People ask how it was, that summer with the insatiable Joanna.I: escorting her on her trimphial process through the art galleries and salons of the city, and afterward to her private retreat, to serve her as best I could. She: renaissance woman, engineer, artist, author, adventurer, and, as I mentioned above, insatiable in her appetites and imaginings. She had an unusual idea of foreplay--had designed a battery-powered device, or series of devices, to wear beneath those tights and leotards she favored to display her wiry body (twenty-three at the time, she had the height, the small, firm breasts, and the innocent face of a fourteen-year-old...a fourteen-year-old that has grown up in small-town Texas, rather than--as was the actual case--the malls of Long Island). I saw her install it many times: first lubricating, then inserting the small, black vibrator into her anus, another into her vagina, then attaching (with the aid of EEG cement) her own design of electrode at the base of her clitoris and on each of her beautiful, brown nipples, already seeming to tighten and stand. Then on with the concealing panties and bra, then the tights, the leotard, and whatever eye-wrenching, breath-stopping topping she had invented. She would test the remote control, a palm-sized, black device with five pressure switches, and shiver approvingly as each little machine responded. Then we would go out to whatever was on that night. Sometimes --at a movie, say (an opening for one of her director friends)--her hands out of sight in the darkness, speaking occasionally across the aisle. Only now and then would her eyes close and her breath catch at some interior drama. Then we would go into brightness, chatter, movement in a room. She would hand the control to me and wander off to speak to someone or stand before a window, a painting. She claimed to be able to distinguish my mood by the touch on the controls. Sometimes I favored long, circular rhythms that actuated each button in turn, punctuated with periods of silence--to leave her in anticipation of where, and when, the next little shock would arrive. At other times, throwing finesse to the winds, all the buttons at once. Her self-control was remarkable. My favorite game was to catch her in animated, intellectual discussion with some gray professor of theoretical art. From behind, I could see her small buttocks clench. As she stood in conversation, her back would, almost imperceptibly, arch, she would put down her glass of mineral water, grasp one wrist in the other hand behind her, push her shoulders back. (The effect of this bit of body language on her conversational partner was always a secret joy to behold.) Her high cheeks would flush, her eyes brighten, and she would, just a little, rock her pelvis--but meanwhile not miss a conversational beat. I did, twice, cause her to have to excuse herself and move out of the limited range of the control, but she was back again within moments each time. By the time we were ready to leave, to go back in the back of a darkened car to her apartment, we would be ready to tear into each other. But Joanna's rule (Was she controlling? Was I acquiescent? What do you think?) was always "Don't come on the carseat." With our hands down the front of our pants and her small, sweaty body wriggling, her tongue (that taste of pate in another's teeth), the rule was almost violated more than once. But there was a reason, a reward, for whatever forbearance we manage to maintain. Joanna always made it worth our while. We would stumble into the room, she would disappear for some moments, and then reappear, naked, oiled, and smiling. What followed next would have no pattern from one time to the next. Often she would lie back on the narrow bench at the foot of the bed, her black hair falling unruly away from her face, and command me to kneel beside. "I want to be sucked," she'd say, and I'd bend to with a will. Her hands would clamp into my own hair, pushing my head to her breasts. Oh! Those breasts, so beautiful they were, with the small nipples standing to attention like little soldiers. I'd tease with my tongue, circling, nibbling, sucking, taking the whole breast in my mouth, pinching with my lips. One of our hands would slide down her smooth flank to cup her buttocks, now writhing and spinning, and slip a finger into the rosebud anus. Another hand, sliding down her firm, rounded belly, would dive into the folds of the vagina and slide up to her hard, small clitoris. She was always, by now, oiled and lubricated to a fare-thee-well. The sound of wet, slippery flesh, her panting, my own moans would fill the small room. She would come spectacularly, pushing her pelvis up into the air, into our hands, spinning on a finger. Then she would sink back into herself, smiling and tender. Only for a moment though: then it would be her turn (or was it mine?)--and she would sit me down on the edge of the bed or the bench. And as she took me in her mouth she looked, through angled mirrors, into my eyes. For the next five minute eternity neither she nor I nor our locked gazes would move--outwardly. But her tongue would. And when at last I would have to, she would meet my desparate thrust with one of her own, engulfing me to the engorged root, then pulling back and swallowing seedspurt. And as I slowly shrank, she would keep me in her mouth, teasing with her lips, sucking me gently empty and dry. Or I would be behind her, slowly easing myself into the warm, the grasping, the snug. As I moved, my hands hooked over her hips (or sliding one finger down, and up, the wondrous groove) she gripped and held me. She had another mouth down there, and drank me both ways. Or (more rarely) she squatted above me, and slowly lowered herself onto my upright penis--carefully, because she was taking me into her anus, and wanted me to not move, to not tear the delicate tissue. The tight ring would slide down around me, the heat, blooming, surrounding me. I would be slippery with oil and anticipation. Once secure against my base, she would rock back and wrap her legs around my knees. "Oh," she'd say, her eyes bent back to me in mock reproach, "you're holding me so wide..." Then reaching to apply the vibrator, first deeply into herself (I could feel it inside her, moving against my own stiff shaft) then along the groove, to the top, to flourish around her own stiffened little stalk. Bending and howling, she would come as I tried to hold her pinioned, pulling her knees from under mine, clamping them over her busy hands, still impaled on me. Finally she would lie quiet. Then I would try to pull out (slowly) a fraction of an inch, and then (couldn't help) slam her back against me, and come and come and come. She said her goal was to be filled to overflowing with our juices. Some mornings, it seemed that way--her mouth tasted of me, her vagina also, our skins slurred with each others' fluids. She would disappear then into the den, into the studio, to her work, for a day or for days. Leaving me to myself, to plan, to my own work. Part of what she did was write the stories she'd spun while lying beside me afterwards, when the morning sun crashed through the half-open window. Stories that could never have been true, but which, for a wonderful time, we said were true. There was...the Island of Children. There, she said, she had grown up with her identical twin, her brother (genetic manipulation? cloning?)--from an early age, it was as if there was one soul in the two bodies, and they had shared and touched each other always as one would touch oneself. Two touched twoself. (She taking his little sex in her mouth while he slept, making it stand. Then if he woke, riding him down again--or if he did not, sucking him while he dreamed.) They were brown and naked in the sun, their light hair unkempt, sparkling with splashed water. Then they saw the girl lying on the sand. ------ to be continued -------- --------------------------- end submission --------------------------------- -- Mail rec.arts.erotica submissions to erotica@telly.on.ca. Most software will automatically mail your postings to that address. |