by Heidi Hunter
I occupy her time like a 99-percenter waiting on the bus or mass transit. Perhaps by necessity. Perhaps telling themselves it's for a bigger cause. Slight pause as on the public transportation a unique cross section of society can be seen. But not in New York or Paris as in some story of old. Online. The new frontier. The Wild Wild (West) Web or World Wide Tubes of information – and naked pictures. Erotica? What must I write to cause you to think and in the act of thinking for yourself become wet – or hard.
Wet or hard? Contemplating possible positions before she arrives. It's well past the time she was supposed to be here and I know life never goes how you want it to go. And yet, at the same time, so flush with cash, I have come to expect certain treatments, a relaxing of the laws of physics for the right price. And what makes money make money! Laughter. Gay Paree. But not in that way. Giant search engine companies – mammoth corporations answer questions and allow people to ask them. Why is the city called that? A marketing flap? An oddly high occurrence of men and women both wearing hats?
When she arrives, I can't control myself and rush across the room – vast distances for the wealthy – and embrace her. I chase her with my thoughts, looking into the soul of her eyes. I see she is surprised. Usually the rich are not happy. I'm strangely rich, newly rich, and as the pop culture fans would say – ridiculously rich (as in Ritchie Rich) – but she senses a change in me demeanor. Since the last time we met. Her name was Toni. She put my pieces back together in the proper order. Man, she took a stand and would not let me penetrate her but she touched me.
My mood suddenly sinks. Then I blink. I often forget. Her smile ignites the mood and I'm able to continue. The back patio? The pool? The upstairs third floor room with a view? At the top of my very own fairy tale tower? So grim and prim usually but here in wonderland she opens up. She undresses and we wander the halls. We fuck against the walls. We use nasty words to convey the meaning. The dirty talk echoes through the emptiness of the wealth around us. I sent the staff home early. I was king of the castle.
I bed my princess more slowly in my bedroom. The tower awaits, but down here grounded in reality I can take my time to enjoy the shape of her nipples, the way they are located perfectly for the size and shape of her mounds of flesh. I kiss them, gently awakening them. The pop up slightly. So dark and delicious. Little nubs to rub my lips against and she moans, opening her legs. She directs me down there and I fall, overtaken by the gravity of her nebula. I lick. She likes.
No fight as I fall into her and fill her and feel her tightness grasp me. And I wonder what she's thinking, but then I see it's written on her face like a poem dashed off in a moment of drunken brilliance. Her eyes peer into mine. We lock gazes as our bodies begin to truly move as one. This is not me ramming her to get off. This is not her waiting for it to be over. This is both reaching toward the same goal. If not love forever then for the moment. This very moment. So close to the edge.
Our breathing is labored. The way she savors the taste of my tongue in her mouth as if it was oxygen. And I feel her grab me and pull me into her. The tower awaits, but for now we dance and move together as if meant to be this way forever and ever. And yet if we never separate, what's to make these moments when we come together – when we cum together – so special? There is meaning in the ultimate forms of sexual expression. Beyond the cheap and meant only to titillate variety.
And I stop thinking of Erotica Book Covers and come back to her. She looks up at me and then we switch without having to say a word which is a good sign. On top now and in control, she moves slow and deliberately. Her hands are pressed down on my chest for balance as I slide and move inch by inch and then faster and a slightly different angle as she finds the spot. Her spot. I see her face light up and know she's found it as I see if I can adjust and use this to cum as well and we have a match.
The last push toward the edge and then over. Quick spurts for me and a warm glow for her. Or so I've been told. And looking back I know now some women do pretend. The afterglow, though, is when you know when you have a good match, that otherworldly bliss of just a kiss and the orgasm can last light years. Her hand draped over my chest. She plays with my nipple absentmindedly. The tower awaits and I try to gather myself for the third.
Jumping up suddenly, she laughs and heads up the spiral staircase to my most sacred room of my castle. I follow, slower. Older. Ten years makes a lot of difference. I hear her laughing. I reach the top of the wooden stairs and the circular room with walls of one way glass look out at the spread of land. She landed on the round couch that went the circumference of the room. She tells me geometry turns her on but trigonometry puts her to sleep.
I take her from behind at an odd angle on the couch. She is my muse. She is ancient and young at the same time. I wonder how much time I could spend with her when we weren't locking bodies and trading fluids. I came back to the moment as she started to cum again as I pressed into her. Then, on her knees, I enter her from behind. We both stare out the window at my wealth. I swear she gets wetter when she sees something so big, so immense. I tense up and cum into her. I collapse on her for a brief second. We exchange a quick glance as we sit back.
“Drink?”
“Water.”
“Smoke?”
“Some pot would be nice.”
I walk over and hit a hidden button. A small refrigerator descends from the ceiling. I remove two bottles of water, a bottle of wine and an ounce of smoke. She rolls as she hydrates and I decide on the wine, a cheap red. The rich stay rich for a reason. At some point you begin to fear losing the money. This is a sad day and only the strong survive. But for now I'm with her and about to smoke and the fermented grapes dull my mind enough to be sociable. She hates when I ask her to leave immediately.
She's going nowhere in her life, but she doesn't want to hear that from me. In some ways, I think she's much happier than I am. The 99 percent bitch and moan but it's them who have the happiness – or the potential for happiness. And money does bring security and the ability to do more if you have the right mindset, but lucre can drive a man mad. Trust me on this one. I know. If not from experience than from seeing it happen to people around me. The higher up you get, the fewer people you have around. I'm on a pedestal to the heavens on my own.
As she smoked a big fatty, blowing the smoke into rings that float around the room, I go down on her as if her juices were an elixir of life and I was some Spanish explorer looking to make it big. Her lips get larger and opened up. She coughs then giggles. A little more firm, she says. I love when she tells me. I hate walking around blindly. I try not to as much as possible. She grabs the back of my head, running her fingers through my hair, pushing me closer to the spot she likes licked the most. “Oh fuck, that's it,” she moans and I know it's close.
I stop but don't pause. I don't want to cause her to cum quite yet. I let her take another hit or three and then come back with another volley of kisses that take her over the edge. She writhes and I move away, knowing she's too sensitive to be touched. I don't like to torture her. We've already been through so much tonight. And it's tight. The prose. The road to the rose between her legs. I finish the rest of the joint as she rolls another.
On the deck we look out and down. The moon is high in the sky. Almost as high as us. Maybe higher. I'm not good at science or math. That's not how I made my money. She talks to me of nothing really. We exchange words for a few minutes, but we do not connect on any inner level. She is a deep person at times – I think I see this in her – but together we do not match. Different voltages or something. Who knows. I enjoy her company for the night and in the morning when I wake she's gone.
A funny note on the refrigerator warns me about the plums being no longer around. I smile and don't save her words, tossing the paper into the garbage. I'll savor the memory – and the fresh pineapple – if not the plums. She gets me and inspires me. I want to be inside her pussy and inside her mind at the same time. Same place at the same time and the way we bump and gr
ind until we cum and then snuggle and hold close and then mix it up again. She can read the many sides of me.
As I eat small piece by piece I think of DH Lawrence. He didn't write in this or that genre. And I'm not him, but I can respect him from the place I occupy in this particular moment in time. But these words are my words. The way I describe the shape of her ass. The way I remember the way she smells when she comes to me. The way she moves when she cums for me, with me, next to me. The many ways in which out bodies writhe and I want to occupy more of her time, but as always I fear the motivation and the lack of connection. Is it just me?
I finish eating and head outside to think and sit and just bask in the immensity of the universe for just a while, just a bit. Then I think of her tits and I want to call her. I have to wait. I have to wade further into the water, closer to the point of no return as the black hole calls me as if I'm a galaxy to devour. My mind notices her absence. I notice too much for my own liking, but I'm learning to come to terms with the facts. The truth is more important than the facts. You hear that? A drone flies overhead – the least sexy thing in a piece of erotica. Romantica. I invent a new genre and invest my time investigating the crimes of the mind.
By the time the night comes around as the planet swings and sways in the vast openness around us, I ponder buying a bus and naming it Even Further and traveling here and there across the world to touch the lives of some of the 99 percent. Not to give out money (or fish), but to teach how to make these really good toasted cheese sandwiches with fresh garlic. I stole the recipe from a hippie. She didn't sue me, of course. She liked American music too much which is why she parted, but I got the memory in the form of food. I had the better lawyers.
I give up on the bus idea and retreat to my tower to pen some words to the world. As a member of the one percent I feel it is my duty and mission to make sure the misunderstood have a voice as I try to make my way through the vast number of women in the world to find one with whom to blast off in a starship to travel here and there – maybe mars. Tropic of Mars. March. I touch myself too much but who knows me better than me? The idiosyncrasies that make me tick, what can make me cum and so on. She told me it turned her on to see me touching myself and I've been trying to unravel the secrets of that statement ever since.
In her absence I don't feel like touching myself. I smoke and find the room in my mind with a good power supply so I can sit and translate the thoughts into individual words to turn you on. Turn her on. I want to turn her on, but I occupy my time with fantasies instead of chasing something real. For enough you can have whatever you want and some things you don't even know you want until they're offered to you. She occupied a piece of me like all the other 99-percenters around the world. I don't hate them even though most hate me. And I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me. I just wish she could see as she walks out the door – both what's real and what's not, what really makes me hot.
I have to stop soon. I'm not hard tonight, but I think of her moist pussy and miss it already. The night and day over so soon. It's the moments in between. I need a new adventure. When in weightlessness, you need to picture one direction as being “down.” Once you do that everything else falls in place and you can decimate the aliens first. And then other stories. I miss the way she tastes the most, so moist and full of my seed as I clean and please, serve and protect. I'm sure she thinks I'm insane, which may be the source of all my supposed riches. As for erotica niches, I have to keep writing until I find my own. Hone the skills to produce bones. Discover the ways to make others wet with anticipation.
Either sex or literature but never both. You can't fuck your cake and eat it too. I tried once. Quite comic in a certain sense. A bit burlesque with a modern twist. I think it was a chocolate cake. My black hole for the moment. I have to choose tits and ass for mass appeal or something deeper that stirs ancient and primal feelings for maybe one or two special readers. Yes, I'm talking to you. Personally. This is my diary and writing you makes me hard (to comprehend). But I'm going to do it again and again. Because, as humans, that's what we do. When you fall down you get up and start again. I would find a way to tame her. Whether I'm talking about Toni the enchantress and muse or literature as a whole IDK, ya know?
My phone rings. Hello Kitty.
Saving Ingrid the Paris Whore
I'm greeted by the smell of strawberries. She looks into my eyes and sees into my mind. We have time to waste. With the money I have we can stay in this room for the rest of our lives. Hell, I may end up buying the hotel before we're done. So much fun. She leans on her elbow and looks me over. Reaching down there, she wonders if she can stir me to life. Rescued from the slums of Paris, Ingrid has been with me for a while now. I can't remember how long.
What can I say about the way her hair feels on my chest as she moves smooth and slow – with perfect precision – down my chest. She stops and shakes her head, her hair raining down and tickling me. I take her head in my hands and push her down more. She bypasses me and continues licking my legs. She's teasing me again. I can feel myself stirring as she laps her way back up my thighs. Crawling between my legs, her long blonde hair rains down on me.
Jim Morrison croons in the next room as she finally gives in and takes me in her mouth. I gasp slightly. I don't want to let her know how good it feels. I want to make her work harder. She peeks up quickly and I see her eyes and I know I can't lie to her. I nod my head as she teases my tip with her tongue, slowly running it around and around. Lightly then forcefully. Suddenly she swallows my length, as much as she can take. I have more money than inches, but she doesn't seem to care about either as I see the blonde locks bob up and down.
My cock is rock hard now and she climbs on top of me, placing just the tip near her entrance. I thrust up to enter just a bit, but she pulls up. I reach up and cup her breasts in my hands. They're not large, but more than enough for me. As I pinch her nipples and get them even harder, she lowers herself onto me. Inch by inch I enter her. Moans fill the room as we find our groove and move in sync with each other. We are one. My mind is her mind and her mind is my mind.
Because of my money, we have all the time in the world. She knows I'm rich, but not that I'm near the top of the one percent. Would it make her hotter, I wonder? Seeing her face, I don't see how she could get more turned on. Love finally? I search her facial expressions to see if I can find the answer. Her mind is mine, but my self-doubts still torture me. Money can't buy everything. She leans forward and kisses me. My tongue enters her mouth gently, exploring.
She starts to writhe and moan even louder and sits back up, adjusting the stroke, the angle. I hit the right spot and she starts to cry out as an orgasm rushes through her body. I feel her tighten up and I can't last any longer either. I let loose and as she twists and turns, I cum inside her. I don't want to leave her. She leans back down, her hair fanning out. She sits up and I slip out. Crawling toward me, I suddenly see her secret cave right in front of my face.
Releasing her muscles, she opens up and I come rushing back out of her. I lap all I can eagerly as she presses herself against me. I look up and see her face looking up at the ceiling. Then she's at my side on her knees and bending down to kiss my lips, share my prize. I don't close my eyes. I want to see her seeing me. We've only been together a week. Or maybe it's a month. I've lost all track of time. I haven't checked in with accountants, advisers, employees or anyone else since I met her, since I rescued her, since she rescued me.
* * *
I was walking down some Rue or another, the narrow street made out of cobble stone. Passing an alley, I heard a moan. Investigating – a little drunk – I stumbled and saw her against the brick wall. A man was between her legs, eating her out. I watched for a moment. She looked at me with pleading eyes. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see a man in a blue, silk suit.
“You need to wait your turn, buddy,” he said in English.
“I want to buy her freedom,” I said, the wine controlling me partially.
/>
The man laughed then looked over at her. “You know how much she brings me in each day?”
“No,” I said, simply. I knew better than to take out my wallet or flash cash, but I had to do something. The way her eyes looked at me let me know she was a damsel in distress. She needed help. She was out of place.
“A fucking bloody lot,” he said, then laughed.
“I'll give you a year's income.”
He looked me over, not being able to tell from my clothes that I was rich. “Two years,” he insisted.
“Done,” I said simply. I gave him the address of the hotel I was staying at and told him to deliver her within the next four hours.
“Eight hundred thousand?”
“Yes. And no funny business or my security detail will make your life a living hell.” I didn't have an active security detail, but he didn't know that.
Before he could up the price, I walked away toward the hotel. I wasn't entirely sure if he would show up, but I had tried to gain her her freedom. Back in my room, I had another bottle of wine on the balcony as I watched the cityscape outside. The bright lights were hypnotizing. I loved the way they made the city seem alive.
A knock on the door startled me. How long had I been daydreaming? Opening the door, I saw the man in the shiny blue suit. The blonde was with him, as well as two burly henchmen. She looked directly at me, as if she was trying to read my mind. I hoped she didn't know what I was thinking. I wasn't even sure about that myself.
I motioned them in and went to a safe in the corner. I retrieved a cool million in hundreds and placed it in two pillow cases for them.
“You're fucking crazy man, I love you,” the pimp said.
Looking him in the eye, I said firmly, “Now get the fuck out of here and out of Paris. If you don't I will come after you and get my money back with interest. Capiche?”
He stared back at me, not blinking, but he nodded his head. With a snap of his fingers and a shrug of his head, him and the two muscle men walked out of the room, shutting the door after them. I walked over and locked it then turned to her. She was undressing near the bed.
