by Count of Shadows
(5/30/01)
"I don't want to fuck you," she said. "I'll lose myself."
The urge stopped in the back of his throat to say that was
silly. He nodded and kept looking
into her eyes. "Yes," he said finally. "I know how that can
be."
Her finger tapped over his heart. "In here, you do. But you're
not like me." She drew her finger back into a fist and laid it
on her thigh.
He shrugged easily. "We've all got some needs." The rest of
what he was going to say seemed trivial, so he filed it in memory.
He stood and walked over to a bramble, pinched off a clump of it
and bounced it lightly on his palm. "Look. Like a puffball.
Like a deceptive herb that's really poisonous." He squeezed his
hand together and didn't wince as the thorns stuck in his skin.
Tiny droplets of blood appeared as he plucked out the thorns and
let them fall. He looked back at her.
"Proving things to me won't change my mind," she said, looking
away. "A little blood. What's that? The lubricant of religion?
The oil of your machine of desire? I don't demean the little
sacrifice, though. You'll have to be...satisfied...with what I
give up. It won't be enough. That's all."
He smiled at her and pulled a last thorn from his palm with his
teeth, spat it on the dirt and ground it under his heel. "A
barren field plowed by a crueling world, eh?"
"Something like that, perhaps." She looked up at the summer sun
and stretched, casually unbuttoned her blouse, took it off,
folded it and draped it over the small basket of food. "I'll
still love women after you, you know. They were the first ones
to show me..."
"Ah," he surmised. "Kindness."
"That kindness and cruelty lie in bed, giggling like old
friends." She reached behind her and unfastened her bra, cupped
her hands over the sleek satin cups for a moment. "You're not a
baby-boy, are you?" she suddenly asked. "You don't want to
suckle and pretend to get some milk?"
He shook his head. She nodded hers.
"So many are. Want a mommy. Want a wet nurse." She took the
bra off completely and rubbed her breasts where it had reddened
her skin. Her forefinger touched first one nipple then the
other. "Boobs," she said, drawling the word out slowly,
laughing, shaking her head. "What a silly name."
He sat cross-legged in front of her. He looked away, then back at
her full, pale breasts. They made his cock stir in his jeans. He
grinned.
"What?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Dangerous imaginings, that's all. I just had a vision. Or
a...something. Do you write topless?"
She rolled her eyes. "When it's hot. When it's sultry. When
it's going well. The body has some inner heat from...what'll I
call it? Inspiration sounds so...juvenile. If a book's going
really well, the sweat just rolls down my ribs." She held her
breasts like captive but fragile birds. "Yes. Sometimes." She
fisted her hands again, let them drop to become small fleshy
boulders on the flat plains of her thighs.
He scooted closer. "Let me hold them,"
he said so quietly that she barely heard him.
She nodded and watched his hands. She expected him to be gentle
and gasped a little when he wasn't. The nerve endings in her
breasts measured the strength of his fingers, their rough
texture. She tightened her lips and looked away, felt her
nipples stiffen in response. She nodded again, more absently.
His left hand let go of her breast, and the fingers tapped across
her forehead. "Dialogue?"
"Certainly. 'How much?' 'Feels good.' 'Will he stop?' 'Won't
he stop?'"
He glanced at her eyes then lowered his lips to her right nipple,
kissed it lightly, felt it
press closer against his mouth as she breathed. He took it
between his lips and sucked at it, washing the tip with his
tongue. His hand kneaded her other breast, thumb coarsely
worrying at her nipple.
Her hand jerked up, hovered, almost touched his hair, lingered in
the air, then surrendered. Her fingers twined in and twirled his
hair. She felt his head rise as he kissed between her breasts,
then along her neck, over her chin, and then found her opening mouth.
Their tongues met in a sparking suddenness before hers retreated,
followed by his in the cavern of her mouth. Wet dances and
acrobatics as snake-like and writhing their tongues moved in slow
arabesques and abrupt curlings.
She pulled away. Her hands went to his shoulders, holding him
back. "Wanting isn't all doing," she said hoarsely. "I'm not
going to. No fucking. You can watch me. I'll watch you."
He groaned, looking down at his crotch; her eyes followed his.
"Go on," she said. "It must be uncomfortable."
As he stood to pull off his jeans, she pulled her dress up,
bunching it on her hips. She lifted herself off the ground for a
moment and slid her panties down and off. He was slower; not
clumsy, but seeming to become involved in the ritual: unbuckling
of belt, unzipping of fly, peeling down the now tighter jeans.
"It's nice," she said with a small smile. "Pretty colors."
She lay back and widened her thighs, her hand nestling, a
fingertip idly brushing over the thin membrane covering the
sensitive nerve sensors of her clitoris. She watched as he
gripped his hard penis and began sliding his hand up and down the
shaft, sometimes rubbing the palm over his cockhead. A little of
the blood from his thorn wounds smeared on it, making it look
redder.
She motioned him forward and he straddled her, standing, feet
just below her hips. Her fingers rubbed and slipped inside her.
Around them there was only the faint murmur of summer insects;
closer the liquid sounds as he stroked himself and she fucked
herself on her hand.
"I wish..." he started to say.
"Wishing is...don't try to make it more real," she interrupted.
"I don't want it real." She raised her hips and rolled herself
hard against her hand. "I'm...a swamp. A salt marsh where only
weeds grow."
"I want..."
"It's too much. Beyond me...where it's more fertile...that's
where the forest grows...hearts like tangling branches. Oh!"
He growled in a low voice and she felt the hot splash of his come
on her naked thighs. The feeling took her over her own edge.
Her ragged breathing stopped. Her body arched and hung like a
suspended bow. She babbled incoherent phrases, only
the soles of her feet and the back of her head touching earth,
then, finally, after long, frozen moments, she collapsed,
stretching out along the ground.
"Kiss my cock," he whispered. She leaned upward, took his slowly
softening cock in her hand and kissed the wet tip.
"Damn," she murmured, holding it against her cheek.
"I don't care about anything else. I just love you," he said, a
puzzled look in his eyes.
"I'll still love my women."
"I know."
He pulled her to her feet, into his arms. And they walked into
the woods.
