To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
please visit our website at:
/~vivian
Now offering over 140,000 words of pure prurience!
--------------------------------------------------------
Muzak to my Ears
by Vivian Darkbloom
Any day that begins with a grindingly tedious wait in a
dentist-office lobby deserves suspicion. Compounded by the
hideous grating on my ears of the most wretchedly insipid music
imaginable. Look, I've got 5 earrings and one eyebrow-ring (for
balance), I wear black leather and silver spikes, and my hair is
a different color every day.
Technically speaking, it may be true that a section of a hundred
and one violins produces sound by means of string vibrations
transmitted through the air. But the only strings I want to hear
in my music shatter the air with monstrous distortion via
electronic speakers. I want the earth to tremble, the sky to
split open, and the temple veil to rip violently into two
geometrically equivalent swatches.
And that's with the volume set on "1."
Waiting, mercilessly immersed in the oozing saccharine, I sat
alone in the room across from a pale young brunette girl with
braces on her teeth, in a prim, trim, and proper light-blue
school-dress. Around her neck is a clear quartz crystal in a
silver setting that is inscribed with strange symbols. Maybe
eleven years old, she was beaming with delight, swinging her legs
back and forth under the chair.
"Guess what!" she asked me, unable to contain her exuberance. Her
bright eyes shone with the light of the moon.
"What," I said.
She cocked her head to one side. "I, get my braces off today."
"Wicked," I replied, suppressing my grumbling.
"So you know what that means," she continued.
"No, what."
"I have to find someone to kiss." Fluttering her eyelashes, she
lifted her knees up, putting her heels on the edge of the chair,
which meant that her lovely pale-blue dress fell back to reveal
her prim little panties (with frilly lace around the edges)
scrunched in suggestive shapes, behind which my seething
imagination eagerly vivified her thinly veiled soft sweet sticky
wonders.
I chastised myself for staring at, and madly imagining about, the
little girl who sat right there mooning me. But with the early
morning hour, the blossoming of sexual arousal only grew worse
with my resistance, and with her apparent obliviousness to what
she was doing. She fixed her eyes curiously, innocently, on my
bulging crotch.
I shifted self-consciously, and reached for a contemporary
periodical, grabbing whatever happened to be on the top of the
stack, and furtively leafing through it. Some kid's magazine
about the world of nature. Frantically, I devoted stoic effort to
seeming fascinated with the article on squirrels, and to keep
myself from staring as she put one leg down and began swinging it
rhythmically.
She stared innocently at me, (squirrels) with enormous beautiful
blue-green eyes, (squirrels!) and swung her leg in rhythm. Her
rhythm was perilous. Deadly. It was a veritable hazard.
(Squirrels, dammit!) It should have been declared a national
menace, for the way it sent ecstatic shivers down my thigh. The
very fate of the seasons and tides hung in balance, their
delicate timing at risk of being thrown off by her ever-so-
mesmerising rhythm. Her rhythm could set fire to an entire city
in one stroke, and the firemen would have to come get out their
hoses. . .
A nurse appeared at the portal "Gianna Dubuque?" The girl stood
up, and skipped innocently through the door as the nurse escorted
her into the hallway, out of sight. I breathed a sigh of
gratitude, and one by one unclenched my fingers from the pages of
the magazine. Squirrels.
Gianna, a beautiful name to call out in the middle of an orgasm,
I thought.
NO! I shook my head. Sheer lunacy. For once I was grateful for
insipidly fluttering trill of a flute as it invaded my awareness
like a splash of icy water, abruptly dousing any shred of passion
I might have been feeling.
Besides, what in blazes makes people associate romantic feelings
with music that's got five million and forty three violins in it?
Are they deaf? Romance is the sound of hard rock with the volume
turned to eleven!
From within the room where the receptionist was working, I heard
an entrance, and the receptionist's voice, apparently talking to
the dentist: "The repair man is here. He's sitting in the waiting
room."
"Oh good," came the disembodied reply. Entered the dentist
through the portal, an anemic timid older man with thick glasses,
in a white labcoat. "You're the repairman?" he asked me.
"Wheatley Ericsen, systems installer for the Muzak Corporation,"
I reached out my hand to introduce myself. I was rewarded with a
brief, limp handshake. "How can I help you?"
"Yes," he smiled timidly. "Well, I called because," he lowered
his voice, as if afraid to disturb anyone. "The music is too
loud."
"Well," I laughed. "That's easy. There's a volume knob, along
with a multifeatured equalization unit that can adjust the
perceived volume as well as the actual decibel level, with preset
curves calibrated for the reproduction devices. . ."
He shook his head. "No, that's not -- what I mean is. . ." He
pointed his finger "There. Listen:"
I listened. I heard one of the most driveling, saccharine,
drippingly inane trumpet solos ever to emerge from the bowels of
the bland innocuousness.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Tsk," he impatiently clucked, that I failed to board the train
of thought he found so inescapable. "Horns."
"Horns?"
"The horn was an instrument of the hunt. It drums up primal
responses of adrenaline and excitement. See," he hushed his voice
once more to confide in me: "This is a dentist office."
"Yes."
"I need music to help people stay calm. To soothe the savage
beast. To calm the restless soul. . ."
"Well, sir." I cut in, "I would observe that you happen to be
tuned to the most tranquil and relaxing channel that we have
available at the Muzak corporation. However, if you like, I could
put you in touch with one of our audio architects, and he or she
would be glad to review the selection available."
"I would appreciate that very much. You know, I truly don't
understand the music you young people listen too nowadays. Too
much energy and excitement. It just -- gets me all flustered."
"I see, sir. Now if I could just get you to help me fill out this
customer feedback form, I can get started on taking care of your
request. . ."
____________________________________________________________
After bending over with the forced acrobatics of a conversation
like that, only one thing will do the trick. Doughnuts and
coffee. Well, two things. Doughnuts and coffee and a cigarette.
None of this fancy gourmet malarkey either. Gimme the coffee from
the corner store, the kind that could unpaint Golden Gate bridge.
The kind that, when you say "It tastes like weak battery acid"
they open up a battery and pour in more acid.
So I'm sitting in the Muzak van, in the parking lot of the
doughnut shop, listening to Sex Pistils. See, before I got called
in to work for Muzak, I did car-stereo installs. I got a good rep
for being able to wire anything for sound. See for me, wires are
an extension of my nervous system. Speakers are my eardrums. My
blood is the flow of electrons. I am, like, cosmically connected
to the essence of vibrational impulses flowing through the
resistors, transistors, coils and capacitors of your sound
system.
A buddy of mine was working over at Muzak, and he . . . what? You
can't hear me? Here, I'll turn down the music. Was on 1.1, I'll
turn it back to 1. That better? Swell. Yah, probably a good idea
to let off some. I gotta admit it's a tad bit scary what the bass
vibrations were doing to the plate-glass windows in the doughnut
shop over there.
Maybe the twin 15-inch JBLs are a bit much for the van, but hey,
I got a good deal on them from the rep. I tell you, give me good
old-fashioned stereo loudspeakers any day. This boxy Boze
subwoofer crapola just sounds like crap, don't care how many
truckloads of physicists you got telling me there's no
difference. Look, they don't have my ears, especially the
earrings. You know, it's been scientifically shown that the human
ear is incapable of functioning correctly until at least one body
part has been pierced?
So where was I? Oh right. A friend of mine needed someone to sub
while he was on vacation, which is how I got this gig, and I get
to drive around this spiffy van with "Muzak is emotion --
creating experiences with audio architecture" in neat sans-serif
letters along the side. See? And the cute little
m-inside-a-circle logo. I been doing this now for, what, going on
five years? See once they realized I can wire anything, they
figured they had to keep me.
So I'm sitting inside the Muzak van smoking, drinking coffee,
eating one of those heavenly cream-filled doughnuts with
chocolate on top, letting the nicotine disperse through my
bloodstream, talking to myself (with a vengeance). Sitting in the
Muzak van with the tunes cranked, I'm noticing this place seems
to be a veritable hangout for, like, kids on their break from
school or something. Guess those school lunches don't stretch so
far anymore.
When who comes skipping by, but that pale brunette girl I saw in
the dentist office. Pale blue dress and all. I guess first thing
when you get your braces off, you gotta go scarf something loaded
with sugar. Anyway, she sees me and, like, stops, and walks over
to the van and smiles at me real wide, so I can see her
beautiful, straight, blindingly white teeth. Nothing like my
crooked yellow ones.
I roll down the window to talk to her. "Looks very nice," I
reply. What I really meant was BITCHIN'! but I was trying to be
polite, being as she was a little kid and all.
"Thank you," she says. And then, I cannot believe she did this,
but she reaches over where I'm holding the cigarette between my
fingers kind of out the window, and she grabs it and throws it on
the ground and stubs it out on the parking-lot asphalt with her
foot..
"Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray," she says.
Mouth agape, I stare at the smoldering ash on the ground.
"What are you listening to?" she asks.
"Sex Pistils," I reply without thinking.
"Mmmm. Sex," her eyes widen, she smiles and winks at me,
switching the tiny crescent moon of her cute little butt,
swishing her dress.
"Oh good," I say. This is all I need, some 12-year-old with a
crush on me . . . "How old are you, anyway?" I ask.
"Eleven. Did you ever listen to `Alice in Chains?'"
"Who?"
"You know. Only the best band in the world. `Alice in Chains.'"
She whips out a CD from her little school backpack and hands it
to me. It's got a picture of a 3-legged dog, and a 3-legged man.
OK bitch, I think, you're on. So I put on the CD, and yeah, it's
pretty nice. Got some kick-ass bass, sure enough puts the JBLs to
good use. She's leaning with her elbows against my drivers-side
door staring at me, fingering the quartz crystal she has around
her neck, twirling her feet and her tiny cute little tush in time
with the music in a way that makes me horny as all hell.
I notice the gaggles of kids all finishing their doughnuts and
straggling off in different directions. "Don't you gotta be in
school or something?" I ask.
She tilts her head. "Nah. It's a half-day, so we're done. And my
mom is at work, so I'm bored as a loon, with nothing to do."
"So," I say. "You want to hear some real music?"
She looks miffed. "Maybe."
I unlock the passenger door. "Hop in."
She hesitates. "Are you one of those men that gives girls candy?
Because my mom told me not to get in a car with a man that offers
candy."
I sighed. "Love, I can pretty much guarantee your mom would
completely forbid you to get in this van."
Next thing I know she's run around to the other side of the car
and yanked open the passenger door, and I shuffle aside the
papers I have laying there. As she slams the door shut, and I
think how nice it feels to have someone in the seat next to me. A
female someone.
"You've got to be in the middle of the speakers for the premium
quality sound. It just isn't the same otherwise."
She smiles. "OK." She's all checkin' out the junk I have in the
back, coils of wire, speakers, wire strippers and cutters,
various components, skateboard, crescent wrenches, and so on
strewn in a godawful mess (by the way, would you remind me to
straighten it up? I keep forgetting).
At the end of the song, I pop out `Alice in Chains,' and the
radio momentarily comes on with the voice of our loathsome
embarrassment of a president, lying about something or other.
Immediately I cut the volume and make a face.
"What?"
"You know who that was."
"Our president, Mr. George White-trash Bush."
"Yup."
"My mom hates Bush," she says.
"Good for her," I reply.
"Mom's a lesbian, and she thinks she should be able to get
married if she wants. I always wondered what the W. stood for.
What's Whitetrash?"
Solemnly I instruct: "White trash means a white person who lies,
steals and cheats."
"Like he steals from poor people, and he cheated at the election?
Because Gore got more votes. A guy at my school has a T-shirt
with the numbers on it."
"You are a very smart young lady," I said with genuine respect.
"Which doesn't explain why you are sitting here with me.
Nonetheless," taking the `Alice in Chains' CD, I gently hand it
back to her. "Very nice," I say. . .
As we make the exchange, our hands connect briefly, and I feel
the warmth of the living pulse in the touch of her soft gentle
delicate fingers. Electricity. She feels it too, I can see it in
the flush of her face, but she says nothing.
I shake my head. "OK, where was I? Right. Your music has some
delectable bass vibrations, my lady. But stand aside and make way
for the veritable King of Rock."
Dramatically, I slid into the CD player "Are You Experienced?" by
Jimi Hendrix.
I observed her reaction as the opening chords of "Purple Haze"
tore through the air, in living hi-fidelity stereo. I guess she
liked it, at least she seemed to. She kicked her feet in time and
rocked with her ever-so-famous national hazard of a rhythm. I
finished my doughnut, and sipped my battery-acid coffee.
During the third song (which would be "Manic Depression"), she
reached over and placed her smooth dainty little white left hand
on my hairy, dark-tanned and weather-worn right hand, resting
face-down on the armrest. I turned my hand over and gently
grasped hers, delicate and soft inside of mine. She gently,
lovingly, grasped mine back, sitting upright in her seat, eyes
wide and smiling moist lips.
My ears rang from the sound of hard rock with the volume turned
to eleven
We sat and listened for a few moments, in the delicate silence of
clashing distorted power-chords. Sheer angelic bliss, the
moonstruck madness of holding hands with Gianna.
Before I knew it, she had some how wriggled onto my lap, sitting
with her back to the steering wheel, and was staring up at me
intently in anticipation, holding now both of my hands.
"Ahem," I cleared my throat. "So, you got your braces off today."
"Uh-huh."
"And you're looking for someone to kiss."
"Yup," she nodded.
"You know," I said, "It would be the sort of thing that can only
be done in private,"
"Uh huh."
"And you can't tell anyone about it, ever."
"Except my friend Britney."
"Unh-uh. Suppose Britney starts telling one other person, and
then soon the whole school knows about it."
"OK. But Britney gets together with a bunch of her girlfriends
and has sex with this older guy all the time."
Hmm. . .
"OK, look. I know a perfect place, if you feel like coming with
me. Any time you feel uncomfortable, just let me know and we can
stop."
She grinned up at me. "You really want to kiss me, don't you?"
She bounced up and down on my lap, treacherously treading a path
of perilous enchantment, yielding the predictable stiffening of
my lap below her soft tiny little buns. Noticing, she glances
down. "Whoa," she says quietly, grinning even more widely,
continuing to bounce, pinching my rod in her crack.
"OK look."
She straightens up and plants her lips on mine, and for a
glorious instant I taste the precious sweetness of her delicate
little mouth.
The sound of hard rock. Volume at eleven.
She hops back into the passenger seat. "Drive," she says.
Incredulous, I start the van.
____________________________________________________________
On the way over, I call up my buddy co-worker on the cel, and
this is what Gianna heard as we were driving down the road : "Yo,
what's up? Yeah, well I had a rough morning. Got a screamer. A
Dentist. Yeah. Said even the pillowy old-school stuff wasn't
mellow enough. Surreal. So I'm gonna take the afternoon off to
chill. Anything urgent out there? What? Again? Rammed through
with somebody's cane? Why on earth would the residents of Sunny
Pastures vandalize the speakers in the elevator? Baby-boomers
getting older. Go figure it. Anyway, catch you later, bye."
Funny thing as we are cruising out there, I notice every dog that
we drive by seems to set into howling wildly. At her. She doesn't
seem to notice.
Or was I just imagining? Or is there something supernatural and
otherworldly about her as she sits there calmly beside me,
twiddling with the rough-cut crystal she has hanging on a silver
chain around her neck, inscribed with bizarre symbols.
____________________________________________________________
There's this great park, a little out-of-the-way and hard to get
to, so it's always deserted. Ours is the only car in the lot. We
both disbark, and she stands there as I hand stuff to her.
"Here, take this." A red-and-white checkered cloth; a picnic
basket with a bottle of wine and a baguette, which just happened
to be in the back. And, my skateboard. I pull out the long board,
big enough for both of us to ride on.
I drop the board loudly onto the pavement, rolling it back and
forth a half-inch or so. "Get on," I say, taking back the basket
and the cloth, slamming the van door shut.
She looks up at me timidly, the first I have seen her look timid.
"It's OK," I say. "I'll do all the work. You just relax and hold
on." She sets one tiny foot on the board, holding out her little
hand for my support. I reach out and take her hand, feeling the
softness and warmth.
Soon we are gliding down the smoothly paved walkway, my two huge
feet in clomping work boots, her dainty little feet between mine
in pretty little-girl shoes. I feel the warmth of her back as she
leans against me, my hands brush the softness of her hair. I
sense the faint aroma of turned-on little girl.
The great thing about this park is there are all these big old
long paved trails through the woods, perfect for skateboarding,
with lots of secret side-paths to cool hiding-spots for engaging
in, uh, various bonging activities. And the amazing thing is that
nobody is ever here.
And it's a beautiful, sunny day, a glorious day, as we breeze
easily through the lush green trees of the forest, occasionally
brushed by huge green leaves hanging softly over the trail. All
around us, giant trees stand as gnarled sentinels of time, gentle
guardians of the gateways of the secret rites and passages of
ancient days gone by.
Finally, she smiles up at me. "This is fun," she says.
A few more eternities of sailing over clear blue skies with the
virgin of Atlantis standing beside me, on our way to submerge
continents into the ocean of madness and passion.
Choosing an arbitrary stopping point from the list of hideaways I
was well familiar with, we hopped off the board and I carried it
along with us across the bright green grassy meadow, through a
place in the bushes that looked impassible, into another green
meadow surrounded by friendly foliage, where I lay down the
red-and-white checkered blanket and beckoned my companion to
recline beside me in the beautiful afternoon shade.
I pop open the picnic basket, and offer her the baguette, from
which to tear a hunk of bread. She looks at me quizzically. "It's
white bread," she says.
"So?" I reply. "Would you like some?"
She shakes her head. "I only eat whole wheat organic."
"Right," I said, watching my idea fly out the window like a Led
Zeppelin. "Then may I offer the lady some wine?"
I extract the bottle of white wine, uncork and pour into a
sparkling crystal-clear wineglass. She looks at it dubiously,
takes the glass, tries a sip, and immediately runs over and spits
it out behind a tree.
"Yuck," she says. "What was that for?" returning to sit next to
me on the blanket.
"I was simply making an effort to be romantic. Look, I think
there's a bottle of Evian water in here."
Now she hardly trusts me, but I open the bottle of spring water,
and Polly Purebred tastes a sip, then contentedly gulps half the
bottle.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better," she replies. She caps it and rolls over to where I am
lying on my side, spooning her cute little butt into my crotch
and sighing, leaning back on me. I feel her warmth, and gently
stroke her silky soft brown hair, as my tip rises to meet her
bottom through the bluejeans and Alice-blue dress that separate
us.
I feel her gently breathing beside me, and sense the erotic aroma
of her body smell, surprisingly sweet for her age. The sexual
trigger of a much bigger girl. I feel a tremendous affection, a
longing to hold her with the simple tenderness of all the
mythical lovers of yore, to entwine our bodies like graceful
flowering vines around the sensuous lust of perfect romance.
"Gianna, you are the most beautiful girl I have ever met," I
whisper in her ear.
She half turns, soft cheek one bright shining eye regarding me.
"Now that, is romantic," she says.
"I'm glad you approve," I reply, feeling an incredible yearning
for her.
Gently, I moisten my lips and place a soft kiss on the her
delicate cheek.
Savagely, she turns over and pushes me onto my back, so she is
sitting, legs spread on top of me, her hot little crotch pushing
rhythmically against my organ, and forces her wet lips against
mine, pushing her tongue into my mouth, doing battle with my
tongue as my hands lovingly caress every square centimetre of her
slender body, her back, her dainty little shoulders, her
erotically flat little chest, her slender arms and buttocks and
ankles.
Then she stops, staring down at me, grinning.
"That was intense," I say. "Are you happy you got your braces
off?"
"Yes."
We continue at a slower pace, and she loses her shoes and socks,
now barefoot on top of me, kissing me. I feel her soft warm
moistness on my cheeks and forehead. Giggling, she gently tugs at
my eyebrow ring.
"So now," she continues, "You kissed my mouth that had braces in
it. Would you like to kiss the mouth that didn't have braces?"
"What on earth could you mean?" I ask.
In reply, as she towers diminutively over me, she walks her knees
up towards my head, and places one knee on either of my
shoulders. Looking up under her Alice-blue dress, I find myself
face to face with her lacy little panties. I hear her gently
petite quietly lustful breathing.
Swiftly raising my head, I pounce with my lips towards the
fateful spot between her legs, pinching a corner of the fabric
between my teeth and tugging playfully.
She gasps, and giggles knowingly. I can almost see the drops of
moisture surging on the other side of the fabric. I adjust my
hotwired rod for comfort as it screeches its tires at the
starting gate, behind the zippered jeans.
With tantalizing laziness, she reaches under the skirt and slowly
releases the elastic from around her slender waist, gradually,
teasingly revealing the tiny bodaciously blooming red dripping
flower. Overwhelming aroma.
Perfectly smooth pink folds of skin surround the beautiful
blossom. Not even peach fuzz adorns it, simply pure milky-white
tender flesh.
The tip of my tongue reaches out and contacts her sweetness, she
gasps again, and then begins moaning with pleasure as I find the
secret spots, touching each one with gentle the loving tip of my
eager tongue.
She holds my head with her hands, and I caress up and down her
legs, around her tiny buttocks. My hotrod, wired with aching
tosses and turns in its cloth cage.
She pulls away and stands above me. "Your madness pleases me
greatly," she declares, removing the necklace she has been
wearing, seizing the opalescent crystal and holding it high above
her head, declaring in a loud voice:
"Chandrika Luna Hecate Heirogamus Reina Maximus Cielus Altimo!"
From the heart of the crystal, a faint light flashes into
blinding brilliance, a million pinpoints of stars, and instantly
following the world is plunged into darkness.
Underneath me I felt a slab of stone, once rough but smoothed
with the footsteps of a thousand ancestors. The scent of the
ocean filled the warm tropical night air, along with the
fragrance of exotic blooming flowers, and in the quiet distance I
heard the faint crashing of waves. . . and drums in the distance.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw Gianna before me in the dark, but now
she wore a long white robe with an Egyptian-styled curvy crown.
At the center was a white stone laced with subtle rainbow veins
that glittered in the torchlight. Moonstone.
As I rise to stand up, several pale tiny hands reach out to
assist me. I find myself surrounded by young girls, some clad in
long robes, others scantily clad in translucent scarves with
glittering jewelry, others completely naked aside from a bracelet
or anklet.
When I am on my feet, the hands begin unfastening, unzipping, and
untying every article of my clothing. As I feel the bonds
loosening around me, I yield to the gentle tugging, and soon find
myself completely naked, my mercilessly hardened horn protruding
before me. The girls exchange smiling glances, an occasional hand
reaches out to stroke or touch it.
"What the hell is this all about?" I demand, in a hushed voice.
With serene tranquility, Gianna replies. "I am one of the
ninety-nine daughters of the Moon Goddess, the princess of the
evening star, and your madness has pleased me greatly. You have
been chosen to take away my virginity in a sacred ceremony
attended by the divine court of the mood-maidens and nymphets."
"I never dreamed being a loonie could offer such benefits," I
mutter. Gianna smiles, eyes glittering with starlight.
One of the young girls, about Gianna's age, with slender thin
child's body, kneels before me. Her blond hair flows elegantly
across her shoulders, and as her lips part I see that she is
wearing braces. She begins to run the tip of her tongue up and
down my shaft, occasionally immersing my head between her teeth.
The other girls are busy tying soft, smooth silken cords around
the base of my penis, sometimes looping around the balls, a dozen
or so silken cords, each held by a different girl. Each holds a
lit candle in the other hand.
"Follow me," says Gianna, turning and walking slowly away. The
blonde girl with braces who was attending to me takes up one of
the cords and steps back with the others as they lead me down a
stone walkway. We seem to be on the top of a giant castle or
other such ancient edifice, and with slow solemnity they guide my
stiffened, lit "candle" on the end of their leashes through the
tropical night air.
As we are strolling along, the girls softly chant rustic melodies
in a strange foreign tongue. It sounds like a frickin' Enya
album, but for once I forgive them. It does set the mood, OK?
We pass the doorway of a candle-lit room, and inside I glimpse an
old woman seated on a regal throne, decorated with the same sort
of strange symbols I had seen earlier on Gianna's crystal
setting. She is surrounded by young girls sitting, standing, in
various states of undress or wearing suggestively erotic
garments. The old woman's silver hair glows with the ancient
wisdom of the millions of months of the millenia since the
dawning of the universe, and in her eyes dances the playful
sparkle of gentle madness, and she silently greets me with a
knowing smile. In the distance, a dog howls briefly.
After we have passed by the doorway, I call out ahead to Gianna,
"I take it that was your mom?"
She half-turns back, smiling, "The Goddess of the Moon, yes."
We walk under an arched trellis heavily laden with sweet-scented
flowers, and reach a small amphitheatre at the center of which is
a round dais, large enough to accommodate our entourage a dozen
girls or so; including me, that would be thirteen, a pleasant
coven.
As we enter the circle, the girls each place their candles in
iron-wrought candle-holders encircling the dais, and we are
bathed the warm glow of candle-light.
"Lie beside me first," Gianna directs, as she reclines on the
dais (which turns out to be soft, like a giant pillow) and opens
the bottom of her gown for several of the girls to begin probing
her sensitive lower mouth, with their tongues and fingers,
causing her to commence once more her gentle moaning.
I lie beside her, and a few girls attend to me in the same
manner, as the others hold tight their leashes, and I notice some
attaching to the end cleverly constructed belts that act as a
fulcrum, so that when I pull on the leash it will push a long
smooth object into the girl's vagina. Five or six are wearing
similar apparatus.
Gianna reaches over next to me and takes my hand. I squeeze her
tiny fingers gently in mine, feel the heat of her sexual pulsing
in tempo with her pelvic gyrations as we share the joint pleasure
of erotic stimulation.
"Isn't this romantic?" she asks.
"There is absolutely no doubt that I should be taking lessons
from you on what is romantic," I reply.
The rhythm intensifies, not in speed, but in sensuality, until I
feel I cannot take any more.
"Now," says Gianna, "come over here."
"OK, love," I reply, gently pushing aside the girls who have been
tonguing and fingering my sensitive parts.
A pale light gradually has begun to dawn in the sky over a nearby
mountaintop.
I kneel before Gianna, throbbing organ standing as a wizard's
staff before us, a maypole trailing off with a dozen silken
leashes connected with young feminine hands and vaginas, my
hotrod filled with fiery aching of yearning to be quenched by her
ocean of passionate desire.
She simply reaches up with her dainty hand, and pulls my staff
towards her gaping, dripping red blossom.
As I push towards her, I feel the tug on a dozen cords, and the
moans around me of a dozen young girls.
The point of my spear pierces the searing cavity of slime between
her legs, and I gently shove myself through the ring of her
virginity.
Under her moonstone crown, her expression turns to intense
feeling, the purple backdrop of blood-red stars of sensation.
Slowly pushing, I feel the gentle tearing of tissue. She yelps,
gasping, and grabs my buttocks with both hands, pulling me
frantically towards her.
Unable to hold back any longer, I shove with all my might,
finally possessing the deep beauty of her scarlet innocence.
Around me I hear repeated moans and sighs of a dozen girls as our
erotic rhythm establishes a musical cadence.
I feel her muscles pulsing gently around me, as she loses control
and convulses wildly.
Hard rock, volume at eleven.
She gazes up at me with her starry eyes, seeing that I cannot
take this much longer, and with a wry grin she gently writhes her
open legs with a kung-fu that triggers the long-overdue cascade
of release. I shoot into her again and again, deep into the
center of her beautiful little slender flat-chested body.
Over the nearby mountaintop, the Moon rises, and a blinding riot
of insane rainbow-white light engulfs my being. I feel myself
falling once more into daylight. I turn to find myself lying
naked on the red-checkered blanket atop Gianna, also naked, but
obviously no longer a virgin (given that we are still fucking).
She is clad solely in a silver necklace, with a quartz crystal
set with mystic glyphs and runes. And -- an Egyptian-styled crown
with a moonstone set in the middle.
I look down to see my still-stiff organ stuck in her vagina,
floating in sweet white sticky semen.
Seeing my astonished expression, she gives me an incredulous
look. "Whoa, what kind of lunatic fantasy were you having?"
Then she winks at me, giggling.
It was the beginning of a long, torrid, and celestially
fulfilling, (but rather strange) relationship.
_______________________________________________________
For more stories, please visit our site:
/~vivian