Typing Away at the Kitchen Table
Naked, a bowl of dark sweet cherries and a wine glass of sparkling water within reach, hard-on bobbing between his legs with its single weeping eye staring up at him through a green, lime-flavored condom, Joe madly hammers out the latest adventure. It has become an obsession: how to live out every erotic dream, how to bring the inner world of enchantment and wildness into the outer world of crappy jobs, possessions, sickness, bills, acne, spilled milk, and crushing sorrow.
“He dipped his index finger in the creamy wet goo, pulled it slowly between her labia to the small but powerful ...” Joe mulls it over; what new names can he give to her sexual parts? “... captain of the little boat, which rose and fell on waves of ...” He pauses. “... exquisite pleasure.” He types, banging the keys with blunt, oil-stained fingers.
“The night sky glittered like diamonds on velvet the first time he saw her, arriving one winter night at the church, wearing a funny little hat with a sprig on top. Now his face was in her muff and” — his train of thought is interrupted.
“Jo-o-oe!” A plaintive voice comes from the next room. He doesn’t answer, thinking of what comes next, taking a cherry from the bowl and sucking it off its stem, biting it in half, spitting out the pit.
“What?” Joe snaps, in a muffled, juicy voice. In his high state of arousal, he’s a bit irritable.
“Joe I’m hungry,” she says in a little girl voice. He pictures her as he left her, wrists and ankles loosely tied to the bedposts with pieces of a torn up sheet, a larger strip humorously tied in a big bow around her waist, as though she were a gift. He had brought the ends of the bow down to lie on either side of her juicy fig, just barely brushing her fur, lightly touching her soft inner thighs, and now the thought of it is unbearable. He’s supposed to be the one in control, but he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to resist her pleas.
“Aren’t you gonna come and feed me?” she asks. He can hear it in her voice – a glint of submissive power. She knows she’s got him.
Joe looks down at his penis. Led around by my other head again, he thinks.
“Maybe,” Joe says. “Pretty soon, anyway. Why, can’t you wait? Are you that hungry?” He smiles.
The curtains wave in the warm breeze that slips past the drawn shade. The sounds of a summer day drift in: a small plane drones past, a lawn mower roars, kids shout and scream with laughter, racing past below on some mission of daring foolishness. The apartment is on the second floor, with a view of the branches of a large oak tree growing too close to the foundation, and past that the old, grand houses of the erstwhile well-to-do, now divided into apartments. Joe lets his hands rest on the keys, ready for the next image to give him the words to describe it.
“She begged him to put his mouth on her delicious, wet lips. She rocked her pelvis against the finger he held devilishly still, straining to reach his whole hand. He grinned, watching her hunger grow. He pulled his hand away and knelt, his thigh lightly touching her vulva, the other spread wide as he balanced on one foot so she could see him touching himself, his nakedness, running his wet finger from his mouth, to his nipples, to his balls, to his asshole, and finally ...” Joe tries, then gives up on finding clever euphemisms for what he wants to say “... he leaned forward until his thigh pressed her clit. He touched his fingers to his cock, smeared the gleaming drop of pre-cum in a widening circle til the head gleamed.”
Oh, that’s good, Joe thinks. How do I come up with these things? There must be some kind of Muse of Hot Sex.
“She opened her mouth, reached for him with trembling lips and tongue.
" ‘Please,’ she whispered. He slowly stroked his shaft, looking deep in her eyes.”
Joe’s had the typer since he was eighteen, when he declared himself a writer. He’d bought it at a pawn shop, a treasured IBM Selectric that came with three font balls. He’s using the cursive font today. It seems appropriate for the flowery language of lust. He’s had to pull the thing out of his closet, where it’s been for several weeks, and blow the dust off the cover. His nose is still somewhat irritated.
What with his job as a backyard auto mechanic, the weekly meetings with his support group, being sick, and going to school part time, he hasn’t been able to work in an adventure til today. Missy’d called him that morning. He’d given her his number after group. They would meet for coffee, they agreed, but coffee led to talking, and talking led to their mutual desire for experiences that illness might soon rob them of.
Joe’s way of dealing with being sick had been to go on as usual, except that he no longer held back from anything. If he wanted to do or say or have something, he went for it, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone.
“What are your dreams?” he’d asked her, as they walked holding hands to his apartment. She’d stopped, turned to him, whispered hotly in his ear,
“I want to be tied up, teased, and fucked.”
Joe had been stunned. Here was an adventure he hadn’t had to orchestrate himself. It was Missy who’d asked for his number, Missy who’d called and asked him to coffee, Missy who’d suggested she walk him home from the diner.
She’d given his ear a lick.
Joe thinks of this and again his cock zings with a lightning bolt of lust, his stomach muscles involuntarily tighten, his balls tingle, his nipples sting.
And his heart aches, touched by her boldness, her open spirit. He imagines entering her warm, wet pussy, feels himself drawn to her center, submerged in overwhelming lust. He imagines his penis completely filling her.
But they have a deal; he’s got to tease her for as long as he can stand it without either of them coming. No matter how much she begs, he can’t let her come until he himself is unable to hold back any longer. If that means he has to leave the room from time to time, so be it.
“I’ll write the story.” Joe had said, after they’d closed the door behind them. He felt inspired for the first time in weeks. He’d taken her in his arms, and Missy had pressed herself, not too hard, against the length of his body.
“Yes,” she’d said, kissing him wetly on the cheek, “and when it’s finished, send it in to be published. We’ll be eternal.” She’d laughed, and Joe had laughed, and they’d begun to undress.
Writing the story while it happens is working marvelously well, increasing the build up for both of them, making it as hot and lasting a day of sex as Joe has ever experienced, even in the hormone-drenched days of his youth.
He’s gotten to the end of the page, so Joe grabs a handful of cherries, gets up from the table, and dings the return until the paper comes free. He brings it in to where Missy is tied to the bed, reads it to her. She closes her eyes, feeling it all over again, accepting cherries from his free hand, spitting out the pits which stain the bed with purple. Eventually he drops the page to the floor, kisses the place where her thighs meets her belly, the very crest of the vee that leads to her dark center. She breathes in with pleasure, relaxed, aroused in every particle, light-headed, willing him to stroke her. And he does, sliding a cherry between her lips, slipping it into her cunt, massaging her g-spot with it, feeling the muscles tighten. He leans down and touches her clit with his tongue, lightly. She tightens around his fingers again, her pelvis moving slightly. He moves his tongue against her, slowly increasing the pressure, until she gasps, “Stop.”
He waits. “Okay,” she says, and he places his lips against the top of her clit and gently sucks, pulling at her clit and lips, moving his fingers. Almost immediately she begins to rock, with a strange soft singing. Suddenly she cries “No, not yet!” He pulls away, drawing the wet cherry over her clit, her belly, between her breasts, her throat, to her lips, where she eats it, slowly tonguing it, aiming the pit and narrowly missing his nipple.
“You bastard.” She laughs. She takes his fingers into her mouth and sucks. Joe is surprised to find his fingertips have become an erogenous zone. He lets her suck them for a while, then pulls his fingers out and kisses her mouth. He moves up and straddles over her face, close enough for her to look, but not to touch, then moves closer to her outreaching tongue.
“Still hungry?” Joe asks.
Missy’s eyes flash a laugh at him. “Yeah, I’m hungry” she says. “I want a lime-flavored popsicle.”
Joe lets Missy get her lips around his cock and pull it in suck by suck. He quickly arrives at a point where he has to pull out.
“I’ll see you in a little while,” he says.
Joe walks with care back to the kitchen and sits on the wooden chair in front of the typewriter. He decides to re-enter the story from a different angle, come down a little.
“He’d been with a lot of women, and some men. He’d been sucked, fucked, stroked, spanked, led around on a leash, and once he even allowed a condom-sheathed high heel to be inserted into his anus while he licked the other shoe. But he had never been as turned on as he was now with her, giving her pleasure, bringing her to the last edge before the inevitability of orgasm, then leaving her there, allowing her a taste of his flesh, but stopping her before she could make him come. They’d been at it for hours, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.”
Joe reads what he’s just typed and laughs, remembering some of the adventures he’d sought out at bars and night clubs where sluttish behavior on the part of men and women was the norm. He’d written the stories, sent them to Hustler, Swank, Penthouse, and some had been published. He’d welcomed the extra money, though it wasn’t much. He’d talked about it in group, how he’d finally been able to sell something he’d written, even if it was only smut. The group had encouraged him, to his surprise, approving of his life-affirming obsession with living out the sexuality that had until then been largely suppressed.
Missy had been fairly quiet as a rule, until the night he first got the guts to tell the group about his adventures in lust. He remembers her rosy cheeks, her bright eyes, as she asked question after question. Wasn’t he scared? What was it like for a man to kiss a man? Did he use protection? Did he get tired? How did he approach a woman he didn’t know? What did he say?
Joe keeps typing. “He knew she wanted him inside her, filling her up, sending her into oblivion. He knew she wanted it to last forever. She told him she’d dreamed of this many times, stroking herself as she thought of what his body must look like, squeezing her nipples, fucking herself with her fingers, rubbing her clit, pumping her hips, riding it. But she always came too fast, couldn’t stop herself. And finally, she knew what she wanted was to feel his real body against hers, before it was too late, before either one of them was too sick to live out her dream.”
Joe wonders if that isn’t a little too sad, or too something. Cliche?
Well, he can change it later if need be.
Once Joe had discovered that the group didn’t think he was bound for hell, he’d gone to sex shops and bought toys, videos, magazines, lubricants. He’d gone to the library and looked up “sex,” found a wide selection of books that covered the subject from every point of view, including technical details he’d never known before, and a book of erotic art prints from the late eighteenth century through the early twentieth that were far more imaginative and arousing than anything he’d seen before.
He’d made a copy of his favorite and put it up in the kitchen: a beautiful young woman having sex with an ecstatic donkey. The artist, in his day a well known illustrator of children’s books, had taken the liberty of giving the naked woman an extra hand, so she could pleasure herself and get a rise out of the donkey at the same time.
Joe absently admires the picture, lost in lubricious thoughts. He feels the typer’s motor humming through his fingers.
“Jo-o-oe,” Missy calls, this time in a sexy, lilting voice.
“Joe, I want you to take care of me.” She purrs suggestively, but there’s a joy to it, he can tell. She’s loving every minute.
They’ve already taken a couple of breaks to jump in the shower under cold water. Is it time for another?
But when Joe goes to stand in the bedroom door, he senses it’s time for something else.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.
“Well, if you’re thinking I want your cock inside me, and I want you to fuck me, and I’m going to go out of my mind, then yes.”
“Hang on,” he says. He goes to the bathroom and wets a cloth with cold water, cools himself with it, then wets it again and does the same for Missy. He leaves the cloth on the bed as she kicks the restraints off her feet. He climbs up to kiss her, guides his hot hard cock into her hot wet cunt, and begins to thrust in and out, pulling on her lips, gliding over her clit, and she moans, sings, laughs, as they ride and ride, their hot day’s last long journey to a good place. Joe knows he can make it last, though he doesn’t know how it can be. A part of him is thinking of the words he’ll use later to describe this, to finish the story.
“He entered her slowly,” he tries, gets lost.
“Every cell in his body hummed with arousal,” he tries again, “and she moaned, her eyes dark and strange ...”
He feels like he’s having an orgasm that goes on and on, a series of soaring heights and plunging depths that border on terrifying and are wildly exhilarating. It must be the same for Missy, who is howling in synch. Each time the sounds she makes become more astonished, more ravished, longer and louder and as free as any rapturous animal.
The sound of applause and cheering rises from below. Passers-by have gathered in the street to listen, but Missy and Joe can’t hear them. The vast blue deep engulfs them in a throbbing universe, and everything is a part of it, momentarily lost in a limitless sky sifted with infinite stars.
Copyright © 2004 by goodrichdirt. All rights reserved.
I currently work in street maintenance and repair. Sexual interests and imaginary worlds kept me sane and alive through many a trying time, and still keep me warm in the winter.
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