by PriveCo Inc.
With a dramatic sigh, I shove the litter of papers off the bed and snuggle under the blankets to wait for him.
He tsks in my direction, chiding me for my arrogance. "That's not true. You say it pretty often." He's smiling, playfully, and I'm not sure whether it's a joke or a challenge. But I am sure that he's mistaken, and my mouth gapes in protest as he discards his magazine and turns off the bedside lamp. "I wasn't counting," he adds, sliding beneath the bedcovers to curl his arms around me, "but I'd bet you said Oh God! a lot more than eleven times last night."
"I most certainly did not," I retort icily, resisting his embrace. I'm offended at the accusation and, even worse, aghast at the possibility that he might be telling the truth. I'd always imagined myself more eloquent than that, even in the throes of passion.
"Elisabeth, you say Oh God! all the time when we're making love," he insists, amused and undaunted by my reaction. "Why not just admit it?"
"Yeah, okay... maybe it slips out sometimes, once or twice, in the heat of the moment. But it's just a noise, a sound effect. Oh God! Like when you stub your toe or discover you've bounced a check. You make it sound like I'm praying for an orgasm or something," I complain.
"It does seem like a prayer sometimes. Especially when you're on your knees."
"Pffft," I say, missing the point of his humor. "I'm an atheist. I don't do that."
I consider the matter closed, and assume I've made whatever point I intended. Ready to forgive his minor transgression, I shift in bed and begin to move closer, but he's not finished yet. He's still having a laugh, too loudly, at my expense.
"I'm an atheist, too," he reminds me, "but I never say Oh God! And, definitely, never during sex."
This may be true, because I don't think I've ever heard him say it. But there's no way I'll admit that now. "Of course you do," I say, frustrated. "Even if you don't realize, it just pops out. The God blurt."
"No, never."
He's too confident, and I'm not. And there's some quirk of my personality that gets the best of me in situations like this. I never know when to shut up, even when I might be wrong.
"Okay, wise ass," I challenge. "So, what do you say when you drop something heavy on your foot?"
He ponders this for only a second, grinning at me. "Ouch," he says, and his hand drifts over my bare thigh, settling comfortably between the argument. I pull my legs together, immobilizing his wrist, but he doesn't seem to notice as he explores whatever he can still reach. One fingertip wiggles free to trace the satin-smooth cleft beneath his hand. I toss him a dirty look and he smiles back, unrepentant.
"You're running late for an appointment and your car has a flat tire."
"'Shit.' And I kick the tire, because that's what real men do." His hand is deliberate between my thighs, that roaming finger teasing the lips of my cunt, idly stroking. He finds my clit and taps it gently, as if trying to get my attention. I do my best to ignore him and resume my interrogation with prosecutorial zeal.
"You've overdrawn your checking account."
"Fuck me," he answers, his smile spreading into a sardonic grin.
"Fuck what?" The adventurous finger chooses this moment to penetrate with sudden boldness. I gasp and try to wiggle away. But I don't try very hard.
"Fuck me," he says again, softer than he should, closer than before, and these words linger against my ear in an entirely new context. Soft lips define the curve of my breast, seeming to wander without direction before discovering a peaked nipple with gentle tug of teeth and tongue. The friction between my legs is no longer aimless, and I forget all about God.
"Fuck me." Now my voice is a whispered echo of his, and the tattered shreds of my argument fall apart along with my thighs. Adam takes advantage of this opening and pushes another finger inside, twisting gently into the moist heat of my body. He quickly finds the single sweet spot that makes me breathless, and his fingers curve inward, pressing rhythmically, insistently. Too soon, my tongue is tipped with the dreaded phrase, and I can't stop it, even when I bite my lip in a vain effort to remain silent.
"Oh God!" I whimper, clutching at his shoulders as I come. And I say it again, and again, and again, helplessly, Oh God! with each burst of pleasure that begins in my cunt and spreads outward, flexing my fingers and toes. And then, just as helplessly, I dissolve in laughter when my mind clears and I realize what I've said.
"Four," he murmurs, and I smile beneath his smiling kiss, chagrined but somehow pleased in spite of my failure.
"Fuck you," I respond, sweetly. My fingers find and encircle the rigid column of his flesh, pulling him closer.
Adam enters me with a muted groan, pushing deep and almost painfully against my womb. His hands slide beneath my hips and lift me to the unrelenting pressure of his cock, holding me so tightly that it's impossible to move except toward him. I strain upward, rocking in a motion that soon becomes uncontrollable, frantic and primitive.
And yes, it is Big and Throbbing, this Cock that fills me, and my Pussy is Tight and Juicy with the madness of wanting, and language fails me again, as it always does when he fucks me. The words form on my lips, unbidden, but I say them willingly now, Oh God! breathing it in and crying it out, no longer eloquent but no longer caring. Reduced at last to the worst dialogue imaginable, I hear myself sob and gasp, moaning to the God of Fuck, moaning the syllables of his name, a torrent of sound as desperate and hopeful as any prayer could be.
Much later, when our frenzied coupling has finally given way to languid movements and contented sighs, I see the smile playing on his face. He doesn't have to tell me what he's thinking.
Yes, I did say it more than eleven times.
Maybe even more than fifty.
And my prayer was answered.
Amen.
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(continued)
Chapter 9 - A Pillowbook Tale
Rain streamed against the windows. Everything in the room seemed to have stopped down until just the sound of their breathing filled the air. The woman had written a poem across his body with her lips.
She looked at the rain pouring outside in long rivulets against the glass. She liked the quiet hush now, just holding him like this. He felt surrounded by the little silver net of her being, caught like a golden fish in her embrace.
"Touch me," she whispered, drawing his hand between her legs. She was so wet and slick that his fingers slipped easily against her, into her. He felt her tremble a little behind him and smiled to himself.
"I want to taste you," he sighed, drawing his hand across his lips and inhaling. Every part of him wished to turn around and tear the blindfold from his eyes and take her. He had never experienced such romanticism in his life.
"You're my captive this time," she whispered.
"Not the other way around."
His skin was on fire everywhere she had kissed it. A thousand little sparks seemed to blaze at once all over his body, where her lips had imprinted him. He was burning. But he was also curious to see where she would go with her poem. His hand blindly and obediently returned to her cleft and continued its caress.
She felt herself opening.
"Do you understand Ikebana?" she asked in a soft voice.
You are my canvas
"No," he said.
Teach me
She walked him backwards; to a low alcove, that held a deep futon on tatami mats. The alcove had hundreds of different flowers in vases. The riot of color would have assaulted his eyes, had he not been blindfolded. Delicate floral fragrances swirled all around him.
"You'll need to lie down."
She guided him onto the low bed. He lay on his back, with his legs slightly spread. She moved his arms away from his body, stretching them out like wings, palms upright. He was getting hard, and she blew her warm breath over his penis to stiffen it further.
"You are
the primal element of this arrangement," she whispered to it, and it swayed under her mouth, dancing. She brought her cheek to rest against it, tenderly, for just a moment.
His legs quivered, just as his mind was quivering, at her presence, so close to his manhood. His mind reeled and a thousand images flashed in front of him. It took every ounce of his strength not to move, not to tear away the blindfold and just grab for her and pull her against him, to move inside of her in one quick fast thrust. He trembled under the weight of his own power to lie there, surrendered into his experience of her.
In the background he heard Kodo drummers begin to play. The drumbeats entered his bloodstream and he breathed in time with them. He felt her move against him.
Something soft dropped silently into his hands. Sweetly fragranced white gardenias now trembled there. He could hear her breath coming more quickly, now. I'm exciting her, he thought. Just looking at me like this is causing her mind to spin and drift. Someplace inside him smiled in the stillness. Zen.
He felt the brush of something against his skin. She had taken a large round ball chrysanthemum and was tracing it up and over his legs. Everywhere the flower touched caused him to shiver inside softness. A cry escaped his lips, or maybe it was a murmur.
Please touch me
She continued the tracing up and down his cock now. Just up and down and up and down, with her breath following closely behind. She impaled the silken mass of the flower over his plump cockhead. He moaned, and drew in his breath, as the blossom engulfed him.
"Shhhh..." she said, putting her finger to his lips.
She climbed over him until she was astride him. She pressed her moonlike breasts together until the rosebuds of her nipples were close. She brought them to his lips. He cried out as his tongue lashed across them.
"I'm so wet," she whispered against his ear.
His body strained, trying to push up against her.
"Don't disturb the arrangement of the flowers," she whispered.
His mind struggled with itself. I'm a man, he thought. No woman can do this to me. I don't have to do what she says. Nothing is holding me here. I'm going to just....
But then her breasts were at his lips again and he felt himself soften back against the pillows as he grew even harder. His cock felt like it was about to burst and his eyes fluttered open and shut against the blindfold.
She let him suckle, first one then the other, over and over again, while she moaned softly against him. She liked the image of her rosy nipples descending into his mouth with his face trapped inside the deep purple velvet of that blindfold.
"This is torture," he murmured, "I can't...."
"Yes you can, Shhhhh...bring your mind back to stillness."
"This is the way of great beauty, the way of Ikebana, and only true poets understand it. It is a meditation on one's desire nature. Listen to the drums and let your heart float in stillness. Imagine that a thread connects it to a star in the heavens."
Listen to the taiko....
She placed many flowers, with great care, across the surface of his body. At the base of his throbbing cock, she created a circular pattern. Periodically she let him suckle her breasts, or pressed petals against his mouth, or took his moist tongue inside her.
She continued to kiss him softly all over his body, all around the base of his cock. It swayed and danced to the rhythm of the drumming music. She brought her breasts around it, trapping it between them.
"I'm going to come," he said.
"Shhhh, no you aren't," she murmured. She removed the chrysanthemum and replaced it with her lips, tracing over his cockhead lightly, and rubbing back and forth like a whisper. She blew and blew along it, streams of warm windy breath. Her soft breasts cupped and locked his shaft.
"Mine," she said.
She had made an altar out of his body.
We are conceptual art, taken to its highest expression.
Nous sommes les enfants terribles du paradis...
"I'm going to come, I have to," he whispered.
He was like a river, pouring currents into the sea. She smiled while she watched him, dreamily. She had consecrated his body with flowers. He looked absolutely beatific. Her canvas was complete.
"Touch me," she whispered, placing her cleft over his gardenia-filled hand. His fingers moved and thrummed inside of her to the sound of the drumbeats. Her breath was deepening, as was his.
She rippled and swayed as his fingers thrust inside her, expertly. Her head arced backwards and her eyes closed. Little whispery sighs seemed to emerge from the great depths inside her. He listened to her sounds; until his synchronized with hers, in a perfection of union under the drums. Taiko and moon; Ikebana and flute, earth and sky.
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(continued)
Chapter 10 - Ratatouille
"Miles, did you know that zucchinis make the best cocks?" Isabelle asked me on our first date. She twirled her angel hair pasta and looked fondly at the veggie stabbed on the end of her fork.
She had my attention. I tried to guess at a good response. Isabelle had long, wavy red hair and dancer's legs, and there wasn't much I wouldn't consider for her.
"Better than cucumbers?" I asked, rather dumbly but with great gusto, as though we were discussing favorite recipes over the back fence.
She laughed. "Hell, yes. Better than men, sometimes. Better than vibrators always. No batteries, and much more organic."
I was speechless. I had watched Isabelle pass by my office for weeks on the way to the dance studio before I found the nerve to ask her out. I was developing a serious navy-blue leg-warmer fetish by the time I just stepped into the hall and blurted out my name and invited her to dinner.
"Sure, Miles," she had said, quite casually. "But it has to be vegetarian for me, OK?"
She had looked pure and angelic with that pale white skin and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I researched every health food restaurant in town.
"Organic is good," I finally answered her at dinner, feeling like a 16-year old kid on his first date instead of the educated grownup that I was. "Do you peel the zucchini?" I had to know.
"Sometimes, Miles," she answered. "But sometimes rougher is better, you know?"
I thought then that maybe it was possible to fall in love with a girl who said "you know?" all the time and who wore heavy silver rings and bracelets that weighed her down, bracelets that looked like handcuffs on her delicate wrists.
I took her home to her tiny walkup-apartment at the top of an old building not far from Coors Field. "This neighborhood is not safe," I told her.
She just laughed at me. "Life is not safe, darling."
She was right, of course. There's hardly any safety in hating what you do every day for a living. When I chose the world of finance over art so long ago, I didn't know the difference between financial security and being safe.
She invited me in and lit six black candles all around the room "Six," she informed me, "is the sacred number of Aphrodite, the goddess of love." She served me hot tea on an elegant silver tray and then looked straight into my eyes and told me how it was going to be.
"A girl has to have rules, you know," she said. " I never have full sex with a man until the third date." She smiled. "By then I can always tell if they're fuckable or not."
I was 37 years old and a man of the world when she said this, and I swear I couldn't remember ever having sex before in my life, or if I even knew how.
"That sounds fair," I mumbled, smoothing my hair.
She excused herself and went to the bathroom. I confess I sneaked a look in her fridge while she was gone. Never before had a crisper looked so sexy. I counted the zucchinis--there were six. All in a row.
She came back, and her hair was tied up and she pressed one of her strong legs next to mine on the futon. Without a word she picked up a jar of
honey from the tea tray, stuck her finger into it, and smeared honey all over her lips. Honey over lipstick, honey around her mouth, honey on her tongue, never taking her eyes off mine.
She stopped. "Kiss me, Miles. Kiss me until all my honey is gone."
Dear god. I started to lick and then I was devouring her, and nothing else existed but Isabelle and her mouth. Long, soulful kisses that went on forever, or maybe it was just one kiss that kept inventing itself over and over and over until I thought her rules were a tease and my hand was high on her thigh and my cock was raving wild. She paused and whispered, "You kiss like a man who is hungry. This is a good thing." And then she kicked me out the door.
