My Friends the Allens -- Atoms by Mark Aster = = = Note: this story contains oblique references to sex and other naughty bodily functions, and somewhat more direct references to naughty body parts. If you are a minor and still subject to taboo, or if naughty subjects bother you, don't read this. = = = Oh, I'm lazy! Here are her toes, pink and still, small precise muscles relaxed in sleep. First toes round and compact, second toes a millimeter longer. This little piggy stayed home. Her feet, small but not delicate, clean and tan. Nineteen years of callus on the soles; nineteen years of running barefoot, laughing in the sun, splashing through streams, stepping on thorns. Feet tapering upwards to her ankles, up to the long slender stems of her legs. Her skin is smooth and even, young and taut. A small scratch here, low on her calf, almost healed. Her skin is tight across the fronts of her calves, and runs softly and round over the languid muscles behind, still but prepared, sleeping panthers. She is on her back, legs almost together, thighs just touching, knees just apart. Her knees are round and functional, skin wrinkly close up, tiny white scars from kindergarten playgrounds. I could turn her over, kiss the thin sensitive skin on the backs of her knees. But that would wake her up. Her thighs are tender curves, soft with the lovely saturated softness of a woman's flesh. My palms, my lips, my cheeks, the touchpoints of my skin know the feels and tastes of her thighs, tan above and delicate pale pink inside, strong but yielding, fragrant, sensitive, wired intricately into her brain, the seat of her pleasure and heat. I bend down carefully and silent, and kiss the inner slope of her left thigh, just touching the skin with my lips, breathing for a moment the warm female layer of air that surrounds her body. Remember looking through the photo album, sitting in the living room on an October afternoon, between her and her older sister, jasmine tea steaming on the coffeetable. She looks down from a treehouse, grinning at the camera, dark blonde hair in her face, long skinny legs swinging over the side. Eight, maybe ten, looking down at Dad with the camera, about to be tickled from behind by her sister and to almost but not quite fall out of the tree. Stretched out on her stomach on the beach, a few years later, making a sandcastle, her legs and her body still thin but less gawky, sliding into womanhood, she looks back over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes, lips practicing a pout, about to laugh. Nineteen, naked, sleeping on her back, here beside me. Her body remembers being a girl, but is used to being a woman; long legs now graceful, knees less often skinned, hips wider, waist small. Her stomach is a low quiet hill, moving gently up and down with her breath. The slope leads down into curled honey-blonde hair, the flower of her vulva quiet and closed, a single warm line in her skin, pointing down between her thighs. Her hips are subtle peaks on either side, cliffs beyond them, her buttocks swelling slightly outward, flattened gently under her by the weight of her pelvis. I touch her stomach, between her navel and her mons, one finger sliding along her skin, careful not to tickle, just a taste of her texture and her warmth. She moves in her sleep, turning her head and raising her eyebrows, then quiet again, her lips slightly parted. Her navel is the bottom point of a triangle, point down. Its upper points are her nipples, the tips of two small exquisite breasts. Within the triangle, an expanse of soft woman-flesh, fine almost invisible downy hairs here and there, a mole, a few freckles. Her nipples are soft, collapsed, relaxed. They also are wired to the pleasure-centers of her brain, so a child suckling, making them stiff with its tiny mouth and drawing out her milk, will some day feel good to her. When I suck on her nipples, kiss her breasts, run my tongue over the welcoming roughness of her aureolae, it also feels good; her nipples harden, her vulva softens and opens, becomes moist and receptive. Is this a side-effect of the nursing reward, or is her body designed to love my mouth on her breasts, to open its most secret inwardnesses to me when I kiss her nipples, to open as a woman to the pressure of my body on hers? Above her breasts, her collarbones and upper chest are quiet and modest, moving with the rest of her slowly up and down as she breathes. Her shoulders are round and slender, infinitely kissable, bitable. One elbow is bent outwards, and the skin of that shoulder is delicately wrinkled, almost dimpled. The other arm is by her side. Her arms are round and perfect, not the thin sticks of a fat-free runway model, but solid and welcoming, muscle and fat and bone and sinew. Her elbows are as frank and blunt and comfortable as her knees, functional, with the tiny subtle white marks of old scars on the flexible skin. The undersides of her arms, leading across the delicious backs of her elbows and up to the soft hollows of her armpits, are blue-veined, sensitive, thin-skinned, enticing. Sometimes I hold her upper arms down on the floor, straight out from her shoulders, and pin her there as I nuzzle her breasts, rub myself across the gasping nakedness of her body, her legs, kiss her mouth. She laughs and struggles and moans, and our skins touch joyfully. Her ingenious hands, small but long-fingered, bare and ringless, nails short and blunt, sleep relaxed and idle at her sides. Imagine those fingers moving over skin, over my chest, over her sister's open thighs, over her own labia. Imagine them typing, weaving, intertwined with other fingers holding hands, fingers holding a pencil, a knife, a key. On the edge of one palm is a small recent cut, still red and vivid on her skin. Her neck, her throat, her head and face, ears, hair; almost too rich to describe. In her face is her whole self writ small: her eyes, sleep-shuttered now, are clear windows into her mind, her laughing girlhood, her present warm material womanhood, her motherhood someday to come. What will it be like to be her child, to suckle at these breasts, to sleep in this lap unknowing, her the atmosphere and her the world, her the warm trusted center of the universe? Her hair is long, dark blonde, twisted around behind her, under her head. Her ears are small and complex, deep, pink, subtle artifacts nested in her hair. There is a tiny beauty spot above her upper lip, between the bow of her mouth and the curve of her nose, waiting to be kissed. Her mouth is lovely, calm, a promise that makes my heart beat faster thinking of it. I smooth a few hairs from her forehead, a wide high intelligent forehead, uncreased. I watch her face, I listen to her breath. We breathe, me here with her, her alone in her sleep. Her parted lips draw me, and I bend and kiss her mouth, softly, her lips utterly yielding, soft and heartbreaking. Her eyelids open just a crack, her lips curve slightly under mine, but still she lies passive, her lips under my mouth with no resistance, languid, lazy. I run the tip of my tongue over her lips, slowly and caressing. She purrs low in her throat and her lips part wider. In the soft darkness within, the tip of her tongue barely shows itself. Some restraint within me breaks; I bend over her again, close my mouth hot and hungry over hers, slide my tongue between her quiet lips, slip an arm under her shoulders and draw her naked body against me. With a surprised little sound, she comes into my arms, her mouth waking up and kissing me back, her lips around my tongue, her leg over me, the smoothness of her thigh running over my side. She rolls with my embrace, and ends up on top of me, raised up on her arms, her eyes still sleepy and slitted, her mouth smiling, her hair drifting down over her neck and onto my chest. Her breasts are perfect domes suspended above me, her stomach presses against mine. She kisses my mouth, I run my hands over the unseen skin of her back, her bottom. I kiss her nipples, and her body softens, opens, she rubs against me and purrs and gasps. Her hips move slowly and insistently, her hands touch me, her tongue licks my shoulder, my neck, slips into my mouth. Skin to skin, mouth to mouth, face to face, we celebrate love, and life, and joy, and the textures of time. My Friends the Allens -- Atoms by Mark Aster The End