c h a p t e r 9
The Electric Adventures of
A Novel of Erotic Satire
Chapter 9
c:/alvinexcerpts930
``You can watch,’’ Gem repeated, ``but that’s all you get to do. For now.’’
As
``Don’t be nervous,’’
With that, Gem leaned closer still. Brenda instinctively backed away from her, then, still smiling her nervous, self-conscious smile, willed herself to hold still while Gem moved in for the first kiss.
It was a gentle peck of a kiss, followed immediately by a long, deep, hungry, one.
c:/notes/postcoll2
I dropped out of college that spring and spent the next year learning to survive as a college dropout and falling deeper in love with Beth. I hovered around campus, aimless as smoke, waiting for her to finish up school and start our life together. She was still in college while I was working full time as a waiter at one of the nicer restaurants in town, a restaurant where the tips were good and where the women dressed up, often in dresses that displayed cleavage, which meant more to me than the tips. I had to move out of my dorm, of course, and I couldn’t move in with Beth because Guinevere was still living there, so I found the first of a string of shabby apartments that I would occupy over the next several years. In addition to all of their other universal similarities, cheap apartments tend to have that smell, that aggressive mixture of mildew and piss and age. I went through a lot of bleach.
At night, I ate dinners with Beth and talked and laughed with Beth and fucked Beth and nestled inside her comforting aura of normalcy, and while I was with her I felt like a normal man. We talked about music and her classes and the perversity of religion and the latest political topics, and I swear I actually had an interest in those things while I was with her, some of it for the first time in my life. It was like her shine lit up parts of me that had been obscured by the shadow of my Inner Life for so long that I’d forgotten they were there.
But when I was alone, the normalcy evaporated, the shadows returned and I was reminded that my obsessions were still very much alive, and I was left to confront them. When Beth was busy with school I spent most of my time and energy trying not to slip too far back into my Inner Life, for fear I’d never come out.
c:/mydocs/normalcy
I wanted so desperately to be normal. I knew that ``normal’’ meant not doing things like sitting on a park bench all afternoon mentally undressing and cataloguing every woman who walked by, no matter how heavy or old or plain. So I tried not to do that too often. Normal men didn’t randomly walk up to women – the plainer the better – and ask directions they didn’t need, just so that they could study their eyes and sample their voices and look for the hidden life there. So I tried not to do that too often, either.
Normal men masturbated to glossy magazines or the occasional video when the urge arrived and no woman was around to help slake it, and then they got on with their lives. I tried that approach, but the flat images of commercial erotica had mostly lost their punch. The images weren’t alive, and their lack of life was making them less and less relevant to me. I would sometimes pass Benny’s and hear the thump of music through the walls and envision the naked vaginas inside, but I never went in, and I was sometimes surprised at how easy it was not to go in. There was life in there, but no Inner Life. It had all become pornography without a plot, bland empty calories that could no longer satisfy a growing, gnawing hunger. Beth didn’t feed the hunger so much as she made me forget it was there, but the effect was temporary. When I wasn’t inside Beth’s aura – or inside Beth – I was starving.
c:/notes/mychatlogs/chats324
JaneyX: i had 2 different lovers in two days once
Mikey000: i did too. Spring break, texas, my freshman yr
DeXtr: got you all beat: got fucked by two different men
DeXtr: on the same day. About 5 hrs apart.
Gem4U: actually i know for a fact tht
MinniMous: wait –
Alvn: thanx for that vote of confidence
Gem4U: i know – shokking!
MinniMous: adamski, what did u do???
c:/mydocuments/notes/bethstuff33
The mistake I made with Beth, I see now, was that I was desperate for her to think I was as normal as she is (to the extent that ``normal’’ is defined as not doing the bus-stop thing, or the asking-directions thing, or any of the various other things I used to do in my endless quest to get a glimpse of women’s Inner Lives). Beth was The One, I had decided shortly after meeting her, and as a result, I never told her about Mrs. McCormick, or about the yuppie woman in the strip club, or about prowling nighttime meetings of the Botany Club and Students for a Free Tibet in search of elusive Inner Lives in their natural habitats. I didn’t want to blow it.
I see now that I could have – should have – told her all those things then, at the beginning, before the lies of omission started piling up. ``Beth,’’ I should have said, ``I need to tell you something: I’m obsessed with Femaleness, everything about it. Always have been. I can’t look at a woman’s form and not see her naked; I can’t listen to a woman’s voice and not fall in love. I mentally undressed you the first time I saw you, Beth, and what’s more, I was right about all of it, even hidden inch of you; I’m always right about it, that’s how obsessive I am. I’m obsessed with everything you have that I lack, what all men lack: solid humanity, quiet strength, sober compassion. Breasts. Everything I do or think or feel eventually comes back to what you’ve got between your legs there, Beth, and in your glands, and in the smoothness of your female throat and the softness of your female voice and the sanity of your female mind. Especially that. I wasn’t born with these things – none of us who were born into blue blankets are born with these things, true enough, but for some reason (I don’t know why, it must be my unusual chemical composition) I ache for the lack of it while other men contently scratch and fart their way through their dark male lives – and so I have to obtain my humanity and sanity from external sources, like a diabetic has to take insulin. Like a junkie has to shoot up. Beth, you’re looking at an estrogen addict.’’ Maybe she’d have laughed it off, or maybe she’d have viewed me differently – maybe, conceivably, it would have derailed our marriage before it started – but in any case we wouldn’t have built our life together on a foundation of false normalcy.
c:/notes/mychatlogs/chats325
JaneyX: what, alv, did u have 3 in one day?
MinniMous: THREE??? Why you never told me??
Alvn: i never had three. Had 2 in one day.
DeXtr: so how does that have me beat? i had 2 too
Gem4U: did u propose to 1 of them the same day you had both, dex?
c:/mydocuments/notes/bethstuff33
I gave Beth some clues, but not enough of them, and even then I didn’t follow through.
One clue was after our fourth sexual encounter when, lying in bed afterward, I gently suggested she should stop trimming her pubic hair so short.
``You don’t like it?’’ she asked, confused.
``I love it,’’ I said. ``I would love it more with more hair.’’
``I thought guys liked it trimmed,’’ she said. ``I had one boyfriend who wanted it bald.’’
``Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t do that!’’
She cuddled close to me, put her mouth to my ear, and whispered playfully: ``Okay, I’ll grow it out for you, Adam. Just for you. Would you like that? I’ll grow you a nice . . . plush . . . soft . . . warm . . . bush-shhh . . . ’’
c:/adamwriting/carolEmails6432
From: CarolCrowne
To: Alvn
Subject: v-word, etc
Hi sweety! How you doing? Good, good! Loved chapt 19, still needs to be hotter. How about we have Brenda and Gem get it on? Hot hot hot! And remember, no more `vaginas’ from you – pussy, snatch, etc. HOT. Love ya, Carol. (ps – one of these days you’ll have to stop being such a freak and give me your home number for cryin out loud)
c:/notes/postcoll69
``I’ll grow you a nice . . . plush . . . soft . . . warm . . . bush-shhh . . . ’’
Beth used to say things like that, sometimes. Not as much as Guinevere, but sometimes. She stopped, eventually, perhaps because I never seized the moment. It is entirely, ironically possible that she stopped saying things like that because she decided that I was uncomfortable with them. What I wanted to do, should have done, in response to that particular comment was to get into a long, detailed discussion about her nice plush soft warm bush, and about nice plush soft warm bushes in general, and about everything that goes with them. Instead, in my quest to project sexual normalcy, I dismissed it with a little laugh, like I thought a normal man would do. It’s when I remember moments like that that I curse myself for not having started this better.
c:/alvinexcerpts954
. . . Gem peeled off her own top so quickly that it surprised
``It’s okay, honey, don’t be shy,’’ Gem told her, breathlessly, as she frantically fumbled with the buttons. Brenda, still hesitant, still being swept along, didn’t help unbutton herself, but didn’t resist as Gem eagerly pulled open the blouse to reveal a pink satin bra.
c:/mydocs/mydocuments/gwenstuff32
During that time, early on, before Beth and I moved in together, I saw Guinevere and her siren body and her brazen Inner Life frequently, at their apartment (she occasionally joined us for TV movies with popcorn), and I got to know more about her sex life than any barely casual acquaintance should ever get to know. That’s Gwen. She increasingly intruded on my fantasies, although, for Beth’s sake, I tried to keep her out. It wasn’t that Gwen was prettier or sexier or friendlier or in any way better than Beth; it was because I could envision me (or almost anyone else, for that matter) saying to Gwen, casually, ``I want to see your breasts’’ or ``I want to tongue your vagina’’ or ``I want to fuck you,’’ without getting slapped. The actual breast-exposure or vagina-tonguing or fucking wasn’t, in itself, as intriguing to me as the notion that this was a woman who would probably, certainly, be open to blunt verbal communication of those desires. Increasingly, my favorite fantasies about Guinevere weren’t focused on fucking her; they were focused on saying to her: ``I want to fuck you,’’ and then relishing the imagined conversation to follow.
And Gwen’s towering sexuality was being displayed to me more and more all the time. I was informed one night early on during dessert, for example, that Guinevere masturbated daily, even if she’d had sex with someone recently. ``No offense, Adam,’’ she said, behind a bite of peach pie, ``but men just aren’t capable of satisfying women. We let you think you are, but you’re not. Sorry to break it to you like that. I gotta take things into my own hands sometimes.’’
``Don’t you mean all the time?’’ Beth offered, lightly.
``Well once a day anyway,’’ Gwen shrugged. ``More if I’ve got time.’’ I wasn’t sure where to put my eyes as she said this, but it didn’t matter because, as always, I had become the silent audience to the skit. Beth laughed and called Gwen a slut, Gwen asked what her point was, and I shifted in my seat.
The dinners weren’t frequent. More often, Guinevere was coming or going when I came to the apartment. She was often pulling clothing on or off as she rushed to or from the bedroom. She was always busy, with what I was never clear. (Not classes, certainly. Unlike me, she had managed to remain in school, but barely.)
Once, while Beth was putting together some meal in the kitchen and I was looking at the picture of the woman on the bicycle, as I frequently did, Gwen came walking out of the bedroom with her shirt completely over her head. She was pulling it on as she headed out the door, and hadn’t gotten it down yet. She was wearing a bra, but it was a sheer one that allowed full and mostly unfettered viewing of her two stiff red nipples beneath the fabric. (I honestly believe Gwen’s nipples are never not erect.) When she finally got the shirt down off her face and saw me standing there, she reacted just like I knew she would: By issuing a little laugh and a flash of her eyes that said, ``Oops – oh well.’’ And maybe a little more.
c:/notes/beth-gwen8
That night, not for the first or last time, I pictured Guinevere as I made love to Beth, imagined those were Guinevere’s legs spread beneath me like wings, that those were Guinevere’s hands tugging at my lower back, that that was Guinevere’s breath pounding at my ear. I knew it was wrong and I vowed to myself that it would again be Beth under me before it ended, but it wasn’t. In my mind, I came deep inside Guinevere as Beth pressed her face against my throat and pushed her hips upward in final invitation. Afterward, lying back together amid post-sex repose and cooling sweat and meandering touches of one another’s bodies, I told Beth I loved her, and I meant it, but somewhere in my mind the finger that idly traced little circles around my chest was Guinevere’s.
c:/alvinexcerpts969
. . . Gem finally came up for air, letting Brenda’s nipple fall from her mouth momentarily. The nipple gleamed wetly in the half-light of the bedroom. Gem, still holding up Brenda’s breast, looked over at Alvin and seemed startled to see him there, right where she’d put him, so completely had she immersed herself in her roommate’s warm, soft, buoyant little bosom. Brenda, too, finally had abandoned herself to the moment, head back, eyes closed, breathing in hard, shallow gasps as her friend sucked and licked and kissed and tugged at her stiff brown nipple.
Now Gem’s other hand came up and found Brenda’s other soft warm tit and held it up, as if in offering, and she smiled widely at
``There’s plenty for both of us, dear,’’ Gem whispered to him. ``Come and get it.’’
c:/mydocs/notes/gwen009
I plunged inside Guinevere (for real) one year, to the day, after I began seeing Beth. It was the same day, hours later, that I proposed to Beth, and the only day in which I’ve ever had two different women. It was a heck of a day.
Gwen was my number eight (or seven, depending on how you count it) and was the last woman I’ve ever had sex with in my life except Beth. In the ``real world,’’ anyway. You know what I mean.
c:/notes5444
It’s in chapter twenty-one. And it’s real. It’s the most real part of the book.
c:/misc/postcollege/beth21
First of all, I need to be clear on one thing: Beth and I were separated at the time. Not that that excuses everything. But it’s not like I just went from Beth’s labia to Guinevere’s without prelude or impetus.
We fought a lot (Beth and I) near the end of our first year together, about little things. ``Why are you so quiet tonight?’’ one of us would say, or ``What’s with that tone in your voice?’’ You know how it is when the newness of something wears off and you start to see the colors beneath? At first you’re exploring each other, and later (if all goes well) you become comfortable with each other, but there’s a transition between those two things, an adjustment as you cross the boundary between romance and stability – a period where you just plain get on each other’s nerves. I sensed that this transition was normal for new couples, though I had naively assumed I’d be immune from its effects. Beth had a shining female aura and a soft, increasingly plush vagina and hints of a hidden Inner Life that I knew I could spend years and years uncovering and exploring; surely I wouldn’t let myself be distracted from all that by the pedestrian little conflicts of couple-dom.
Wrong. So I learned I was human after all. Vagina or no vagina, when someone consistently fails to replace the toilet paper roll and consistently leaves her books strewn all over my apartment and seems determined to brazenly leave the cap off the toothpaste every day of her life, it starts to chip away at me. What chipped at her, I was told, was my obsessive neatness, and my habit of breaking up toothpicks into little, identically sized pieces and lining them up in perfect squares while talking to her, and my insistence on sitting with my back to the wall in restaurants, none of which, in my mind, was as bad as the toothpaste thing.
It was more than all this, obviously. I can’t, even now, put my finger on exactly what started it all, but I know it was tied into my insecurity about Beth’s love for me. I couldn’t believe she loved me, couldn’t imagine why. She was a stunning, shining, intelligent, dynamic, oh-so-normal young woman with a bright future; I was a socially inept college dropout, a failed writer, a not-so-good waiter, a relentless neat-freak, a compulsive organizer, a hopeless sexual obsessive (though she didn’t necessarily know that last part). Would you have loved me?
Anyway, it all snapped just before the one-year anniversary of our first date, when we got into a major argument about where we would go for dinner, during which Beth blurted out one of the few hurtful things she’s ever said to me: ``Just because you’re a waiter doesn’t make you a restaurant expert!’’
c:/waiter
Waiter, she said, with emphasis. That stopped me, and it stopped her. She was trying to apologize as I turned and left her apartment, averting my eyes so she wouldn’t see them filling.
c:/documents/misc-docs/misc2953
Benny’s. Goddamned fucking Benny’s.
c:/notes/gwenstuff50670
Two days later, we still hadn’t spoken. On the third day, our anniversary, she left a note in my apartment mailbox saying she was sorry about the waiter comment, but that I wasn’t blameless either and that maybe we should take a break from each other for awhile. (I still have the note.) It struck me as the worst kind of apology, and not too great an anniversary present, either. When I found it, I went to Beth’s place to confront her about it.
It was early morning when I arrived at her apartment. I knocked, and no one answered, and I turned the knob and the door opened.
``Beth?’’ Nothing. I took one look around the empty apartment – the mis-matched college-student furniture, some scattered copies of Vogue and Rolling Stone, the painting of the woman on the bicycle – and was starting to leave when Guinevere appeared in the bathroom doorway. She was wearing a natty green towel, wrapped around her from breast-top to thigh-top, her short brown hair still glistening and spiky with water. The towel was too small, showing cleavage on top and, at the bottom, as much of the upper thigh as your average bikini.
``She’s not here,’’ Gwen said. She added, a moment later, with only casual concern: ``You guys okay?’’
I for one wasn’t okay; I was staring at the lower edge of the green towel as it hovered just above her thigh-tops. Had there been a breeze in the apartment, enough to flutter the towel just a little, there is no question that I’d have seen the bottom border of her vagina, the towel was that high. In the shadows between her thighs, I thought I could almost make out a few stray stands of pubic hair. Yet she stood there completely oblivious, not knowing nor particularly caring whether too much of her feminine mystery was escaping past the edges of the green terrycloth. I wasn’t okay, because, watching this, I had forgotten completely about why I was here, about my trauma from Beth’s note, about the comforting normalcy that was slipping away from me, about that terrifying feeling I’d had, reading Beth’s words, that I was skidding helplessly down a steep slope toward complete immersion in my Inner Life, never to break the surface again.
c:/wikipedianotes/clitoris21
The clitoris is a sexual organ that is present in biologically female mammals. In humans, the visible button-like portion is located near the anterior junction of the labia minora, above the opening of the urethra and vagina. Unlike the penis, which is homologous to the clitoris, the clitoris does not contain the distal portion of the urethra and functions solely to induce sexual pleasure.
c:/miscnotes/gwenfk07
Beth’s note was tucked in my hand, but I could no longer stay focused on the hurt and anger it had brought. Seeing Guinevere standing like that in her towel, basking in her sexual mist, a walking, talking Inner Life, a fellow pervert, kindred spirit, a female me (or so I thought), I made a conscious decision to stop resisting my descent down the slope and just let myself tumble.
She was wearing her mischievous smile now, watching me watching the bottom edge of the green towel. She didn’t make the slightest move to adjust it. She wasn’t seducing me, she was playing with me, like she always did. It occurred to me at that moment that her many half-dressed appearances in front of me hadn’t been accidents.
She waited until I looked back up at her eyes before she spoke. ``Is there something you want, Adam?’’ she asked, still smiling that rotten little smile.
I felt Beth’s note in my hand. I looked one more time at the green towel – the soft shadows below it, the breasts and hip-bones pushing against it, the line of cleavage sprouting above it like a dark flower – and I lunged down the slope.
``I want to fuck you,’’ I said, as calmly as if asking the time.
I surprised her, for the first and probably last time in my life. Her smile turned flat for a moment as she considered this, and her eyes widened a little.
Then her smile returned, stronger.
Gwen wasn’t going up or down any slopes; Gwen had settled comfortably at the bottom long ago.
``Well, why didn’t you just say so?’’ she asked.
c:/mydocs/bethnote
Dear Adam: Sorry I missed you. I really wanted to talk.
First, I can’t apologize enough for the waiter comment. I’m sorry, o.k.? I was mad and I shouldn’t have said that. College isn’t for everyone, and there’s nothing wrong with deciding to do something else. You’re going to be a famous writer some day, I know that, and when you are, you’ll look back on all of this as just one little pause in your life, before you hit it big.
That said, I really think we should step back and look at our relationship. It’s been one year today, and sometimes I’m not sure where we’re going with this, Adam. All we ever seem to do anymore is fight. It might be that we have such different interests and backgrounds and habits, I don’t know. I love you (there’s no question in my mind about that) and I know you love me, but that isn’t always enough.
I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, but I’m not the only one to blame here, Adam. You’re not the easiest person to get along with either, and I’m not just talking about your neatness or your incessant organizing or the toothpick thing. What really bothers me is this space between us. There’s a hidden part of you that’s still off-limits to me, and I think always will be. You want it that way, I guess, and that’s fine, but then don’t turn around and act like I’m the one who’s not taking this relationship seriously.
Adam, maybe we need to take a break from each other for awhile. I hate saying that, but I think we both need time to think about what we want out of life, and out of each other.
Call me.
Love, Beth.
c:/miscnotes/gwenfk13
Gwen put both hands on the top of her towel, looked to make sure I was watching, and slowly parted it, holding it open like a curtain framing a stage. Beneath was skin and breast and skin and nipple and skin and pubic hair and more skin, and nothing else. Her skin (skin skin skin skin) still glistened from her shower. After holding the towel open a moment longer, she took it off completely, still smiling that smile. She didn’t drop it to the floor; she flung it back into the bathroom, out of my view, as if to make herself that much more naked.
She smiled wider still and leaned against the doorway folding her arms under her breasts, pushing them upward, displaying them as surely as if they were in a frame. They were almost exactly as I’d imagined them, those beckoning tits – little wonder, as I’d all-but seen them already, through her light shirts and sheer bras: a little heavy, a little low, their natural imperfection creating its own perfection. Her wide reddish nipples rigidly telegraphed the fire raging in her mind.
She stood there, a sea of skin, watching me watch her, and smiling about it. My gaze moved slowly down her body, settling between her legs. Her pubic hair was tucked and trimmed, but not drastically. There was a respectable dark mound there, a nice inverted pyramid that sprouted up softly and darkly from the crease of her thighs and fanned out gracefully on top. I remember noticing that the hair toward the top of her vagina was longer and lighter than the hair further down. I stared at it, and she looked down at it herself, and then she looked back at me, still smiling.
``I understand you like bush,’’ she said. ``Will this one do?’’
c:/mydocs/guin2
I don’t know what Guinevere told herself about her roommate and their friendship as she led me into her bedroom. If she’s like me – and to some extent she is – she didn’t tell herself anything about it; she put it in a mental storage box and closed the lid and made herself forget about it for awhile, lest it interfere with the moment.
We stood at the foot of the bed, me fully clothed, her fully naked and still damp from her shower. She kissed me slowly and probed my mouth with her tongue and kissed my neck and then bit it gently, as I looked down at her soft wet hair and her soft skin and the jut of her breasts and nipples as they brushed against my chest. Her breathing was heavy and unsteady, and I could have sworn I felt an unnatural heat coming off her. In my scant real-life sexual experience with women, they (the women) had generally been the calmer of the two of us, while I’d been the one breathing funny and giving off heat, worked up beyond control. Hearing Guinevere breathe, feeling her heat, I was reminded again that her Inner Life was real – and that, like me, she didn’t control it so much as she was controlled by it.
She unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off of me and unsnapped my jeans, still filling the room with the sound of her breathing. I tried to help pull my pants off, but she pushed my hand away, almost violently, and continued undressing me herself. She sat on the bed and tugged my jeans down to my knees and watched the huge erection that sprung out. She stared openly at it, clearly pleased, then she looked at me to make sure I could see that she was staring openly at it, and then she stared at it some more, looking at it from several angles, as if peering at a mildly interesting statue. I was so aroused that my erection was quivering in rhythm to my heartbeat as the blood rushed through it. She smiled evilly and said: ``It’s dancing!’’
I felt as naked as I’ve ever felt, and I was suddenly self-conscious about being exposed and ogled so bluntly. ``Should we turn out the lights?’’ I asked.
``No fucking way,’’ she answered, not even looking up.
c:/avlexcerpts/gemstuff05
. . . Gem had one hand wrapped around Alvin’s shaft now, and with the other was teasing the tip, running her fingers around it, pinching and massaging it, all with that same studied, unabashed, openly inquisitive look on her face. After studying it a moment longer, she slowly slipped her mouth over the tip and sucked it hard enough to make a squeaking sound. She let it pop out of her mouth, then pulled it back in, this time burying him in the back of her throat.
He’d had women’s mouths on his cock before, but it had never felt like this, the tongue pressing on the bottom of the shaft, the lips forming a tight ring at the base, and tip squeezing hotly inside the back of the throat, all heat and moisture and warmth and perfect pressure and not a hint of teeth. She was beyond good at this; she was an expert, a master. She began sliding her head and mouth up on down along his cock, still maintaining that perfect control, still pulling it in deep enough that he wondered how she could breathe. She was, he thought, literally fucking him with her throat, a sensation he’d never quite felt before, and he knew in one panicked moment that she had to stop immediately or this was going to be a very short encounter. She sensed it, too, and pulled herself off him after just four or five thrusts. His cock stood there, wet and erect and teetering on the edge of orgasm, for probably a full thirty seconds as she stared at it again, not touching it.
``We doin’ okay?’’ she asked his cock, her eyes three inches from its tip.
``Mmm-hmm,’’ he said, weakly.
Her breathing still sounded as if she was engaging in some sort of physical labor. She said between breaths: ``My pussy’s wet as a fucking puddle. Wanna see?’’
``Mmm-hmm.’’
As
c:/misc/fiction/g-puddle
. . . every naked inch, her long neck and collar bones and softly swelling breasts and stony-red nipples and her curving waist and her soft brown bush (she lifted her hips slightly as I looked there, offering a better view) and her toned brown thighs. After giving me a moment to take it all in, she ran one index finger along the top edge of her pubic hair, looked down at it and whispered: ``God I’m wet, Adam. I’m so fucking wet.’’ She looked back at me, seemingly waiting for something, though I wasn’t sure what.
Then I knew, maybe from the demanding way she was looking at me. I should have known earlier. This wasn’t just a woman having sex, after all; this was a living, breathing Inner Life, with all that that entails. She was, I knew in that moment, like me, at least in the sense of being a sexual alcoholic. She needed more than nudity, more than foreplay, more than the act of intercourse. None of that was enough anymore, physical sex wouldn’t bring a buzz anymore, she needed something stronger.
She needed words.
So I gave them to her.
``Let me see her,’’ I said, dropping to my knees and leaning over the bed, my chin hovering over her shins, my face staring directly at her vagina. ``Spread your legs and show me your pussy, Gwen. I wanna see her. Show her to me.’’
``Okay,’’ she said, emphatically. That’s what she had wanted – words – and I slowly doled out more of them as she brought her knees up to her chest.
``Spread for me, Gwen. I wanna see your soft wet pussy.’’
``I’ll show you,’’ she breathed, her knees still together at her chest. She put her hands under her hips and rolled back so that her ass was completely off the bed and facing me. Her thighs were still clenched tight, with just a hint of the bottom of her vagina peeking out from between them. And she stayed like that, holding out for more words.
``Show her to me, Gwen.’’
``Okay, I will. I’ll spread my legs for you.’’
``Lemme see pink, honey.’’
``You sure you wanna see it all, Adam?’’
``Show her to me!’’
``Want me to spread for you?’’ She wasn’t even looking at me now. She was looking at the ceiling, talking between jackhammer breaths, savoring the words. ``You want me to spread like a slut?’’
``Yes. Spread for me.’’
``Your own personal slut?’’
``Oh, yes!’’
``What will you do?’’
`` I’ll suck it.’’
``You’ll suck my wet pussy for me?’’
``Yes. Spread your legs Gwen. I wanna see your pussy. Spread for me.’’
``You’ll suck it?’’ She was rocking gently on her hips now, her knees still together.
``I’ll lick your pussy lips and suck your clit and fuck you with my tongue.’’
``You promise? You’ll suck my wet pussy for me Adam?’’
``I promise.’’
``You’ll fuck me with your tongue?’’
``I promise.’’
``If I spread my legs for you?’’
``I promise.’’
``Okay.’’
c:/wikipedianotes/clitoris42
The clitoris is a complex structure that includes the external and internal components. Visible to the eye is the clitoral hood (prepuce), which in full or part covers the head (clitoral glans), shaft and inner lips (labia minora). Inside the body are the legs or clitoral crura, urethral sponge, clitoral bulb (previously referred to as vestibule bulb) and corpora, perineal sponge, a network of nerves and blood vessels, suspensory ligaments, muscles and pelvic diaphragm.[2]
c:/documents/notes/sprd
After what seemed like hours of breathlessly talking about spreading her legs, Guinevere finally did just that, slowly. Her hands were still behind her hips, propping her ass up off the bed, facing me, her knees still pointing at her chin, her eyes still glazed and staring at the ceiling, her breath still ragged and frantic. First she straightened her legs, keeping them together and up, so that her toes and her head were both pointing in the same direction. For a moment she hovered in that impossible position while I studied the creamy white backs of her thighs and calves. Then she slowly, gracefully parted them. Their movement was glacially slow, mechanically exact, a few inches per second at most. She was pushing her hips up so far that the opening to her vagina – still mostly hidden between her thighs but becoming more visible to me by the second – was practically facing the ceiling. She was putting more thought and effort into the isolated act of spreading her legs than most people probably put into their entire sex lives, I silently mused; it was clear that the act of spreading her legs had become, for her, at that moment, not a means to an end but the whole point itself. The movement was so practiced and graceful and unnaturally perfect that I wondered momentarily if Gwen had a gymnast’s background. Unlikely, as busty as she was, I decided; more likely her impressive flexibility and balance came from countless repetitions of the very activity in which she was currently engaged.
When her legs were finally spread as wide as I thought they could possibly go, she spread them a few inches wider. Then she froze like that, hips and ass propped off the bed, legs hovering a foot off the bed, spread impossibly wide, forming a straight horizon of skin, her vagina rising from the middle of it like the sun, my face hovering a few inches over all of it.
Her breathing intensified, a wordless command for me to stare, and I did. The lights were still on. I could see now that her pubic hair was expertly trimmed into an exact triangle, a slightly too-perfect imitation of nature, but at least not overly short or artificially shaped. The severely shorn strippers at Benny’s could have learned a thing or two from Gwen about the proper presentation of pubic hair, I thought. Her thighs were spread so widely that either side of the vagina was being pulled slightly open by the tension, revealing the pink inner lips, her clitoris, and wetness. The pubic hair near her vaginal opening was glistening with it, and as I peered closer I could see, with something like amazement, that there actually was a little collection of liquid cupped in the upturned mouth of her vagina – not just wetness but wetness with a measurable depth, wetness that would spill like wine from a glass if she were to lower her hips. Wet as a fucking puddle, she had said, and she hadn’t been kidding.
``Are you looking at my cunt, Adam?’’
``Yes.’’
``Right at it?’’
``Yes.’’
``You see how wet I am?’’
``Yes.’’
c:/wikipedianotes/clitori60
The head or glans of the clitoris is a simple bundle of 8,000 nerve fibers, estimated to be twice the number found in the penis [3]making it particularly well-suited for sexual stimulation.
c:/adamstuff/my documents/collstuff24
When I remember that morning with Guinevere, that’s the part I remember most: Her spreading her legs wide, holding them there, commanding me to stare between them. The rest of it was just sex – great sex, true, but just sex. I’ll tell you about it, because I know readers can never get enough of Gem, but I have to say that, for me, the rest of it pales next to the leg-spreading.
After staring for eons at the vagina that was being offered up to me as if on a platter, I gently laid my thumbs and forefingers in either side of her vaginal lips (taking care not to disturb her precarious balance), slowly parted them so that the clitoris stood at attention, then slowly – slowly, slowly – slid my tongue inside her. I pushed it in as far as it could go, far enough that her pubic hair brushed the insides of my nostrils. Then I wriggled the end of my tongue, deep inside her, and listened to her jackhammer breaths: ``Oh. Oh! Oh, Adam – oh, god, Adam, yes, tongue-fuck me!’’
I did. Then I sucked on her stiff, salty clitoris, then probed her with one, two and finally three fingers while taking her hard, perfect nipples into my mouth. Ten minutes later I was on top of her, my throbbing erection pushed as far inside her slick, hot vagina as it could go. She was, as they say, an animal, and unlike the Young Republican I had had, she wasn’t faking her enthusiasm. She clawed my ass and kicked the backs of my legs and scratched me and pulled my hair and bit my ears and shouted at me to fuck her, ``fuck me hard, oh Adam, ram me!’’ and I did, for a long time. I held off from orgasm longer than I thought was possible, in fact, because of her insistence on a deep and frantic pace, contradictory as that sounds. The pace was so fast and rough that my penis started to get numb, and I quickly realized that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in terms of what the men’s magazines call ``staying power.’’ My normal preference would have been a slow, probing rhythm, the soft cushion of her breasts kneading gently against my chest, her warm breath whispering in my ear, but it also would have set me off far too soon, I was certain. The deep, hard, angry thrusts she insisted upon didn’t allow me the luxury of considering what we were doing or how it felt, which staved off the wave for, I’m guessing, forty minutes. My penis had become a piston, a steel thing not really attached to me anymore, a tool I was using (or, rather, she was using). I was thrusting deep inside her and feeling her but also had the sensation of standing apart from the whole event, watching it from a distance, numbly.
Among the many fleeting thoughts going through my head during those long minutes was the thought that, possibly, my unprecedented longevity was Gwen’s intentional doing, a trick she had learned from her experience with god-knows-how-many lovers: Turn them into tools.
c:/misc/notes5602
She came twice, loudly enough that I thought about the neighboring apartments, and then I came once, somewhat more quietly. As always, arriving at orgasm wasn’t as rewarding to me as the journey there. My first thought afterward was how much my back and upper thighs hurt from all the relentless thrusting (they would hurt for days). My second thought was that I had officially cheated on Beth.
c:/mydocs/fictionnotes
In my defense, it was the first, last and only time since meeting Beth that I have ever climbed into bed with another woman. I remind myself of that a lot these days, but you and I know that, in my case, it isn’t much of a defense. I could sit here and tell you that my love and commitment to Beth and my own iron will are what has kept me out of other women’s beds, but if you’ve read my book, you know the simpler truth: I’ve stayed out of their beds because their beds aren’t what interest me about them. For me to take much comfort in my physical fidelity would be like someone who is ambivalent about candy bragging that he is able to forego it; big friggin’ deal. I learned a long time ago that the physical act of sexual intercourse is a mirage, its timeless allure always taunting us in the distance but then collapsing into something less perfect once we reach it. Most men lurch forever toward the mirage anyway, but at some point in my life I stopped, sat down in the sand and decided I’d rather gaze at the thing from afar, its distant beauty forever intact. For me, being what I am, the test of fidelity isn’t, ``Did he stay out of their beds?’’; the test is, ``Did he stay out of their Inner Lives?’’ That one, I’ve failed pretty badly.
c:/mydocuments/writingnotes/martiansummer6
Lieutenant Adkins lay on his side on the bunk, idly looking out the porthole and resting his aching muscles. The Martian landscape stretched away on all sides, a cold barren desert of red sand, red rocks, red mountain, red sky. The sheets of his bunk were still damp with the sweat and residue of Lieutenant Brandon. Or maybe Sergeant Minnelli before her. Or perhaps Ensign Geneva before her. In the past several days in his little bunk, their sweat and residue had mingled and mixed like the red rocks and sand and sky outside the porthole.
Out there, the small setting sun gleamed briefly on the round silver dome over the dig site in the distance, a glittery speck on the horizon, where so many of the crew members had broken down and cried at what they’d found. Three of them – including the last two males besides Adkins himself – had lurched out into the wispy Martian air and yanked open their pressure suits and died squirming and gasping in the red dust rather than live with this new, piercing knowledge.
Adkins, never an especially religious man, hadn’t cried, had assumed he would survive the knowledge, and he was right.
Surviving the pleasure was another question.
He lay back and closed his eyes and let his naked muscles go limp. He‘d quit bothering with clothes several days earlier, the process of dressing and undressing having become just one more exertion. During one recent bout, he’d actually become so exhausted that his legs had given out and his weight had settled entirely onto Helmsman Decker, who wasn’t a big woman and might gotten hurt had he not managed to push himself off with his arms.
He’d told Captain Janeway, after that episode, that he’d need to sleep, preferably for a few days.
``Request denied,’’ she’d answered, through the intercom on the wall next to his bed. ``I’m sorry, Bill, but this particular order is the most important one I’ve ever given. I wish I could distribute the work more evenly, but as you know, I can’t. The best I can do is to tell you that all your crewmates are fully committed to the mission. In fact, I’ll be joining the rotation myself soon . . . ’’
c:/documents/docs/bthgwen
I proposed to Beth on the same day I slipped into Guinevere.
I left Guinevere’s bedroom that morning feeling physically sore and emotionally shaken. On my way out the door, I stopped and took one more look at her, sprawled naked on the bed, one thigh flung casually open, smiling contently and idly stroking the top few strands of her pubic hair, just below the soft plane of her belly. Something about the smile suddenly angered me, and I said coolly: ``We shouldn’t have done that.’’
She stretched, cat-like, and answered: ``Speak for yourself.’’ Then, noticing the frayed look in my face, she added, scoffing: ``Relax, Adam, I’m not gonna tell her. Jeez, it’s not like I want to take you home to mom.’’ I remember being startled at the notion of Gwen having a mom.
I stepped out into frantic late-morning sunlight of a world that had changed. For years I had searched for the female Inner Life, had dug and prodded at the notion that were women out there who, like me, lived in a shroud of their own desires and obsessions. I realized, for the first time, that it had been an almost-religious quest on my part. Now I had found such a mind and had had it spread willingly open to me, and instead of feeling peace or elation or any kind of epiphany, I felt like a spent and discarded can of cola. For the first time, I recognized the obvious: that genuine sexuality (unlike society’s romanticized ideal of it) is, at its base, a selfish urge, like hunger. We may share our meals with others, but in the end we’re feeding our own stomachs. I felt – cheap is the wrong word. Foolish. I felt like I’d been asked by someone to help jump a car battery, and I had done it, and then I had stupidly tried to attach some deep significance to it as the driver had trolled cheerfully away.
And I felt betrayed as well (ironic, considering). Gwen was – is – similar to me in some ways, certainly in terms of being addicted to the carnal. It occurred to me only later that, just as I had recognized her hidden secret early on, she had very likely recognized mine. In dropping the green towel off her wet body, she knew she was waving booze under the nose of an alcoholic – knew it better than anyone, being afflicted herself – and she happily waved it anyway. I know I can’t blame her for my actions any more than the drunk driver can blame the bartender. But, just for the record, courts have held bartenders responsible.
c:/fictionnotes/miscnotes/notes/likebush
Afterward, back at my apartment, spent and wrung out, I fell asleep for a little while. I dreamt about the woman on the bicycle, the one from the painting in Beth’s and Gwen’s living room. She (the woman) was pedaling lazily through the countryside, the same brightly colored landscape from the painting, except now it felt more cartoonish than artistic. The motion of her pedaling lifted her skirts, then dropped them, then lifted them, then dropped them, each time momentarily exposing a brown-haired vagina that looked suspiciously like Gwen’s. I was riding alongside her, staring between her legs, trying to catch more than a glimpse of her soft brown mound; I was frustrated because I could see it only for a moment at a time.
Finally she stopped, climbed off the bicycle, bunched her skirt up and stood there before me, naked from her navel down. It was Gwen’s vagina, all right; I recognized the straightness of the hair line and the way it grew lighter and longer toward the top. But when I looked up, I saw, to my shock, that the face smiling at me was Beth’s.
``I understand you like bush,’’ Beth said, her blondeness shimmering in surreal contrast with the shadowy dark hair between her legs. ``Will this one do?’’
c:/dream23476
The dream disturbed me deeply. I know the published evidence may be against me here, but you must believe me when I tell you I’ve never, ever viewed women as a collection of interchangeable parts. Quite the opposite. Yet all the various interpretations I came up with for the dream seemed to keep coming back to that conclusion. Worse, I awoke from the dream with a throbbing erection, in complete defiance of my intellectual horror at the imagery.
c:/mydocuments/writingnotes/martiansummer7
He’d just tipped toward the edge of sleep when he heard the gentle rap on his door and the rustle of another body in the room. He opened his eyes. Commander McNamara, right on schedule.
He smiled wanly at her, not bothering to conceal his exhaustion. She’d been a year ahead of him at the academy, where they’d briefly dated without consummation (ironic now, in hindsight) before settling into a casual but sturdy friendship that had endured the years of their winding, occasionally intersecting careers. Her current status over him on the ship – second in command – hadn’t diminished it.
She smiled sympathetically. ``How are you, Bill?’’ she asked.
``Exhausted,’’ he said, with a small laugh. ``More exhausted than I was during basic training. Maybe they ought to add this to the regimen.’’
They both laughed. Then they both smiled, she with sympathy, he with exhaustion.
``I’m sorry, Bill. I have my orders,’’ she said, unzipping her jumpsuit. ``And so do you.’’
c:/misc/stories/bth23
Beth knocked on my apartment door that afternoon. I knew it was her (funny how you learn to recognize a person’s knock) and I assumed she was here to confront me about Guinevere and to tell me that it was, truly, over. I walked to the door, numb with resignation, already thinking ahead: Benny’s opened in a few hours. It had been more than a year since I’d set foot inside, but the thumping music it emitted every time I passed by told me nothing had changed. There was a new adult video store on
c:/misc/stories/bth24
For a moment before opening the door, I ventured even further into the future, seeing myself as an old man, my thinning hair turned white and brittle, a pathetic, grizzled, retired waiter, still bellying up to the dance floor at Benny’s, leering between the legs of women young enough to be my granddaughters, slipping into the red stalls, slipping into bed alone, forever alone. As I turned the knob, it occurred to me that a part of my life – the brightest part, the part that shone like Beth’s hair – was about to end. Beth was the executioner and I was opening the door to let her in. What else could I do?
c:/adamnotes/college/misc/notes/firstday1
Beth and I stood and stared silently at one another for, I’m guessing, a full thirty seconds after I opened the door. A beam of afternoon light from the window in the lobby washed over her, making her startlingly blonde – blonder than ever, it seemed – and I was momentarily overwhelmed again by the image of that delicate blondness sharing a body with Guinevere’s dark, plush vagina. Then I found myself pushing Gwen’s name out of my mind as quickly as possible, as if to prevent Beth from somehow seeing it there.
I couldn’t read her face; I looked for anger or hurt and, not finding it, I checked for forgiveness and didn’t see that, either. She was, for a moment, a picture, as still and mysterious as the woman on the bicycle. I must have looked terrified as I studied her face for some sign of my fate, because after another moment, one corner of her mouth went up and her head cocked to one side and she gave me that sort of sideways look she gives when she’s trying to get me to lighten up.
She said: ``It’s been a whole three days. How did you manage without me?’’
By fucking your roommate, I thought. But what I said was: ``I haven’t managed without you. I don’t know that I can.’’ Which struck me as glaringly true as soon as I said it.
Her smile widened. ``Me too,’’ she said softly.
We held each other for several long, sun-drenched minutes in the doorway, both crying softly. She hugged me so tightly that it suddenly occurred to me, for the first time, that she might need me as much as I needed her, though certainly for different reasons. She didn’t need someone to keep her anchored in the real world, she was already firmly there, and I wondered in those minutes what I could possibly bring to the table. Not looks; she was certainly more attractive than me. Not financial security; it was obvious even then that she had the brighter professional future of the two of us. I was neater and more organized than she, true enough, but I found it hard to believe that was what drew her to me.
Standing there in the doorway in those long, sunny minutes, it struck me for the first time that perhaps my contribution to this union was the very thing from which I needed her to protect me: my Inner Life, my immersion in a fantasy world that only occasionally and randomly crosses paths with the real one. Could it be that, just as I needed an anchor, Beth needed someone to help her drift now and then? If so, I thought in those minutes, I’ve been falling down on the job, trying to be as normal as she when was what called for was a little of my natural abnormality.
It was just as I was thinking this that she sobbed in my ear: ``What do you want from me, Adam?’’ It wasn’t a rhetorical question or a statement or a demand; she was genuinely asking. I pulled back and looked into her tear-streaked face and, for the first and one of the few times in our marriage, fulfilled my role as her guide to another place.
``I want to fuck you,’’ I said, mimicking my own words to Guinevere from that very morning. ``I want your tits in my hands, I want your clit in my mouth. I want your legs wrapped around me. I want to be deep inside you, as soon as humanly possible. I want to fuck you until neither of us can move anymore.’’
I wondered instantly (as you must be wondering right now) about the appropriateness of saying it just then, but my instincts were, for once, right. Beth’s smile widened and her eyes widened. ``How romantic!’’ she said, with an appalled laugh.
Then she pulled me close again and said into my ear, with unintentional accuracy: ``I always knew you were a pervert.’’
I felt her hand slide past my tailbone and grip the fleshy right cheek of my ass. ``I think my . . . bush . . . has grown a little thicker in the last three days,’’ she said, her voice suddenly sultry. ``Want to check it for me?’’
c:/misc/sweetestandbest
It was the best sex of my life – better, even, than Guinevere had been that morning. For once, I abandoned my mask of normalcy in Beth’s presence and pulled her wholly into my Inner Life and, for once, she went willingly, and the effect was explosive.
And that’s all I’m going to tell you about it. Sorry, but even for me there are a few moments in life that are private, and this was one of them.
c:/wikipedianotes/clitoris91
During sexual arousal and during orgasm, the clitoris and the whole of the genitalia engorge and change color as these erectile tissues fill with blood, and the individual experiences vaginal contractions. Masters and Johnson documented the sexual response cycle, which has four phases and is still the clinically accepted definition of the human orgasm. More recent research has determined that some can experience a sustained intense orgasm through stimulation of the clitoris and remain in the orgasmic phase for much longer than the original studies indicate, evidenced by genital engorgement and color changes, and vaginal contractions.
c:/misc/sweetestandbest2
Okay, I will tell you one thing: I hadn’t showered since sex with Gwen that morning. I hadn’t planned it that way – in fact, I was worried as Beth and I undressed each other that she might notice (how can I put this?) a subtle, delicate hint of Guinevere still lingering on my shaft. And as I slid deep inside Beth, her legs wrapped tightly around my back, I was overwhelmed by the notion that I was sharing part of both these women on me right then, and that they were sharing part of each other. I thought about the dream – blonde Beth, wearing Guinevere’s dark vagina – and its sudden relevance was both indescribably erotic and intensely funny. I laughed out loud, just as we were hitting our rhythm.
The effect couldn’t have been better; Beth laughed too, a laugh of general elation (which, I suppose, is what she thought my laugh had been). She grabbed my shoulders a little tighter and spread her legs a little wider and pushed her hips up toward me a little higher. Then, gasping, she pressed her mouth against my left ear and unintentionally completed the surreal threesome: ``Oh, Adam,’’ she hissed, ``I’m so wet, god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!’’ and in the other ear I heard Gwen (``wet as a fucking puddle spread like a slut fuck me hard oh Adam RAM me!’’). Beth’s whispering voice in my ear became a jumbled, almost unintelligible chant, a purring engine with a rolling rhythm and an occasional rise in pitch (``fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, FUCK me, fuck me . . . ’’).
All at once I was careening toward a disastrously early finish. Then I remembered Gwen’s trick, and I separated myself from the moment and I became a piston.
c:/mydocuments/budgetnotes
She came twice. Just like Gwen had. Not that I claim this happens often.
c:/notes/prpse
``Marry me,’’ I said, after the second time, before I’d caught my breath.
c:/mydocuments/writingnotes/martiansummer8
Lieutenant Adkins opened his eyes to find Captain Janeway sitting on the edge of his bunk, looking down at him, a small, calm smile on her lips. Outside the porthole, the sun had almost completely set behind the jagged red horizon, cloaking the Martian landscape in sharp-edged clusters of darkness.
He was looking at the landscape and letting his mind climb out of sleep when he realized that his half-hard cock was in the gentle but firm grip of his captain.
``Sorry to wake you, lieutenant,’’ she said, and she sounded as if she meant it. ``I know you’ve been through a lot lately. I was actually hoping to do this while you slept.’’
After a moment’s tense consideration, she added: ``I was . . . um . . . I was just getting ready to use my mouth. If you think that would work.’’
He blinked, and breathed deep and shook off the sleep as best he could, and took in her face. She was significantly older than he, though not so old as to have a biological excuse to sit out the order she had given the rest of the crew. It occurred to him, for the first time, that she wasn’t an unattractive woman: tall, curvy, with silky dark hair that she kept in a tight bun on duty but which now cascaded down over her shoulders. Her breasts, somewhat heavy, low but not too low, announced themselves through her jumpsuit. She noticed the direction of his eyes, and she turned her body toward him to accommodate a better view.
A moment later, making a decision, she stood and stripped off the jumpsuit in one efficient motion, and then was standing naked before him. Her breasts, free now, were fuller than her uniforms had hinted; her nipples were prominent and red. Her hips, too, were rounder and fuller than he’d guessed. He was gratified to see a lush dark triangle between her legs, a generational difference, he supposed, from the younger members of the crew. (He’d been so put off by the bare skin between Ensign Wexler’s legs that he’d had to avoid looking in order to finish with her.)
c:/adambethcoll
The rest of that day with Beth was one of those you remember forever, a leisurely, relaxed, romantic, hopeful day in which we did a lot of little things and mainly just enjoyed the feeling that the rest of our lives were stretched out in front of us like new blacktop. We lounged in my bed for three hours, drinking wine and kissing and laughing and whispering. We showered together. We dressed and walked to the park, holding hands like high schoolers. The world looked so good to me. I felt so – normal. By evening, we were headed back to Beth’s apartment, where Guinevere waited, and I was surprised at my own steadiness; I could handle this. Yes, there was a little guilt, yes, a little fear of exposure, but mostly I viewed it as a hill I had to get over. As soon as the three of us were standing in a room together and nothing exploded, I knew I’d be able to get on with my life with Beth. Gwen might toy with me, but there was no reason to believe she’d tell. Why would she ruin their friendship? It wasn’t like she wanted to take me home to mom.
Gwen was wearing her favorite green sweats when we arrived and was stretched out on the living room chair reading a magazine, one leg splayed up over the padded arm. She looked up and nodded briefly when we walked in, and didn’t close her legs. Her smile lingered on me a moment too long but not long enough for Beth to notice. Beth motioned to her with her head and said she had to go into the bedroom to get something, and Gwen said she had to help her, and they both disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, I could hear them down there, whispering and giggling. I heard Beth say ``proposed.’’ I thought I caught the words ``in bed all afternoon.’’ Nothing exploded, and I felt the last remnants of tension fall off me. I wandered over and looked at the woman on the bicycle and was startled to discover that the sight of it stirred me and forced me to adjust my jeans.
c:/mydocuments/writingnotes/martiansummer9
``Does this help?’’ Captain Janeway asked him, placing her hands on her hips and turning her naked body slightly to one side, then the other.
She looked at the hardening shape pushing through his bedsheet and saw her answer. She peeled back the sheet and gently straddled him in the small bunk, taking his cock in her hand and guiding him into her.
As the pleasure started to build, Lieutenant Adkins’ gaze drifted back out the porthole and over the jagged landscape of Mars, now almost entirely cloaked in darkness. God had died out there amid those red rocks – had died as surely as he himself would die, should he attempt to step unprotected into the thin icy atmosphere outside his porthole. So it was possible to die of knowledge.
Was it possible to die of pleasure? he wondered, as his captain pressed her lips to his ear and whispered an unyielding military order cloaked in a soft womanly rasp: ``Relax, Lieutenant. Relax . . . ’’
c:/adamgwencoll
Beth and Gwen emerged from the bedroom after a few minutes. Beth and I were going to dinner and Beth invited Gwen in a tone that made it clear she should decline, and she did. On our way out the door, Beth discovered that she really did have to get something out of the bedroom, she’d left her purse there. In the roughly ten seconds that she was gone, Gwen and I were locked in one of her trademark stares. I thought for a moment that she looked hurt – a strange look to see on Gwen’s face – but I quickly realized that that tightness around her mouth was amusement. She waited until she could hear Beth emerging from the bedroom before she let her mouth curl up into a little smirk, and whispered: ``Boy, have you had a busy day, young man.’’
Full Text / All Chapters < > To Chapter 10
I am seeking a literary agent or publisher
Contact: alvinpart2@yahoo.com
