of it. You haven't bothered thinking about it much at all. And I am not willing to accept that. Are you? Are you happy with your work here?"
"No, Sir," she said, looking down at her feet. "I guess not."
"What do you think I should do now, Sarah? Let me rephrase that. What do you think I'm going to do now?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"Yes, you do. Do I have to get out a copy of our agreement?"
"No, sir. I remember. You're going to spank me."
"Yes," I said. "Please take off your shoes." She looked up at me as if she were going to ask why, but knew not to. Her shoes were the dull, black platform shoes I see around — no back, but with a sole at least two inches thick at the toe and perhaps five inches thick at the heel. She didn't so much step out of her shoes as step down from her shoes. She was much shorter now. She looked up at me, smaller… waiting.
"Now. Please remove your panties… your knickers."
Her eyes got wide and her face turned bright red with embarrassment. "Do I have to, Sir? Can't you…?" Her voice trailed off. Her eyes looked up at me pleadingly. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and then back again.
"Sarah, we have an agreement. Don't make this worse than it already is. You should know that I am already adding ten swats for your tardiness today and another ten because you did not wear a belt as you agreed to do. I don't think you want another ten, do you?"
"But, Sir. People will hear."
"No, they won't. I've been told that professors' office hours don't overlap for that very reason. There's no one here except the secretary, Mrs. Morris."
"She'll hear."
"No, she won't. She's downstairs. She's somewhat deaf. And honestly, I don't think she would care." And that was true. This sort of thing happens all the time here. The faculty doesn't normally discuss it openly, but everyone knows. I've heard paddlings and canings on more than one occasion in this building. If I were to go to either of the other two offices on my floor and check the closet, drawers, shelves, I am confident that I would find a paddle and a cane or two. I'm the amateur here. It's alien to me, not them. This probably isn't a first for Sarah. It wouldn't surprise me if Mrs. Morris hasn't gotten more than a few swats in her life. Apparently it's as British as clotted cream and penguins on the telly.
"No one will hear, Sarah. I'm waiting."
She started to reach up beneath her skirt and work her panties down, but stopped, looking up at me. Given the situation, it made no sense except for protocol… but I took the hint and surrendered to her this tiniest piece of modesty. I turned my back to her so that she could remove them as she saw fit. I heard rustling. She padded to her coat, put the panties in a pocket, and then padded back to where she had been standing.
I took down a roll of masking tape from one of the bookshelves and ripped off two pieces of tape. The first piece I stuck to the floor, about one foot in front of the desk. The other piece I stuck to the leather desktop, maybe two feet from the front edge… closer to the back than the front. "Stand with your toes here," I said, pointing to the tape on the floor. She did as she was told. "Toes behind the line, please." She shuffled back an inch. She was breathing fast and shallow like a bird.
"Now, lean forward and put your nose on that piece of tape." The tape on the desk was just far enough away that she had to lean her upper thighs against the desk and stretch out over the desk. In this position, she had no choice but to be on her tiptoes. She had her arms to her sides, trying to rest her chest on the desk. "No, you should keep your arms above your head." She slowly reached her arms forward. Her hands found the far edge of the desk and held on. I could see that her eyes were wide, looking straight ahead to the desk at the end of her nose. "Feet a little more apart, please." I nudged the insides of her feet with my shoe until she was standing with her feet about a foot apart.
"Are you going to have me read from the story?"
"No. If in the course of the spanking you have some thoughts on the story, I do want you to share them with me. It may mitigate things at a future date. I will be giving you thirty swats on your bare bum with my hand. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. Could you raise your skirt for me please?"
Holding herself up with her left arm, she reached back with her right hand and pulled the black skirt higher up her leg. Inch by inch, she worked it up until she had most of the cloth in her hand.
"Nose back to your mark," I said to her, taking the cloth of her skirt from her and moving her arm back above her head on the desk. Again she stretched, raised herself up on her tiptoes and put the tip of her nose on the piece of tape. She strained to hold that position, hovering there, holding onto the desk. I pulled the skirt up, doubled it over on itself. and tucked it into the waistband. She was in position.
I almost sighed, but stopped myself. Her naked bum was thrust up and out… waiting, waiting. Her bottom was a glory of pale white curves, smooth surfaces. Unblemished, unmarked arcs. This isn't about sex, I thought to myself. It's aesthetics. It's work. It's for her own good. The smaller curves of her vulva peeked from beneath and between the two round spheres of her bum. It's not about sex. It's not about sex.
I moved from behind her until I was standing near the end of the desk to her left. I knew she could see me, even with her nose pressed to the desk. I slowly took off my wool sportcoat and draped it over the wooden chair. Then, as I talked about John Updike's reputation for memorable opening paragraphs, I rolled up first one shirt sleeve, then the other. Slowly, while making a particularly strong point and quoting an opening paragraph I remembered from a story loosely about basketball, I stretched my fingers, clenched them into fists, and then stretched them out again… loosening up… but mostly adding to the drama of the situation.
I paused. Her arms and legs were already getting tired from standing in this position. "Are you ready?"
"Yes, Sir. I guess." She closed her eyes.
"At no time should your nose leave that piece of tape. At no time should either of your heels touch the floor. You are to stay in this position until I tell you that you can relax. Do not reach back to try and stop my hand. If you disobey any of these requests, I will add additional swats. Do you understand that, Sarah?"
"Yes, Sir. I understand."
I placed my left hand flat on the small of her back to let her know that I was about to start. She took in a deep breath and held it. I drew back my right hand and arm, pivoted my hips… and then brought my hand down fast on her bare bottom.
WHOP! She yelped, more in shock than in pain. I know it didn't hurt. I had cupped my hand so that there was a cushion of air when my hand landed. It did make the most incredibly loud sound though. I did the same thing to the other cheek. WHOP!
The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth strokes must have hurt a little. My fingers were together so that I was striking with my entire flat hand. No cupping, no cushion. The blows landed with a sharper slapping sound. WHAP! I alternated cheeks. They quickly pinkened. I could see around Sarah's short brown hair. Her eyes were open. She was breathing fast and shallow and she was having trouble staying up on her toes. WHAP!
For the next stroke, I spread my fingers apart, tensed them hard, and used my whole body to bring my hand down on one cheek. SMACK! She whimpered and her body wavered slightly. That one must have hurt. Color rose to the surface of her skin almost immediately. I hit the same area again and again with a flat hand, pausing just a minute, then bringing my hand down fast and hard. There was no need to spank harder. The repetition was making each blow hurt more and more. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she did not start to cry. I started in on the other cheek, repeating the process. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! When I went back to the first cheek again, she yelped loudly. The knuckles of her fingers were white from gripping the desk edge. It was all that was keeping her up on her toes.
"Sir?"
We were approaching twenty swats when suddenly she started talking. Maybe it was to keep from crying. But when she started talking, it wasn't about the spanking. It was about the story.
"Sir? Updike was only 30 or 31 when he wrote this story. I think… I think he didn't really have a clue about things. Not museums. Definitely not women."
"Go on, Sarah" I said, bringing my hand down hard again on her right cheek. Both sides of her bum were fiery pink with slight red blotches.
"He knows it and doesn't know it. He's self-absorbed and writes like he is self-absorbed. The women in the story, no… all of the people in the story are blank. I don't give a damn about any of them."
"Why so many museums, so many women?" I asked her. SMACK! I had to admire her. She was fitting her words into the spaces between the methodical impact of my hand on her pink bottom. She would take in a deep breath, talk, brace for the jolt of my hand on her skin, exhale with a little cry, and then repeat the process.
"It's like a laundry list. The women are… they're associated with these places. But… but it's all artificial. Updike doesn't know the women… doesn't know them any more deeply than he knows the art. It's like he… it's like he reads the little card next to the frame and that's as much as he knows or cares to remember about art or women." SMACK!
I purposely aimed the final set of strokes at the area where the bum meets the upper leg. I hit those with my fingers together, trying to jolt instead of hurt, trying to send vibrations and shudders into her vulva.
"The story was written in 1962. You haven't mentioned that, Sarah." She was breathing hard and so was I.
"Do you mean what does this story look like for being about 1962 America? It's after World War II. It's after the Korean War. It's before Vietnam, but Updike wouldn't know that." SMACK! "The man in the story is living in what Americans look back on as some modern golden age. But the main character isn't happy. 1962 wasn't such a happy time." SMACK!
That was thirty. I'm not sure she had been counting. Maybe she did at first, but then she just seemed to accept that it was what it was. She never cried even though tears rolled down her face. I was done, but she kept talking, needing by now to finish what she was saying. As she talked, I caressed her bottom with the same tingling hand that had spanked it. Her pink and red bum was smooth as velvet to my touch. My palm and open fingers moved over the curves of it so easily. It was warm, even hot, from the spanking. Maybe we were both compelled to finish.
"That's why I don't like the story. It isn't that it isn't well written. It is. Updike is brilliant. He's so bloody clever with words… But he's cold and unfeeling. I hate his characters. That's why I don't like the story. That's why, Sir."
I caressed her hurting bottom for just a few seconds more and then stepped back. She did not move. She was waiting for me to give her permission to move. One last time, I looked at her naked bum sticking out and thought, "It's perfect. A twenty-year old bum is a perfect thing." At least this one was.
"That was nice work, Sarah. We're finished here. You may relax and get dressed now."
"American men only think about sex." That's what she had said in class one day when we were discussing Philip Roth. Maybe she was right. I turned away from her while she slowly straightened her skirt. I didn't want her to see the bulge in my trousers, or notice the slight wet spot where the few drops of clear liquid had snuck from me and soaked through my boxers. I rolled down my sleeves and put my sportcoat back on. This hadn't been about sex. It's not about sex. Even so, Sarah had looked wet between her legs. What is it about then?
"Do you have the next assignment?" I asked.
She hadn't bothered to put on her panties. She slipped on her shoes. She took the wadded up panties out of her coat pocket, wiped a few remaining tears from her face with the balled up cotton, and then stuffed them back in the pocket as she put on her coat. "Yes, Sir. Cheever."
"Would you like to come discuss that later this week? I know we don't have a regular session until next week, but perhaps we should continue working on what we've started here today."
"Yes, Sir. I think so, too." She smiled a little.
"Friday, then?"
"Friday, same time." She picked up her books and turned, starting to open the office door.
"Sarah?" I said. She stopped. "I just wanted to say that you were right about the story. You just needed to tell me why. The things you said… during… that was very nice work."
"Thank you, Sir. See you Friday." Her eyes caught mine for a second. And she was gone.
The desk top still had indentations where her arms had been. I ran my fingertips over where her left arm had been, her right. The leather was still slightly wet from her tears.
I pulled the piece of tape off of the desk and wrapped it around my little finger.
End Episode 1
Continue reading with Tweed, Part 2
Thursday, July 07, 2005
From Max to Nell, Part 2
Dear Nell,OK, so now I can't take a shower anymore without laughing. You fiend. I hope you're satisfied. I got up this morning and stumbled into the bathroom the way I always do — without glasses, absent-mindedly scratching my balls, stepping into the tub with my left foot first, pulling the curtain, turning on the water and bending over to test it with my fingers (having once again found my toes untrustworthy). My eyes were barely open, Nell, and yet… There I was, laughing out loud as soon as I heard the water coming through the nozzle, felt it hitting my head and dripping down my chest. I can't help it. It was ridiculous, last Friday night. We shouldn't be allowed sexual roaming.
It's these summers, isn't it? They keep driving us back to the water. Two years ago, it was the plunge pool beneath the abandoned falls at Jennings Branch. The water was clear and cold as snow. Minnows swam around your breasts like silver satellites. Beneath the water, the limestone ledge we sat on was covered with mossy green algae, so wet and slick I began to think that maybe you were lined with algae, pink instead of green. I was sitting on algae; you were sitting on me, covering me with algae. I felt as if I were becoming part of the ledge. I thought, "This must be what it was like to make love in the Paleozoic."
And it was nice to know Non-Oxynol 9 also kills freshwater organisms.
Water. Do you think the tub in my apartment was wider? Not that making love in that tub was without humor, as you no doubt remember. That was last summer. We had just gotten back from the softball game, sticky with sweat. A shower sounded wonderful. You were out of your t-shirt and bra before I even got to the bathroom, closing the door behind me and turning out the light. It was late afternoon and the sunlight coming in through the plastic curtain over the tub made the room swim in a grassy green.
I grabbed you by the waistband and, sitting down on the toilet, began to take off your shorts — brass button, zipper… then stopping for a few minutes, taking time to run my green hands up your inner leg, letting two green fingers slip inside the green cloth of your shorts, then coming back down to your knees. I pulled the shorts down over your hips and they dropped to the green floor. I rubbed you through your panties, which were drenched with sweat — a running start. You held my head to your chest and I licked salt from beneath each breast. As I undressed, you sat on the sink, legs apart, feet swinging, kicking the cabinet over and over, showing me some bit of other color, an exclamation point in shades of magenta and rose. My erection bobbed with my pulse — and yes, it was green, too.
In the tub, you were on your back, legs drawn up. I was on top of you, feet pushed up against the end of the tub, hands on the rim, my back an umbrella. Water dripped from my shoulders into your mouth. It ran down the crack in my ass and pooled between your legs. All around, the green seemed to get deeper, the color of malachite. Our breath began to sound like a hard rain. I was so carried away by the time I came, I was nearly driving your head into the faucet with each thrust. "We'll have to switch ends next time," you said.
Here it is, summer again. Friday night, we were so hot that we had taken to fanning each other with old vinyl album covers. When you mentioned taking a shower, I was on my feet in seconds, leaving a trail of clothing from the living room to the bathroom. When you came in, I already had the shower turned on, cooler than lukewarm. You turned out the light and got in the shower. It was almost completely dark. I followed your lead; I followed your scent. You told me to sit, so I sat in the tub, my back to the drain. The water was hitting me in the back of the head, rushing over and running into my eyes and nose. You sat, straddling me, and together we maneuvered until I was inside you. Your legs were pressed into my sides; my legs were pinned to the tub. When we started moving, it became obvious that the fit was too snug to be practical. We couldn't move. When we tried, the water that was pooled between our stomachs shot up between your breasts like a geyser, spraying both our chins. "And they found them there, naked, wedged in the tub, having died from starvation." We fell into laughter and each others arms, my erection fading and withdrawing. Another time.
I think of it every time I take a shower now. And that's why you're a fiend.
Of course, that wasn't the end. After we dried off and poured some lemonade, we began kissing on the couch. The fan moved back and forth like a dog atching tennis. I took an ice cube from my glass and placed it against your skin. Starting at your chin and coming down your throat, I moved the ice so slowly that it melted, spilling drops of water down your stomach and sides. You took in such a sharp breath of air when I brought the ice to your nipples, I thought your back would break. When I put my tongue on one of your nipples, it was cool and hard as a pill. You sipped at your lemonade. Taking some ice into your mouth, you brought your head to my lap and took me into your mouth as well. Hot and cold. I could feel your tongue like never before — I could feel it tracing my veins, reading braille.
We made love on the coffee table, resplendent with its fake wood formica top. The fan droned on, white noise and artificial breeze. The Mets were playing the Giants on television; with the sound off and my glasses off, it was just another square of dancing colors. You know I like it that you've grown your hair long again. As I slipped into you, feeling that familiar tug and grip, I saw your hair spilling over the end of the table like a dark waterfall. These old knees wouldn't take kneeling on the table, so I straddled it, moving up and down, rocking on my toes, in and out of your sunset, your question, your every answer.
Nell, laughing in the shower is a solitary thing. But I worry about entertaining in the living room. It will definitely never be the same. People will set their iced tea where your head once was. I'll place chips and salsa where we drew a spider from our pond of sap.
My god, but you're everywhere these days, Nell. Except here, of course. Come back soon.
Still in you,
Max
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