Swan's Way

We called them ‘Sanitary Sundays', the one day we'd devote a leisurely hour to grooming ourselves. First, the necessary ablutions; teeth, toilet, shower.

Then, we'd fill the tub and soak. And shave. I've kept myself bare down there, since I first began to study dance. I'm hairy, and I thought the bulge in my tights unsightly. Then, too, the sweat; well- I'll leave it to your imagination.

I love the look of my naked sex, all the complex folds and fissures revealed. And so did he. Not to mention the sensation of smooth skin sliding against his organ. After the first time I persuaded him to also ‘go bare' he was a convert.

We would take turns doing each other; me first- by the time he had lathered and shaved all around my sex and my bottom he was firm and ready. Shaving the male organ is so much easier when it is erect! I'd keep him that way with occasional tongue flicks and kisses, until his member and his twin eggs in their velvet sack were smooth and sleek.

Sometimes I would toss him off into my hand, lick my palm, and kiss him deeply, sharing his gift to me.

I was nineteen, had studied modern and classical dance for five years. Our little company traveled to a small town to put on a performance of Swan Lake, a benefit for some obscure charity.

Marcel was an impresario, much much older, and was taken with little me. He'd traveled through Europe, spoke both French and Italian with enough fluency to book a room and order dinner.

He told me what I already knew; I'd never make it to the top in the world of ballet. He called me his little swan, enrolled me in a small private college, and paid my tuition. I was naive and infatuated. I lived with him and attended classes. He travelled often, away for days at a time. Being an impresario. I continued to endure endless hours at the bar, keeping my body as he liked it. Lithe and trim. I am small and slender, with cupcake breasts and a pert backside. At nineteen I could pass for twelve. And, often in our fantasies, would.

After our Sanitary Sunday ministrations we would repair to the bedroom. While I changed the sheets for clean, starched linen, he would prepare breakfast. Mimosas, French toast; or, perhaps, omlets with an exotic filling. And the special coffee that he made with a mysterious machine which filled the apartment with an indescribable aroma. All of this done, of course, in the nude.

The useful length of his penis is a bit less than six inches, measured, as I have, from tip to base at the top of the organ. Below, it is much, much more; the root plunges deep into his body and I can grasp its firmness with my hand, but alas! Those extra inches will never enter me.

His girth, he tells me, is larger than most men. How he knows this I do not wish to learn. He is circumcised, and what he calls his helmet is a great deal wider than his shaft and makes up a full third of his length. Sometimes, getting that first part into the tunnel is a struggle.

A sweet struggle; often accompanied with giggles, kisses and inventive lubrications. We once accomplished the insertion with the aid of the thick, sweet syrup from a can of peaches! Of course we have other, patented lubricants, for other operations.

One of my favorite Sunday pastimes was to kneel and take him, flaccid, into my mouth. Penis, scrotum, testes. My lips are full, "pouty" he calls them, and very soft. And sensitive; the slightest touch sends shivers down. . . Well, down. As I took him in my cheeks would bulge, distended by the contents of my mouth. There were many mirrors, placed about the bedroom. I would lock my lips around the base of his manhood, and use my tongue to caress his nuts, his sack, his prick. It was Marcel who introduced me to raw oysters.

Too soon he expands, until his tumescent cock and balls slowly erupt from my mouth; hard, glistening, ready to pleasure me. A pearly rope of my saliva briefly connects us. At this moment I feel as though I am giving birth to my lover. I lie back on the bed, my feet on the floor, arms stretched above my head on the crisp, clean sheets.

He kneels between my legs, parts them, spreads them wide, and returns the favor with his mouth, his lips, his tongue. He explores the complexity of my various parts until I am loose and wet and ready. He stands, lifts my legs, rests them on his shoulders, and places the head of his organ at the entrance to my cunt.

I love to use, to say, to write, the word. It makes me feel so nasty. I adore the slutty feel of the word cunt as it rolls from my wanton lips. I like to say aloud, "fuck my cunt." "Stick your cock up my cunt." "Stretch my cunt."

He eases himself into me, waiting, while I engulf his engorged cock, letting me accomodate him. Sanitary Sundays are always leisurely.

My breasts are small, but my nipples are large. It was embarrassing when I danced; I had to put band aids across them to conceal their distracting presence from the audience. As I become excited, sexually, my nipples harden and turn a ruby red.

Minutes pass, and, finally buried to the hilt within me, my lover leans forward, so that his shaft rides against my clitoris, and he drives into me. More up and down than in and out. The friction too soon brings me over the edge, and I plunge into the black abyss of orgasm. My heart thuds, my ears ring, my inner muscles spasm, gripping his cock, milking it, as he spews a flood of semen into me.

It was my first experience of the ‘little death', a phrase I later learned in a freshman course in English Lit- taught, I was to discover, by a lesbian grad student. But that's another story.