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Joanna
People ask how
it was, that summer with the insatiable Joanna.
I: escorting her
on her trimphial process through the art galleries and
salons of the city, and afterward to her private retreat, to
serve her as
best I could. She: renaissance woman, engineer, artist, author,
adventurer,
and, as I mentioned above, insatiable in her appetites and imaginings.
She had an unusual
idea of foreplay--had designed a battery-powered device,
or series of devices, to wear beneath those tights and leotards
she favored
to display her wiry body (twenty-three at the time, she had the
height, the
small, firm breasts, and the innocent face of a fourteen-year-old...a
fourteen-year-old that has grown up in small-town Texas, rather
than--as
was the actual case--the malls of Long Island). I saw her install
it many
times: first lubricating, then inserting the small, black vibrator
into her
anus, another into her vagina, then attaching (with the aid of
EEG cement)
her own design of electrode at the base of her clitoris and on
each of her
beautiful, brown nipples, already seeming to tighten and stand.
Then on
with the concealing panties and bra, then the tights, the leotard,
and
whatever eye-wrenching, breath-stopping topping she had invented.
She would
test the remote control, a palm-sized, black device with five
pressure
switches, and shiver approvingly as each little machine responded.
Then we would go
out to whatever was on that night. Sometimes --at a movie,
say (an opening for one of her director friends)--her hands out
of sight in
the darkness, speaking occasionally across the aisle. Only now
and then
would her eyes close and her breath catch at some interior drama.
Then we
would go into brightness, chatter, movement in a room. She would
hand the
control to me and wander off to speak to someone or stand before
a window,
a painting. She claimed to be able to distinguish my mood by
the touch on
the controls. Sometimes I favored long, circular rhythms that
actuated each
button in turn, punctuated with periods of silence--to leave
her in
anticipation of where, and when, the next little shock would
arrive. At
other times, throwing finesse to the winds, all the buttons at
once.
Her self-control
was remarkable. My favorite game was to catch her in
animated, intellectual discussion with some gray professor of
theoretical
art. From behind, I could see her small buttocks clench. As she
stood in
conversation, her back would, almost imperceptibly, arch, she
would put
down her glass of mineral water, grasp one wrist in the other
hand behind
her, push her shoulders back. (The effect of this bit of body
language on
her conversational partner was always a secret joy to behold.)
Her high
cheeks would flush, her eyes brighten, and she would, just a
little, rock
her pelvis--but meanwhile not miss a conversational beat. I did,
twice,
cause her to have to excuse herself and move out of the limited
range of
the control, but she was back again within moments each time.
By the time we
were ready to leave, to go back in the back of a darkened
car to her apartment, we would be ready to tear into each other.
But
Joanna's rule (Was she controlling? Was I acquiescent? What do
you think?)
was always "Don't come on the carseat." With our hands
down the front of
our pants and her small, sweaty body wriggling, her tongue (that
taste of
pate in another's teeth), the rule was almost violated more than
once.
But there was a
reason, a reward, for whatever forbearance we manage to
maintain. Joanna always made it worth our while. We would stumble
into the
room, she would disappear for some moments, and then reappear,
naked,
oiled, and smiling.
What followed next
would have no pattern from one time to the next. Often
she would lie back on the narrow bench at the foot of the bed,
her black
hair falling unruly away from her face, and command me to kneel
beside. "I
want to be sucked," she'd say, and I'd bend to with a will.
Her hands would
clamp into my own hair, pushing my head to her breasts. Oh! Those
breasts,
so beautiful they were, with the small nipples standing to attention
like
little soldiers. I'd tease with my tongue, circling, nibbling,
sucking,
taking the whole breast in my mouth, pinching with my lips. One
of our
hands would slide down her smooth flank to cup her buttocks,
now writhing
and spinning, and slip a finger into the rosebud anus. Another
hand,
sliding down her firm, rounded belly, would dive into the folds
of the
vagina and slide up to her hard, small clitoris. She was always,
by now,
oiled and lubricated to a fare-thee-well. The sound of wet, slippery
flesh,
her panting, my own moans would fill the small room. She would
come
spectacularly, pushing her pelvis up into the air, into our hands,
spinning
on a finger.
Then she would
sink back into herself, smiling and tender. Only for a
moment though: then it would be her turn (or was it mine?)--and
she would
sit me down on the edge of the bed or the bench. And as she took
me in her
mouth she looked, through angled mirrors, into my eyes. For the
next five
minute eternity neither she nor I nor our locked gazes would
move--outwardly.
But her tongue
would.
And when at last
I would have to, she would meet my desparate thrust with
one of her own, engulfing me to the engorged root, then pulling
back and
swallowing seedspurt. And as I slowly shrank, she would keep
me in her
mouth, teasing with her lips, sucking me gently empty and dry.
Or I would be behind
her, slowly easing myself into the warm, the grasping,
the snug. As I moved, my hands hooked over her hips (or sliding
one finger
down, and up, the wondrous groove) she gripped and held me. She
had another
mouth down there, and drank me both ways.
Or (more rarely)
she squatted above me, and slowly lowered herself onto my
upright penis--carefully, because she was taking me into her
anus, and
wanted me to not move, to not tear the delicate tissue. The tight
ring
would slide down around me, the heat, blooming, surrounding me.
I would be
slippery with oil and anticipation. Once secure against my base,
she would
rock back and wrap her legs around my knees. "Oh,"
she'd say, her eyes bent
back to me in mock reproach, "you're holding me so wide..."
Then reaching
to apply the vibrator, first deeply into herself (I could feel
it inside
her, moving against my own stiff shaft) then along the groove,
to the top,
to flourish around her own stiffened little stalk. Bending and
howling, she
would come as I tried to hold her pinioned, pulling her knees
from under
mine, clamping them over her busy hands, still impaled on me.
Finally she
would lie quiet. Then I would try to pull out (slowly) a fraction
of an
inch, and then (couldn't help) slam her back against me, and
come and come
and come.
She said her goal
was to be filled to overflowing with our juices. Some
mornings, it seemed that way--her mouth tasted of me, her vagina
also, our
skins slurred with each others' fluids. She would disappear then
into the
den, into the studio, to her work, for a day or for days. Leaving
me to
myself, to plan, to my own work.
Part of what she
did was write the stories she'd spun while lying beside me
afterwards, when the morning sun crashed through the half-open
window.
Stories that could never have been true, but which, for a wonderful
time,
we said were true.
There was...the
Island of Children. There, she said, she had grown up with
her identical twin, her brother (genetic manipulation? cloning?)--from
an
early age, it was as if there was one soul in the two bodies,
and they had
shared and touched each other always as one would touch oneself.
Two
touched twoself. (She taking his little sex in her mouth while
he slept,
making it stand. Then if he woke, riding him down again--or if
he did not,
sucking him while he dreamed.) They were brown and naked in the
sun, their
light hair unkempt, sparkling with splashed water. Then they
saw the girl
lying on the sand.
------ to be continued -------- |