Pagan Dreams
by Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN: 978-1-938897-94-8
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved
Previously published under the penname Elizabeth Oliver, Copyright © 2005
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.
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Dedication
For Annie
obsession
A thought… random… fleeting… unbidden,
leaping from cell to cell
in a tantalizing dance,
of what’s to follow.
A thought… returning with friends…
demanding… impatient,
twisting in a spiral
of unrecognized lack,
seeking attention’s wandering gaze.
A thought… swelling with desire… festering with passion,
as it’s slowly brought to a boil
over lust’s licking flames,
stoked by insatiable hunger.
A thought… leading the body in hell born pursuit…
of appetite’s need,
nerves pulsing in pleasure filled desire,
seeking to worship
at gratification’s altar.
A thought… exploding in completion…
dying of spent release,
on the altar’s cold stone,
as orgasm
becomes one with obsession…
A thought… random… fleeting… unbidden,
leaping from cell to cell,
in a tantalizing dance
of what’s to follow…
Chapter One
I see her standing by the stacks in the old library. I’m surprised to see that she actually showed up. I usually don’t arrange dates this way. But I was obsessed. I watched her every day for two weeks. She was doing research, and so was I; though after two weeks I confess I was doing more research on her than on my American Poets thesis.
My obsessions drive me to such things. In a mad impulse I finally peeked in the front of her opened notebook when she was off to the bathroom. I was looking for a name, maybe a phone number. That was three days ago. That night, I called her.
“Yeah sure, I remember you,” she said, when I described myself. “You’re the one with the gigantic blue eyes and the soft blonde hair. You were sitting at my table.”
I’m excited that she remembered me at all. I feel so stupid, flustered like some school kid. I’ve never felt quite this way about a woman. I knew I liked women, but never like this, never with an obsession that made me follow her around, steal her name from her notebook, and find out where she lives and with whom (no one, I was glad to discover). Would she still be meeting me if she knew to what lengths I’d gone to feel close to her? My God, I was certain that if I didn’t have some consummation to this heated insanity, I’d soon be stalking her nightly, peeking in her window, stealing flowers from her flower bedecked porch.
Seeing her now in front of the stacks, perusing some enormous art book that looks too big for her, I’m tingling all over, especially between my legs. That place gives me away, it leads me running around after phantom lovers like a child with a first crush. But Peach is no phantom.
I call her Peach when I see her dressed in this peach colored tee-shirt dress. It’s nearly ankle length, but she might as well be wearing nothing the way her body seems to climb out on top of it. Her ass, which is turned to me, is one of the pert round kinds. I see the hint of her cleft as an indentation in the material. I know when she turns around, that her pendulous breasts will be pressed against the fabric erotically, her tiny nipples poking through the cloth. I know this because other tee shirts I’ve seen on her do the same.
“Good evening,” I say, trying not to scare her. Approaching people from behind can be risky, so I take it slowly.
She doesn’t miss a beat, turning around as if she knows I’m there all along. Exactly what I want, a smile is beaming on her face, her bright cheeks glowing. And yes, there are her breasts with the conforming fabric of her dress showing off the subtle curves and her nipples.
“Cassidy,” she says, in a voice that floats to my ears like Mozart. She gives off warmth like perfume. I can smell her scent, a fresh scrubbed soapy scent, kissed with the trace of some sweet hand cream. It’s been hot, so there’s a musky sweaty fragrance too, on her skin and mine.
“Hey, Peach, I’m glad you came,” I reply.
She doesn’t balk, not even when I call her Peach. Her name is Samantha Clarisse Sykes. It’s much too much a name for her, she’s much more simple than that.
“I liked your invitation,” she says.
“Not too bold?” I ask.
“Honest,” she replies, “telling me you’ve been having erotic thoughts of me, I know that’s a bold thing for you to say. You’re really very shy, aren’t you?”
I giggle a little.
She takes my hand and pulls me deeper into the stacks. We wind our way into the maze of tall metal shelves, into the bowels of this ancient place, searching for some privacy.
She touches my breasts first. Her hand is like a feather. I’m shivering. I can feel her touch in the top of my head underneath my hair, and at my shoulders, they’re trembling, and of course, between my legs. But it’s not enough that it’s there, it’s everywhere that shivers.
I lean forward, instinct leading me, and touch her offered lips with mine.
“Ooooo, I am in love,” she says.
I can’t believe that she’s saying this to me. How can she love me when we’ve just met? Then, how can I love her when I don’t even know her? Has she been feeling anything that I’ve felt, can I be that lucky?
She kisses back, and then there are a dozen more little kisses, while she leans into my body, pressing herself against me and fondling me more.
I think I’m going to swoon, until she laughs that lilting, approving laugh. She seems to know my trepidation and my joy, and tries to put me at ease with her hands. They are all over me. One hand breaches the bottom of my shirt, lifting it so she can fondle skin to skin.
“I don’t understand this, Peach, why I love you like this,” I tell her. I figure I need some kind of explanation.
“Shush,” she puts a finger to my mouth and smiles. We kiss again. And I take liberties with her body. My hands were poised for minutes, then finally after she shushes me I have the courage to touch her, really touch her.
We’re leaning against the stacks of books: the tall, fat, musty medical library where no one ever goes. I’m glad we have this privacy, because she feels free to raise my shirt enough to view my breasts with her eyes, not just her hands.
“You have such creamy white skin,” she says.
I want to tell her, I find her dark tanned skin perfection, my blonde skin always seems uneven and flawed.
She presses her mouth into my breasts and kisses them all over. She sucks the soft flesh. Sucks hard, so I know that there will be a hickey there when she’s done. I couldn’t ask for more.
My hands reach around her so I can find her ass, that perky round one, with the melon globes of tight flesh that lightly bounce against the dress.
When I squeeze the cheeks, I can feel her thighs tense, her breath becoming short and excited. Pulling up on the dress, I want to feel the soft skin und
erneath.
We’re wrapped together, pressed tightly. Her hands rove at will. Mine do the same. We’re both wet like rivers between our legs. We’re feeling each other in the center, where undiscovered clits become discovered, and once virgin holes become places to violate again.
“Cassidy, right there,” she instructs me, as my hands find her special spot. I drop to my knees, I want to see it, tongue it, watch it burst. Her cunt is dark, a silky bush of hair covers plump brown labia. I spread the hair and the lips to find her clitoris. It’s become a hard throbbing finger.
It only takes a few gentle sweeps of my tongue to discover what she likes best, what makes her throw her head back in a passionate stupor. She grabs my hair to keep her balance. So easily she could tumble to the floor, but I keep her stable. I want her to remember only that this was the most exquisite orgasm she’s ever had.
Her cries are nearly inaudible, but to me they are like an ocean roaring with waves of fervent bliss that crash at my ears.
She claws my hair.
She tenses.
I work faster with my tongue against her clitoris, my fingers passing through her hole to bring her twin pleasures. Her channel around my fingers squeezes them tightly, a spasm of orgasm and then another. They seem to be rippling through her, one after another in an unending stream. My hands and face are covered with her juices. They taste salty and sweet, that fragrant musk of sweat, makes my own cunt ready.
When it’s over, she slips down against the shelf of books, till she’s on the floor beside me. Her legs are open, her cunt exposed. She almost looks as if she’s airing out. The sweet contentment written on her face is lustful, peace filled pure. If this is all she ever gives me, it is enough. I couldn’t want anything more than to see the love obsession of my life this happily satisfied.
She opens her eyes. There’s a cute smile on her face.
“You don’t think you’re getting away from me, you slut,” she says. No one has ever called me ‘slut’. I like the name.
She reaches in and begins to paw my thighs, though they’re covered in denim; I admit I wasn’t as well prepared as she.
“Here? A little risky, isn’t it?” I say.
“Hey, you little tramp, I took the risk and so shall you, even if you do get caught with your pants down.” She’s adamant, unbuttoning the waist and unzipping the zipper, and then pulling firmly on my jeans until they are at my ankles. She leans over, lays me down and begins to plant her mouth on my needy clit. She goes straight for the center where the best feelings reside.
She licks with a gentle, but experienced tongue.
It won’t take long, and it doesn’t.
With her hands climbing all over my thighs and reaching inside my shirt to my tits, she brings me off, raises me up, tears me in two. My entire body is gasping, letting go, struggling to let free all three weeks’ worth of piled up lust.
I’m afraid I’m too loud, but for at least twenty seconds, I couldn’t give a damn who hears.
We both collapse in an abbreviated hug, her head to my belly, until I become too scared of being so exposed in a public building.
“You don’t mind my calling you Peach?” I ask.
“I like it. Almost as much as I like you,” she says. “This was a good idea you had,” she continues.
This is where I’m most afraid. What if it’s only been a lark for her and nothing more? God, please, I promise to be good, if you don’t make that so, I pray silently.
“I want to see you again,” I tell her.
“God, I hope so,” she replies, “but can we do it someplace besides this library, my God this floor is too hard!”
We pick each other up laughing, and walk out arm in arm.
That is, after I’m zipped and buttoned again.
Chapter Two
Peach moves in with me. I have the bigger apartment. I tell her when I’m helping her pack that it might be better if we stayed in hers. “It’s cozier.”
“Believe me,” she says, with one of her huge planters in her arms, “bigger is better. Less likely we’ll tire of each other soon.”
I know that I’ll never tire of her. I can watch her for hours. I’m not like her at all, that bubbly and infectious, with an easy attitude. She’s funny the way she takes charge without people thinking she’s a bitch. She makes me laugh, and cry.
We weep together when an old boyfriend dies with too much coke in his blood. She tells me that’s why she won’t love men anymore. “They are just too risky. They can’t take care of themselves, and when bad things happen to them, I feel guilty.”
“You don’t feel that way with women?” I ask.
“We’re much more self sufficient. We can take care of ourselves, especially emotionally. Oh yeah, we’ll cry when we’re hurt, but that’s the point, we’ll cry and then go on. Men are too fragile for me; I just end up busting their balls, and I hate weak men, so it’s better I find my equal in a woman.”
That’s the sum total of her philosophy of life.
She doesn’t need more. All she needs is a place to put her emotions, no matter what they are. And believe me they are plenty, plenty big and plenty various and plenty crazy at times. Living with Peach is like living on one long roller-coaster ride.
Me, I’m very inside myself, given to fits of melancholy. I’m looking for spiritual passage through my cunt. I figure that God’s got to have planned it this way for me, since he gave me such an active one. With Peach it’s all in her Solar Plexus, her emotions. With me, it’s got to be the cunt.
She says she can’t believe the crazy things I think about and write about and daydream endlessly about. She says they’re extraordinary! She says it with such exuberance. I’ve been writing my stories for years, and finally found someone to appreciate them.
When she reads about “God and my cunt”, she laughs. She must laugh for ten minutes straight, tears rolling down her cheeks. I can’t stop her.
Then I’m in tears because I think, she thinks, I’m stupid.
“Hey, putz, it’s quaint,” she finally says.
“Quaint?” I snap at her.
“Yeah quaint, and it makes sense. What do you feel when you’re having an orgasm, some kind of spiritual high?” she asks. “I mean I feel really, really good, but it’s very physical. Am I missing something?”
“It’s not like that,” I tell her.
“So?”
“It’s like,” I muse for awhile and make her wait, she loves the drama of it and so do I. “It’s like, I’m never not with my cunt…” I fish for words.
“Of course, you’re not without it, it’s between your legs,” she points out the obvious, as if I haven’t already figured that out.
“That’s not what I mean,” I tell her. “Will you shut up so I can explain?”
She pouts and I ignore her.
“I’m always horny, if I’m not, I don’t feel alive,” I try again. “I think I could screw anything that’s alive, man, woman, beast, and… it’s not that I would, it’s just that I could. Sometimes I think I’m really obsessed, clinically so, but I know I’m not.”
“How do you know that?” she asks.
“What? Do you think I’m obsessive?” I query her seriously.
“No. But how do you know you’re not?” she asks.
“Because I’m happily erotic. I’m pleasured, I’m healthy, I’m productive, I pay my bills, and I contribute lavishly to anything worthwhile that pleases me. I’m really a regular person. I just live between my thighs. Some time ago…” I begin what could be a long story, even though I know I’d better tell it quickly, since Peach looks sleepy. She’s yawning. “I heard this guy talk, a really cool guy, and he tells me that masturbation is healthy, that it can cure just about anything. Well that seems a little off base. But I was having a horrible year with colds and flu and that kind of thing… I started masturbating a lot and everything cleared up. I started writing dirty books, and being happy, and it’s worked that way ever since.”
> She believes me, I mean really believes me, the first person that I ever shared this secret with that didn’t think I was totally daft. There were two other lovers that knew this, but the whole idea fell so flat on them, I quit believing it while I loved them. Then everything went into the shitter, and I lost all my nerve and my confidence. So I dropped those two and started masturbating again (I never really quit, I just decided to like it again), and everything straightened out.
I tell Peach all this, she smiles and starts to kiss my hand. “So, if I’m to keep you safely under salvation’s wing, I suppose I’d better fuck you regularly,” she says. I think she’s taking this seriously, at least she’s gentle about it, even if she doesn’t completely understand.
I know I’m going to love her forever.
Chapter Three
It’s a miserable summer, the kind where the asphalt melts beneath your feet and you’re skating on a thin coat of slime. The inland air is dry, and I daydream about ocean breezes so often that I convince Peach to go down to Newport for a weekday afternoon, even though I know the traffic will be worse than I want it to be. For late May, I’m thinking of other things besides the thick smog of LA. I want blue skies, and the top down on the Jeep, and a wide open road.
I’m telling Peach of my exasperation and she’s telling me to stop complaining.
“We’ll just leave for awhile,” she says, “let you get your spirit back. You’re much too crabby now for me to want to be around you.” I know she’s kidding, but still, she’s disgusted with me.
“I’m not used to cities,” I explain in my defense. “Especially this one. There are too many directions to move and too many people.”
“That’s okay, we’ll leave,” she repeats.
“Leave? Where?”
“Anywhere, we have the time.” She’s right, no classes until September. I don’t have to teach summer school. I can already feel the freedom surge inside my bones. Peach is already free as a bird. She won’t want to do anything all summer but stay in bed with me. It’s time well spent, though it still doesn’t make LA any more bearable. The heat won’t stop, the smog won’t stop, and my feeling of oppression will go on until the first September breeze, which sometimes doesn’t happen until October.
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