Message-ID: <16518eli$9810150713@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Hidieon Subject: New Story: "Arrival" M/F, Rom Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19981011062616.29327.rocketmail@send1b.yahoomail.com> Non-standard disclaimer. This story includes graphic sex between consenting adults, romance and some thoughts on Life. If any of these are illegal where you live or at your current age, go away. If any of the above offends you, you did not get here by accident, go away. Any resemblance between the events and persons depicted is entirely coincidental and extremely unlikely. Any non-spam comments may be directed to Hidieon@yahoo.com “So very intense you both are,” commented the other, Ruth, with the booming horsewoman’s voice. “Are you on honeymoon?” the gushy Licia asked. “Something like that,” smiled Cathy. “Perhaps you’ll relax after a really good fuck,” said Ruth, managing to have the entire room hear it. “But I doubt it. You look like you live on your nerves. Well, run along, it is refreshing just to watch you. Tomorrow night, absolutely, you must join us!” They were dismissed, and firmly committed for tomorrow night. Why not? Those two hedonistic eccentrics had accepted them in a wonderful way, and it felt good. Dessert was served, tropical fruit grown locally, and ice-cream flown in – what a thought! Bart grew annoyed at the band, and its bland music. He went over during a break and slapped down a large denomination bill. “Play something” he said. “Play something that you have written yourselves. Play something that I’ve never heard before. And please don’t play any more Belafonte!” The band looked at each-other as though they’d just been woken up. There was a brief exchange in patios, and then they started. Instantly there was a commotion from the kitchen and a large man came out, sweating. The singer waved the bill and pointed to Cathy and Bart, and the manager went away, shaking his head. The music was different, louder, plaintive, incomprehensible, longing for justice and love. The singer may have been singing in English, but they didn’t know – his accent had changed, and become a curious mixture of strident and intimate. Their feet were dancing to the beat; Cathy found it irresistible. “Come on, let’s dance!” she said, and bounded up. She was already swaying to the music, caught in the primal beat, in the magic of the moment. She tugged at him, he refused, and she swayed out to the dance floor alone, laughing at him, beckoning him to come to her. He stayed where he was, head shaking, his face cracked with a smile. He wanted to dance with her, certainly, but he did not have the skill in his thin strong body to match her. And for this magic moment, he knew that she was going to dance for him. That there were other people there was completely irrelevant – barely noticeable. She was aroused – she had been aroused with the promise of the place, its beauty, the beauty of their being here, ever since they’d arrived. She smiled at him, ignoring the band, ignoring everyone but him. She raised her hands and flowed at the hips like a belly dancer, her slenderness flowing like a willow in a breeze. He made a show of disinterested observation; placing his clasped hands beneath his chin in a judicious considering manner. It became part of the dance, of the play. That everyone in the room was watching her, watching them, they hardly knew. He was caught by the music as well, little sensual twitches that he did not even know he made. The two lesbians openly licked their lips, a cameo in perfect timing and clockwise rotation. They were fascinated by the pale dark-haired girl, with the way her tresses fell down her back and swayed in counterpoint to her body. The two girls clasped their outer hands, kissing sometimes; their inner hands were becoming intimate beneath the table. The song, like all songs in the ephemeral art of music, drew to its close, but the band did not let her rest. The polyglot members were watching the girl as though she were some sensual extension of their own dreaming, and they started another song, unique, slow, sensual. She could not bear to dance this alone; she wanted him, and slipped across the floor towards him, beckoning again. He rose, and moved towards her. Anyone who glanced might have seen the long bulge in his trousers, but he pulled her to him, and there was nothing for others to see, only for her to feel. But the music changed again, and grew insistent that their movements become wilder, freer, and she broke away from him, clasping his hand, and whirling about him. She was a dark moth to his fair candle; dark moon to his fair earth. His chest tightened with emotion as he looked at her, forever caught in the sheer wonder that she could love him; but her love, her desire swam about them both like a cloak of privacy. The music changed again to the earlier pattern; it was the chorus that was upbeat and the main melody slow. The singer began to sing, but it was in pure local patois, rendered liquid by the song. They knew the song spoke of love, of separation, of yearning, of completion, of the grief and joy and wonder of love, the despair and joy of life’s journey. Later, perhaps, he would ask for a translation of the words. For now, the music went from patios to their uncomprehending ears and straight to their souls, where emotion was all that was needed, where words were a superfluous distraction. The chorus came, and she broke away from him again, their eyes burning into each-others as they swayed and turned. The palpable tension that filled the rest of the room did not touch them, they were the eye; others could be wind-blown by their storm. Her hunger built, she yearned to kiss him, to throw herself upon him and strip him naked. She wanted to straddle him upon the hard floor, to feel the boards press into her knees and his back as she rode his hardness in liquid pleasure. The message came through her eyes, and through the song that they swam through and that half played them. She saw his eyes darken, saw the tension building there, she pressed herself against him and felt the familiar prodding of his erection against her sensitive belly. Behind them, the lesbian couple teetered to their feet, staggering under wine and ridiculously tall platform soles. They began to dance as well on the open floor, to intrude into their private world. They moved to each-other in hunger. They had watched, and their innate warmth for each-other, the true core of lust and affection that burned beneath affectation had been deeply stirred. Determined to be outrageous, they had risen to the occasion, their lovely slender bodies intertwining, and causing some of the elderly men to smile and make remarks, and some of their wives to kick them beneath the table. The two girls kissed, and the music finished. Cathy and Bart stood pressed against each-other. She felt him hard against her belly, it felt like he was already deep inside her. He was so absolutely raging hard, and he knew that any plans he might have had for the rest of the evening had narrowed to just the one. He would take her back to the cabin and make love to her until she cried out his name, make love to her until he could no longer bear it and spilled again and again… The two girls brushed past them; they had sensed somehow that the show was over, and their own hunger was roused. They teetered out, hands fluttering each over the other; they were going back to their cabin to make love and they didn’t care who knew it. And so it was with them, although curiously less so. The audience was applauding; it seemed both expectable and irrelevant, like a wave washing against the shore. They were leaving too, they walked away, smiling automatically at those who applauded them, not connecting. She hungered. Her belly was filled with just the right amount of food and wine and she hungered. She was slick and swollen and ready for him, and there would be the long minutes of the walk back to the pier, the quiet trip across the lagoon, before she could have him. It seemed like an eternity – she wanted to break all bonds and drag him down here, on the path, on the beach, in the soft leaves of the forest floor. That would be perfect – but she wanted it to be more perfect. That would be quick, and when it came – soon now! She wanted it to be long. He walked beside her, his gait hampered by his condition. Had he been walking naked, he would have swung free, fully rampant. Had he been bared, she could not have resisted, she would have stopped, worshipped on her knees. She would have leaped, impaling herself, refusing to be unseated until after they were back upon their island within an island, until after he hand ebbed away within her. In the middle distance, a woman’s voice in an extremity of desire and passion “Oh, god yes! There, please, there!” The two girls were pleasuring each-other, their cries drifting out through the open windows in the tropical night. They glanced at each-other, smiled. They wished the two outré creatures well; their muffled sobbing was a counterpoint and underscore to their own desire, and they had no will to wish them a night less hedonistic than their own. She felt every step, felt the deep well of desire in her, and knew that her panties were soaked. Each step was hallucinatory, her inner lips slipping slightly against each-other, the crunch on ground coral rock a measuring. Each step was one step closer to that moment when he would fill her, when he would be where she so desperately wanted him. They found the punt, and with exaggerated care they boarded and cast off. Another night they would swim and make love in the water, but not tonight. She sat facing him, her eyes studying his face in the reflected light of the resort and the moonlight. She couldn’t see enough of him, couldn’t see well enough to read the expression on his face. She only knew that her own face was near to breaking point. She wanted to beg him to hurry, to get there, but the quiet motor was already wrung for all that it was worth. He was taking a direct route, there was no wind, they would be there. She shifted uneasily in her seat, finding that her knees wanted to splay apart. She pulled them together again, it took a conscious effort. She looked at his groin and saw the bulge tented there. He saw her glance, and the smile that she loved cracked his face. “Wanton” he said, and she just grinned back. “Wanting” she replied, and then they were nudging up against their own private pier. He fumbled with the painter, and secured it. She leaned on his arm as they went back to the quiet cabin, and then they stepped through the door. Instantly, she was all over him. All of the kisses she had not bestowed on the dance floor and on the way back fought for priority of place as she kissed him, rapidly and clumsily, now. Her hands were busy, and inept in their eagerness, as she sought to bare his skin, to make him naked. He was restraining himself, but she felt the effort that this was costing him, and she wanted to kick this barrier down so that he was as uncontrolled as she. His hands caressed her back, finding bare skin beneath her clothes, finding hooks, and making her bare also. Their skins were moist and a little sticky in the humid tropical night; that would not matter. She was slippery where she needed to be. She saw the damp patch on his trousers, the place where his own excitement had been so intense that pre-cum had leaked and stained his clothes, and she had to have it, to taste it. With the sort of strength that she associated with him, she tumbled him back and pushed him to the bed, pushing his jeans down. His cock sprang free and she whispered “Hi, Dr Longdongle!” in the old joke between them. He was long, like the rest of his long thin body. She kissed it as she yanked shoes, socks, and trousers away. She was bare to the waist, and still clad below in the rucked short skirt, it didn’t matter. She took him in her mouth, relishing every throbbing millimeter, every hint of the taste of him. He protested. “God, don’t be too good!” he said “I won’t last, I’ll … you’ll make me …” He was gasping and pulling at her long dark hair, pulling her away. For a wild moment she thought of doing just that, of milking him dry and asserting her power over him. But then she thought of how much she wanted him inside her, and it wasn’t a bearable option. It had to happen – on this wondrous night she wanted him to spend inside her, to keep him there with her legs wrapped around him while his long cock grew soft, and then hard again. “I want to taste you too!” he gasped. He knew her state, knew how soaked she was. Her pussy would be like a ripe peach; his fingers would dip and part and find her gloriously oily, scented with her own unique female musk. She let up on him then, just a little. Although she did not completely relinquish her position, her mouth hovering, kissing, sometimes sucking at his cock, she stripped her lower half. Then they arranged themselves so that they were on the bed instead of half off it. His fingers found her first, parting her delicately, a single stroke like a broad comb to part her matted hair. She heard her shuddering gasp as he touched and exposed the sensitive inner lips, and whimpered. Then he pulled her over him, so that she straddled his face, and his tongue stabbed deep. She heard a woman cry out and realized it was her. Tears were streaming from her eyes, tears of unbearable arousal, and he was showing no mercy. He knew how to pleasure her, knew all her secret places, and found them all. His tongue swirled around her sensitive nub, and she arched back, sitting heavily on him for one moment. He lifted her up, parting her, his rangy strength still a surprise after all this time. She was totally exposed, he laved her and stabbed deep with his tongue, again and again, like a sensitive tendril of cock. She lowered her head to his cock again, but he was taking control now, and knew that he could make her arch and lift her head with what he was doing to her. It grew too much; she felt the trip-hammer explosion building and then suddenly she was there. She had no time to prepare, or even to draw breath. A cry erupted from her, of sensation so pure it was borderline to pain, and she sensed it echoing across the lagoon, and did not care. She saw that semen had spilled from him during this excitement, she bent and licked it up, and then she again threw him back as she turned and mounted him. He slipped into her easily; she was incredibly excited, and he was, as always, gentle for that first moment until she grew used to him. Then she seized both his hands, and pressed them to his chest, and rode him frantically, heavily. She knew she was being noisy and did not care; he was smiling up at her, in wonder and in near-worship; she felt devilish. But he could not bear to be passive any longer. He twisted and they rolled, and he lifted her legs high and then slammed into her with all of his gentle force. Her head tossed upon the pillow; she was wild and abandoned and tamed and caught and as happy as any Eve with her Adam. He was more imaginative and more visceral than he had ever been. He slowed, and lifted one leg high, nipped at her Achilles tendon, nibbled gently on the sole of her foot. He bent forward, and watched as his long hard tube probed her again and again, disappearing into her overheated cleft. He moved his hand from her thigh to her sensitive belly, feeling the disturbance deep inside her as his cock plunged and probed, sensing his own large adamant presence deep inside her small welcoming softness. He grasped her hands and held them above her head, and bent and kissed nipple, breast, armpit, rib. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the palm, his tongue flickering, his mouth seeming to taste the soft and surprisingly erotic flesh on the inside of her wrist. And again he looked down, seeing himself disappearing into her, seeing the tumult he caused in her belly with his intrusion. She looked into his eyes as he looked up, knowing what he saw, and grasping at what he felt. As always, she marveled that her slender body could accommodate so much, that she could take all his length and only feel pleasure. But the pleasure had never been as deep as now… He took her hand, and brought her own hand down to her own belly, to her cleft, demanding that she feel him as he stroked into her body. His probing cock was a vague sensation on the soft inner flesh of her wrist as she complied; he pressed down so that they could both feel it. She could feel the slight tension and changing in her belly, the writhing within a harbinger of the children she would one day carry. She touched her cleft, and felt him there, felt his hardness so powerful within her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to touch herself, not with him there, not with him already inside. It was as though she could take a selfish pleasure in the midst of all she already received, as though her touching of herself could in some way diminish the sharp fact of his loving. But he pressed her, his long hands insistent as she complied. She felt him, slippery, plowing into her. She was wide spread and stretched for him, and terribly exposed to her own fingers. And when her own fingers touched her most sensitive spot, she was caught off-guard with another sharp little orgasm that had been building all night and yet seemed to come from nowhere. He fell flat, crushing her, and she fought her hands free and raked her nails gently over his back, and she felt his control slip as he touched that broad surface, one of his more erogenous zones. He claimed her lips and sucked the breath from her lungs, making her gasp again as she fought for breath. He grew tender, and kissed her face, her lips, her eyelids, the line of her jaw. He put a finger to her chin and turned her head, and kissed her ear in the way he knew she liked it most. He breathed warm air there, and she moaned. And all the while, gently, relentlessly, his hips continued to move, as did hers, a perfect harmony of movement between them. She was exulting, rejoicing in a way somehow even greater than the very first time. He was there, she had him, he was inside her, he was hers and she was his, and nothing and nobody else mattered. They wanted it to last forever, and they made it as long as their vigor and their mutual desire would permit. But there was too much pent up between them, too much love, too much lust, and too much need for release in the other. She was caught in approaching orgasm when she read his body and knew that he was past the point of no return. She gloried in the knowledge and rose to meet him, hips bucking and her own orgasm rising, faster and more surely now. She heard that despairing moan he made when he knew he could no longer hold back, when all there was to do was to go with the flow and to make it as good for both of them as possible. She wrapped her legs around him and for a curious moment, drummed her heels, then it was happening for both of them. She heard his male roar and her own soprano cry as he splashed inside her. She swore she knew it, could feel the hot fluid inundating her womb – what do doctors know about such things? She laughed at the thought, and with the sheer joy of the moment, and stroked the side of his face as he shuddered. He subsided slowly, while she felt her nipples harden to painful intensity in post-orgasmic tautness. She linked her hands behind his back and held him close. They kissed, very tenderly, feeling the perspiration cool and dry on their heated skins. They were quiet for a long time – it was more important to be like this, to let their bodies say it all, than to intrude with inexact words and ambiguous dialogue. Eventually, he grew heavy, and she grew uncomfortable. By assent, they moved to part, and settled down moments later side by side under a single sheet. “That was so beautiful” she sighed, settling in his arms. It was too hot but she could not bear to be anywhere else. “You are beautiful” he whispered against her hair, and she felt how deeply he meant it. She was surprised to find that she had been asleep. She was not surprised to find that she was deeply aroused, again, or was it still? He was rock hard and pressing up behind her, his hand was absently stroking over the sensitive flesh of her belly. She moved to turn towards him, and got halfway. He was asleep, or dreaming, she realized; there was a randomness and a fluttering to his hands and his body that spoke of slumber and uncontrolled reverie. He spoke her name, “Cathy!” in a deep and sonorous way; he was dreaming of her. She felt him nudging at her, his long cock probing at her cleft, which was still tender from the earlier bruising encounter. And she felt a deep flame of renewed hunger for him. She shifted slightly, and he parted her, and slipped in. She was slick with her juices and his – what had she been dreaming? Replay, please! What was he dreaming? It must be nice, because part of it was happening, and she wriggled slightly, taking him deeper, as his hands fluttered over her belly, her breasts. He began to arch and push deeper into her, very slow movements, the slow-motion thrashing of a dreaming man. It was glorious, and he was so hard again. And so far inside her! They didn’t often use this position – both of them loved the missionary position. But she was beginning to understand why the popes had banned it a thousand years ago, because it gave too much pleasure! “Oh, Cathy!” he said again, loudly and distinctly, his hips moving in tiny thrusts, slipping in her so very easily. He was very deep inside her now, and she found she was making little excited gasping noises at each of his tiny thrusts. She must never have come down from that last orgasmic high, to be like this! She felt half-drugged by sex and sleep and renewed sexual arousal and penetration. She couldn’t have measured how awake she was – but she felt as sensual and cooperative as ever she had in her life! His hands fluttered on her belly some more – he was still asleep, truly! But his hips were growing more active. Greatly daring, she took his hand lowered across her belly it to her cleft, to find the tiny nub. For a moment, it lay there, a sleeping part of the sleeping man touching a very awake part of a sleepy, aroused girl, and then the fingers seemed to take on an intelligence all of their own. She gasped as he found the place, and a moment later she sensed he was awake. “Oh, god, Cathy!” he said in an entirely different voice, his normal voice with the sharp and vulnerable edge. “I thought…” “Don’t stop” she gasped, flushing in the darkness at her own need and desperation to have him and to have herself still held, still penetrated. It was frightening to be so abandoned, so helplessly aroused and so frantic for what was happening to continue. But continue it did, for what seemed like forever, even as he muttered “thought I was dreaming... thought that this was all just a dream…” They were both past the initial explosion now, and the second time was able to take all the time they wanted, even in this unconventional and exciting position. He grew really restive, and then, unexpectedly, pulled her on top of him. His belly was to her back, his hands plowing cleft and stroking her belly. He pressed his hand down on her belly to feel the wonder of himself inside her, and she gasped again… The skin of her belly was sensitive, but now he was giving her something new, something so completely visceral that she was dually never more aware of his penetration, and never more confused about where he ended and she began. He stroked breasts and ribs, and she was a writhing thing of passion, her rump dancing on him, making it all happen for both of them. When she screamed she fell to one side, and he rolled with her, his hands relentless and controlling, while his hips grew harsh as he pounded into her from behind. She felt and knew that change in him, when he started to come, and a second orgasm suddenly leapt from the first, taking her higher and she bit the pillow as she screamed again. They lay still for a long time afterwards, still joined, as he softened slowly. She felt the slow retreat and grieved, even as she continued in post-orgasmic high, her system awash with endorphins. ‘One of these days’ she promised herself ‘we’ll have to learn some of those oriental techniques where you make love for hours and hours without coming, just slow continuous joining.’ But what she said was “Wow! You made love like there was no tomorrow!” And as she drifted into sleep, she heard his sleepy voice say, “There was only one today. But there will be very many tomorrows…” She snuggled up to him, although there was no need to share warmth in the tropical night. Yes – there will be many tomorrows. That’s what we did, really – we made love like there were all the tomorrows we will ever need. We’ve arrived, because now it is so clear that we are on a journey; that’s what arrival is, when the train slows down enough to see that you have been somewhere, are going somewhere… Outside, the curlew cried, the mournful sound somehow full of hope. ************ For every secure job there is an equal and opposite economic fundamentalist. ************ -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----