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Blinded By The Light

by Stephen Dedman
(9/13/00)

It was late in the afternoon - midsummer in Perth, forty degrees Celsius or more - and I was walking straight towards the setting sun, my eyes down to avoid the light, so the first thing I saw was her legs. I'm not normally a leg man, but hers were lovely, long but well-muscled, not skinny, and I looked at them for longer than I normally would have done. She wore a short, tight black skirt that caught my imagination in a headlock and didn't let go until she was close enough that I could look up slightly.

There was a band of bare flesh above the top of the skirt, nicely tanned, punctuated by a navel that seemed to wink at me as she neared. Above that, a white halter top; her breasts were round and rather small, almost girlish. The sun was still behind her, turning her hair into a corona, a halo, but I still couldn't see her face without being blinded, just the silhouette of large sunglasses and a suggestion of a smile.


We lie naked on the bed, candlelit, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of feeling bare skin against skin. I massage her back, then scratch it lightly with my nails, proceeding down from her shoulders to her waist. She squirms with pleasure, moving up so that my fingers, slick with oil, glide across her ass. My thumbs rub lightly along the cleft between her silky cheeks; I gently scratch her inner thighs, stopping just below her cunt, gently brushing against her hair with my nails, and she shakes as she comes, quietly, almost secretively, her face buried in the pillow and the flickering shadows so that I can't see her expression, but I know it's beautiful.

I bury my face in her long dark hair, and gently brush it aside. I kiss her earlobes, her neck, her shoulders, biting gently, licking, sucking; kiss her wrists as she turns over and reaches for me, and expect her to kiss me back, but she guides my face to her breasts, sweet mouthfuls, dark amber in the candle-light. I kiss them, run my tongue around her perfect nipples, feeling them swell, moving from one to the other until both are hard, tight, then kissing my way down her body to her muscular thighs, spiralling in slowly towards her succulent cunt. I kiss her there, too, running my tongue slowly along her cleft until it opens like a fragrant flower, taste her juices as they trickle down and drip onto my sheets. Then I kiss her clit hood, sucking on it gently, easing her clit out of hiding, then run my tongue over and around that beautiful bud as my fingers stroke her thighs, brush lightly against her labia. I watch as her inner lips darken to bright red, and breathe in the heady female perfume of her pheremones. My free hand strokes her back, which arches as her second orgasm of the night builds up and overwhelms her.


She was only a few feet away, about to walk past me, just another beautiful woman who I'd never get to know.

"Hi, Stephen."

What the--? "Caitlin?" I stopped, turned; her face was now lit by the sun, not shadowed by it. She raised her glasses; her smile, her eyes, were beautiful. "Hi!" Oh, Christ, it's only been a year; how to tell her I was so busy admiring the way she looked that I didn't even recognise her? "Where are you going?", I asked instead, as we retreated from the sunlight under an awning, leaned against a window, felt the vibration of an air-conditioner blasting away inside. "Do you have time for a coffee, or something?"


I watch the flush fade from her neck and chest, until she sits up and reaches for my cock, then climbs astride me and slowly descends, enfolding me. She leans forwards to kiss me as we began to move together. Her face is beautiful. I kiss her eyes, her lips; she sucks my tongue into her mouth as hers explores mine, tastes her own nectar, the room darkens as we kiss, making it seem as though it lasts for hours, but it's only the candle burning low. I bend my neck to kiss her breasts as my hands slide down to her hips, lick my way back up to her neck, kiss it as she bites down on my shoulder. We hold on tightly to each other, becoming closer, closer, feeling the heat, the exhilaration, the blessed acceleration, we kiss again, the room disappears, the world recedes, we watch each other's faces but the sensations are becoming too strong and sight becomes unimportant.

We lay there on my bed. It's still too hot to hold onto each other, or maybe that's just us, but she rests her head against my arm, her thigh against my hip, our fingers brush against each other. When we open our eyes, the candle has gone out, and the room is dark. Blindly, we lick each other's faces until our tongues touch, then we kiss slowly, deeply. "You're beautiful," she says, as I caress her face. "It's wonderful to see you again."

©2000 by Stephen Dedman

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Stephen Dedman is the author of The Art of Arrow Cutting and Foreign Bodies; his short stories have appeared in an eclectic range of magazines and anthologies including Midsummer Night's Dreams, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror Tenth Annual Collection, The Mammoth Book of Arthurian Legends, Centaurus, and Not the Only Planet; and he was once chosen as a genetic donor for a lesbian survivalist colony. Would you believe they let him write for children, too?

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