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From: lysander@bitsmart.com (Lysander)
Subject: {ASSM, ASS} RP: Summer Dreams (mf, rom)
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This story and the whole damn group are intended for people over 18 who
are not offended by sexually explicit material. Everyone else is
invited to look elsewhere.
Author's note: no author's note
Summer Dreams
by Lysander
(lysander@bitsmart.com)
I close my eyes and I see you in July. You're wearing that dress you
like so much. The white sundress that falls from your shoulders to your
waist, where you always belt it. Then it falls again from your hips to
your calves. I always loved to see you in that dress. In the summer,
with the sun catching the highlights of your chestnut hair and your skin
all golden, and the tiny freckles across the bridge of your nose. And
that dress in the warm July sunshine, your figure just visible through
the material.
We've just finished a picnic. We've always just finished a picnic. And
you want to go pick wildflowers in the meadow. You always want to go
pick wildflowers in the meadow. And you want to decorate my head with a
crown of daisies. And I laugh and say no. And then I laugh and say
yes.
Then you look at me with that look in your eyes. The look that says
there'll never be anyone else but me, that there never was anyone else
but me. Other lovers, certainly. But never anyone who touched your
soul like I can. I know that look. And I know that I have the same
look in my eyes.
But we talk, instead. About building a house near here. Just on the
other side of that copse of trees perhaps. But not in this meadow.
This meadow is just for picnics and gathering wildflowers. I'll quit my
job teaching the classics to spoiled rich kids who only like Macbeth for
the wrong reasons. I'll become a writer full time, and you'll take that
job teaching art at the summer camp and run a little gallery the rest of
the year.
We say that every summer. And every fall, I go back to school and you
go back to the office and we put our true lives on hold for another ten
months. Our true life is here, in this meadow, having picnics and
picking wildflowers.
You stand and pull me up and for a while we dance. I'll hum Gershwin
and you'll hum Glen Miller, and we dance. Then your dress begins to
slip from your shoulders, and I help it. You're embarrassed at first
and giggle into my shoulder. Making love outside always does that to
you at first, because of your Baptist upbringing, but it's one of the
reasons, one of the many reasons I love you so much.
I tell you that. I tell you I love you, that I will always love you,
until our bodies are so much cosmic dust and our souls reside in some
other plane for eternity. You call me silly and slip your dress the
rest of the way off.
We continue to dance, you beautiful and naked and me still fully
clothed. This has always warmed me. Like you are placing complete
trust in me, and I am protecting you. It's probably because I have
never been comfortable with my own nakedness, of the vulnerability I
feel myself. But I prefer the first reason, and you indulge me. We
hold each other tightly and dance our way through the Thirties and
Forties.
I lift my hands to unbutton my shirt.
**
My hands. Two useless stumps now. My eyes are opened and I see the
truth. Fingers that do not work the way I want them to, that no longer
fly over the keyboard to record my words as fast as they spill from my
brain. Damn you, Walter Kyle. Damn your drunken soul for taking my
hands from me.
**
You take my hands away and unbutton my shirt for me, allowing me to
caress your warm flesh. I can feel your muscles beneath your skin.
Swimmer's muscles, long and powerful, and yet you look so frail from a
distance. My shirt falls to the grass and you caress my bare chest,
sending tingles all through my body. I am pale all over, a contrast to
your glowing skin, tanned from long hours in the sun painting or reading
romance novels. I spend all day indoors, promising to come out as soon
as I finish this paragraph, or maybe this page, or maybe this chapter.
I never do, except on picnic days, but you forgive me.
We hold each other and caress and kiss and we dance, to Sinatra now,
though neither of us can do him justice. Your voice is husky, made for
passioned whispers in my ear, not for the rising and falling scales of
beautiful music. I love your voice. I say so and you laugh and blush.
You say you wish you could say the same for me. I laugh with you and
our embrace tightens, our caresses and kisses become more impassioned.
We fall to our knees.
**
My hands fall to my knees. My pencil has fallen and I cannot peck on
the keyboard. I can't reach the pencil on the floor a foot and a half
below me. I try. I try but I cannot. I try typing without the pencil,
but without something to grasp, my fingers shake uncontrollably.
Ashamed, I call for your help. You come in from the kitchen, tomato
sauce on your apron, and pick up the pencil for me, along with the other
half-dozen I have dropped. I thank you, my words garbled and slow. But
you let me get them out before you say, "You're welcome." I love you
for that, but I don't tell you, because I know you have to get back to
he kitchen. Instead, I type it, slowly, with many corrected mistakes,
then print it out. Seven minutes for five words on a stark white sheet
of paper -- "I love you for listening." I am satisfied.
**
Again I tell you I love you, and you say the same. We are both naked
now, lying among the forgotten wildflowers in the warm summer grass. I
say that I hope a birdwatcher doesn't wander by. You laugh and say you
don't care. We lay side by side, staring into each other's eyes,
letting the tension build.
**
Dinner was delicious as usual. I made a mess, as usual. You cleaned me
up, then the kitchen. You make small talk, about how Doctor Swenson and
the therapists all say I am doing much better. I grunt in response. I
know you are talking to make me feel better, and so that you can hear
more than the labored tapping of my keyboard. But I enjoy hearing your
voice. My grunts are only my way of saying, "Please go on."
**
We love each other with our mouths. A flick of the tongue over a
nipple. A slobbery lick at the bellybutton that makes one of us laugh.
It doesn't matter who is licking and who is laughing. We are one at
times like this. You roll me onto my back and climb on top of me. You
settle your moist, warm sex against my mouth. I eagerly begin to lick
you, exploring all the favorite places, seeking any new erogenous zones
you may have developed since the last time we made love. Sometimes I am
lucky and find one; usually I don't, but no matter. I lie back and
enjoy your sweetness on my tongue and in my nostrils. I savor every
drop you produce, and I try to draw out more.
You take me into your mouth. I hold your waist, enjoying the sun on my
arms and your own sun-warmed, love-warmed flesh. You are a miracle
worker with your tongue. It is very mobile. I like to watch your
tongue when you paint. On those occasions when the paint does not fall
exactly right on the canvas, your tongue becomes an acrobat. Like now.
It leaps across my hardening flesh. It twists about the head. It dives
down to my swollen balls and jumps back up to the tiny opening.
As your tongue works on my cock, I try to do the same to your pussy. I
want you to feel what I am feeling, though I know that women and men are
built differently, and that I am not nearly as talented as you. I write
the poems in the family but you read them. The words that fall from my
brain to my hands without stopping at my mouth seem to go to yours for
the holidays, just to have a good time. I want to tell you I love you
for this, but I am enjoying the flavor of you too much. I force myself
to remember to tell you later.
**
Later, you have cleaned me. I sit on the toilet drying myself. There
is little I can do for myself now, but I insist on doing that much. I
see your figure through the smoked glass as you luxuriate in the warm
shower. It is exhausting, I know, trying to care for a man who is like
a baby in ways except mentally and emotionally. Who frustrates easily
because of the things he can no longer do. The doctors say my brain
does not work as fast as it used to. I wouldn't know the difference.
But if they are right, at least I can enjoy you in my mind longer now.
**
I cannot last much longer, and I stop my kisses and licks to tell you.
"I don't want you to last," you say. "I want you to come in my mouth."
You know just what to say to push me over the edge, for no sooner do you
engulf me again, than I do erupt. You drink most of it down. And lick
up the small amount that dribbles down my balls. You continue sucking
long after I have come, to keep me hard. You succeed.
I continue licking and nibbling at your clitoris, trying to bring you to
orgasm. I fail, as I always have. You tell me you have never been able
to come from someone licking your pussy. No lover has given you an
orgasm that way, not even during your one lesbian experiment during
college. But I keep trying. Someday.
You turn around so you are sitting across my hips. You ball my shirt
and your dress together to make a pillow for my head.
**
My head hits the pillow. You leave the light on so you can read, but
the television is still on. Some bad European sex film is playing on
cable. I can't help it. It's been so long, and with the memories
running through my head today...
Something catches the corner of your eye and you put the book down. You
see my erection and you smile. I have always loved your smile. I hope
you will give me relief. Your hands are so soft and now mine are so
useless. You fondle me through my pajamas. Please, take it out. As
though hearing my thoughts, you pull my pajamas off. I know they are
off because, even though the muscles don't work below mid- thigh, I have
begun to feel tingles again. Perhaps with braces, I can someday walk
again.
But now I have more important concerns. You stare at my rigid cock,
fascinated. Had you forgotten I am still a functioning man, more or
less? You take me between your delicate fingers and stroke once, twice.
I cannot help myself. My come shoots from the end of my cock and falls
in streaks across my chest. You scoop some up with your fingertips and
taste it. The rest you smear on my chest.
I am still hard. Do you notice that? Are you going to leave me like
this, a half-man with a hard-on? A freak you let share your bed but not
your love?
No, thank God. You pull the conservative nightgown up and off. Your
body is beautiful. Little is left of your summer tan, and the swimmer's
muscles have lost some of their tone over the past year. You climb upon
me, watching for some sign that you are hurting me. If you were, I
would not show it, for I want you so badly.
**
"I want you," I whisper, before you cover my mouth with yours. You have
taken me into yourself. Not just physically but emotionally and
spiritually as well. You have swallowed me whole and I rejoice in it.
Over and over we merge and separate as the sun begins to lower itself
behind the pines. You cannot come when someone licks you, but something
must build up inside you, because you climax almost immediately. Faster
and faster you move upon me, until you stop in mid-stroke, overcome by
your orgasm.
We hold that position for an eternity, then you begin to move more
slowly, because you are so sensitive. But you cannot help yourself.
**
You start slowly, but gradually you begin to move faster. It has been a
long time for you as well. You did not have enough time to take a
lover, but if you did, I do not care. Just never tell me.
The bed, which for so long has only been used for sleeping, begins to
creak. It is the only sound in the room save my own labored breathing.
Even on the bottom, this is hard. But it is certainly more enjoyable
therapy than I get in the pool. I watch you rise and fall above me,
your breasts bouncing and your hair flowing, your head thrown back and
your eyes closed in pleasure.
**
Your head is thrown back and your eyes are closed in pleasure as you
approach orgasm. I am there with you, my love. I reach up to caress
your soft breasts with my hands as our climaxes build together.
**
I reach up with my hands. But I have hands no longer. They are more
like claws, completely out of my control more often than not. But I
cannot stop myself. I put my hands against your wonderful breasts and
do my best to caress them.
I feel your body shudder and you freeze. Is it revulsion, I wonder
fearfully, or is it love?
Your sure hands reach up to my fumbling ones and hold them tighter
against your breasts as I erupt inside you.
It is love, I decide. I no longer need the summer, and I let it fade to
just another special memory.
Copyright 1993-1997 by Lysander (lysander@bitsmart.com)
This story may not be archived at any site that would charge for access
to it.
This story may not be sold as part of any collection that charges more
than a nominal copying fee.
Otherwise, this story may be distributed freely by electronic means as
long as the title, my pseudonym and this copyright statement are not
changed or removed.
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