Message-ID: <21688asstr$944550601@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "celia batau" Subject: {ASSM} Succulents [Mf cons bd] Lines: 139 X-Original-Message-ID: <944542695.815390@news1.bigplanet.com> X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Cache-Post-Path: news1.bigplanet.com!unknown@ts033d09.lax-ca.concentric.net X-Cache: nntpcache 2.3.3 (see http://www.nntpcache.org/) Date: Tue, 7 Dec 1999 02:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: kelly, gill-bates Hi Everyone! This is the first story we've posted. It's very short, and not too erotic, but we wanted to share it. We especially thank Crimson Dragon for saving this story from near oblivion. Yay! Please feel free to copy and share this story as long as long as you don't charge for it, and we (Celia Batau) get the credit. This is an adult story, so unless you're an adult and it's legal where you live, please don't read it. We love suggestions and opinions about our stories. Please send them to halina@pob.cc Enjoy! -cb Succulents Gently, Paul lifts me up. Like a hanging plant. I could be a fern, a Rhododendron, something green and temperate with fleshy leaves and long delicate stems, like golden impatiens maybe, or even an exotic. I can hear Paul's labored breathing as he checks the ropes. He is always very careful, inspecting every knot and making sure that every intricate loop of rope is just right and that my weight is evenly distributed across my shoulders and knees. My position isn't comfortable. My ankles are crossed and tied behind me and pulled up and tied to the ropes around my waist. My arms are also crossed and tied high on my back. The rest of my body is criss-crossed in a lace of ropes hugging me from head to foot and balancing the constant tug of the ropes tied to my knees and shoulders. This is Paul's favorite position, practiced over a hundred afternoons. Everything is so snug that I can only wiggle my fingers. Satisfied, he lets me go and happily watches as I lazily turn in front of him. He's smiling. I can tell even though I can't see him. I know him that well. We had been dating less than three months by the time we drove to Carlsbad to see the bats. We were deep in the cavern, standing by Giant Dome the when he grabbed me for the first time, really grabbed me. He pressed me back into an alcove and held me between himself and the railing. There was such a need in his eyes that I couldn't complain no matter how cold and hard the railing was, couldn't do anything except stare back in the dim light. There was such a fierceness in his eyes, and such a strength and urgency that was so much more than the wildness that first drew me to him, and at that moment I knew that I could never deny him anything. Afterwards, in the giftshops he bought me everything I wanted; shot glasses, post cards, specialized keychains with a picture of the caverns on one side and names of our friends and family on the other, and the handmade Hopi doll that swung lazily from the rearview mirror as we drove back home, he watching the horizon and me sleeping on his shoulder and dreaming of nopales. I can feel the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the dirty panes in the greenhouse ceiling. It clings to my skin. It feels wonderful. Somewhere below me is the little cactus I bought this morning. I wonder of he can feel it too. And I wonder what he thinks from the safety of his little plastic cup on the shelf beside the window of these two funny creatures playing above him. Suddenly I feel his lips brush lightly against my own and I open my mouth to accept him but he's already gone. Then I feel his fingers running across my tummy, teasing me in the bare spots between the ropes. And once again I feel his lips, kissing me where his fingers left off. I squirm helplessly, loving every second of it, wanting it to stop and wanting it to never stop. I want to touch him so bad, to grab him, feel him, hold him, and getting so frustrated that I can't give back. And then he bites me. Oh, I have more than one cactus in my garden, I think. I smile but don't dare say anything. Gently, he brushes the hair from my face and ties it to a rope behind my head, though a few damp strands escape to cling to my face. The greenhouse is hot. I'm hot. Paul's taken off his shirt and I catch glimpses of his tanned skin as he moves under me. "Te quiero," he says to me between kisses, "Mi muneca." "Si otra vez qualquier cosa si," I want to say to him, but I can't make my tongue move straight. I just can't seem to focus on anything. My heart's beating so fast. All I'm aware of is the gentle force of life flowing through his fingertips, burning like stars bound in an ever-changing constellation. It beats to its own internal rhythm, unaware or unconcerned by my own excitement. Again his fingers trace the outline of the ropes against my skin. All over my skin he maps me with his lips, his tongue and his hands. He is my personal cartographer. I am his macrame girl. His hanging flower. He is my boy scout, my gardener, my "Koibito." Koibito, that's the private name I've given him, a name he'll never know, because I can keep a secret. But he tries. Almost as if he could read my mind, or see the laughter in my eyes that I try so cleverly to hide whenever I think of his name. No matter where we go from this moment, I'll always be rooted here, to his heart. But my Koibito refuses to stay rooted, preferring the endless desert roads to a more leisurely spot in the garden. Instead, I'm the one who is held down and arranged in whichever way pleases him. And I could not live without it. And just now I realize that we really are one and the same. He possesses my body, but I possess his heart. Or rather, his heart has become mine, and mine his. Our roots have grown and tangled in our time, sharing the same sunshine and drawing into ourselves whatever we can glean from a poor and ungiving landscape. Though I know that I am only a transplant, like my little cactus in the greenhouse, I have made his soil my own. We could have sprouted from the same seed or spawned off the palm of a common mother. We're both desert creatures. It's made us what we are. He a cactus, all sharp thorns and defensive and beautiful in his fierceness, and me a succulent, the same without the thorns, far more giving of the precious moisture within. Then he appears before me. He's got that wonderful wild grin on his face again. His face is quiet and still, but his hands never stop moving. He watches me as gradually I feel it, the tight pressure of the lone rare flower waiting to bloom. I close my eyes. I can't bear it any longer. Tenderly he kisses my mouth, my nose, and my forehead before blowing his sweet breath into my ear, making me shiver as he whispers, "Koibito." the end 1999 celia batau -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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