Message-ID: <7302eli$9803272154@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: Volponia <Volponia@aol.com> Subject: My Roxanne Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <c3e1491.351c0772@aol.com> WARNING: The following piece of fiction is about love. If you are under 18, go do your homework. If you find love offensive, skip this. Otherwise, enjoy. My Roxanne By Volponia 430 words Copyright March 1998 by Volponia@aol All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic means, including photocopying, recording or by any information and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author. ---- In bed, she is a wanton, my Roxanne. She glories in her sensuality; she gives her whole self up to love, sets no barriers and accepts none. Set her on her feet, and the poor darling is a walking bundle of neuroses. And so, in the hope of helping her become as healthy in the vertical position as she is in the horizontal, I sometimes force her (gently) into the following exercise. I stand before her. We are both naked. I raise my hands and join my fingertips with hers. I stop, and gently remove her glasses, and then go back to fingertip touching. First, I look deep into her eyes. They are a funny colour: blue/grey, with topaz flecks. Some might call them 'hazel,' but I call them kaleidoscopic. Close as we are, she finds it difficult to meet and hold my gaze. She knows the point of this exercise: to force her to acknowledge her uniqueness, her beauty, by seeing it reflected in my eyes. When I say 'beauty,' I don't mean the facile beauty of the pneumatic heroines in porn stories. My Roxanne does not have flaming red hair down to her waist, or perfect cones of breasts, nor is she just out of the egg. When I describe her for you, you may not even understand why I refer to her beauty. It's nothing I can put into words, but trust me, it's there. Her hair is short and straight, and she's never satisfied with it. In the '70s, she covered it with one fantastic wig after another -- she was deep into her 'hide in plain sight' phase then. Now, she plays with the colour. Today it's a soft beige-blonde; tomorrow, who knows? Those kaleidoscope eyes switch from merry to mournful and back again almost faster than I can follow. The epicanthic folds are fleshy, a family trait she deplores and threatens to correct with a backhoe. At some time in the past, she went wild with tweezers and removed the outer portions of her eyebrows, and they never grew back. Thus, without makeup, she has a somewhat surprised, or maybe ornery, look. We've known each other forever. Thinking back several decades to when her self-loathing was at its peak, I remember cruel, cruel drawings she did of herself, featuring a nose that Die Sturmer would have proudly printed in one of its anti-Semitic cartoons. But in reality, it is unremarkable: a somewhat bumpy, shapely, Eastern European nose. Fairly big, but no big deal. To look at her sweet little mouth, you'd never guess the volume she can achieve when really angry. But you might just intuit that it is the source of sweet little moans, sighs and giggles under better circumstances. Her shoulders are softly sloped and rounded, and her golden arms taper down to graceful hands which describe animated arcs and arabesques when she speaks. She is mortified by her weight, but a less harsh viewer can see her as lush and bountiful. Her soft breasts, capped by pale tan areolae the size of half dollars and pert pink nipples, are made to be caressed. And my God, responsive! I put out one finger and touch her left nipple; it springs to immediate attention at my touch. Oh, look; the right one is sulking. I must remember that, being right-handed, I give the left side of her body more attention. We can't have half a woman feeling neglected ... The shadows are deep and dark beneath the fullness of her breasts. She pisses and moans about the fact that they are starting to droop; she doesn't realize how luscious they look. Made for suckling child or lover. My eyes travel down her body, and she winces: We have reached the bete noire of her belly. When I first came to know Roxanne, she was painfully skinny. When she lay on the beach in her bikini, her hipbones stuck up and her tummy was nonexistent. Looking at those jutting bones always made me think of the bleached skulls of longhorn cattle lying half-hidden in some western stretch of desert. But time has passed, and kids have been conceived and carried, and many good meals have been enjoyed. Fact is, her belly is round and full and traced, here and there, with the silvery etchings of stretch marks. She hates it. I have caught her talking to it, even slapping it. I am thinking of papering the walls with reproductions of The Birth of Venus and The Naked Maja, but she won't be reassured ... I do know her THAT well. But I digress. That bountiful belly broods over my favorite place: her sweet, soft mons. Crisp, straight hairs veil it from my sight, but I know it by heart: plump outer lips, with the tip of her dark-pink clitoris peeking out at the top of the vertical smile. Incredibly silky inner lips, the colour and texture of rose petals. And in that secret cavern, that holy of holies, are liquid delights, built-in speed bumps, spongy folds and crannies and, just out of finger's reach, her alphabet spot. She calls it that because, when it's found and triggered, "Gee!" just doesn't cover the sensation. As I trace the crevice to the rear, my finger glides over the muscular tissue separating vagina from bottom. She puckers involuntarily, as if warding off an invasion. I make her turn, so I can admire the moonbeam glow of her generous ass. Sturdy, sun-kissed thighs taper down to slim calves and ankles and her aristocratic feet: long, lean and ladylike. She pivots one leg, arches her foot, weight on toes, and admires the flowing line from her center to the ball of her foot. At least she has SOME appreciation for her body. We will have to work on that ... But the hour is late, and she is tired of being examined. I lean forward to kiss my dear Roxanne, and as our lips touch, my breath fogs the mirror. Another lesson in self-love done. Mission accomplished, at least for now. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |