Tarotica

The Hermit

Contemplation. Meditation. Becoming centered. The need for psychological space. Self-discovery. Now is a time to withdraw voluntarily from the world to seek truth in solitude. You must reunite with the Source. You need to rest and think silently about your situation. -- Tarot, Plain and Simiple. Anthony Louis.

Counsel. Knowledge. Solicitude. Tendency to withhold emotion. Fearful of discovery. Failure to face facts. Tendency to complacently dwell within this wealth of knowledge as something worthwhile without seeking to utilize the information towards some goal or application. – Tarot Classic. Stuart R. Kaplan

Dimly but distinctly I could taste the tang of autumn in the late summer air. The cicadas, lazily, slowly, sang their late-season song. I sighed and pushed back the heavy covers, so welcome during the cool night before. Naked, I sipped my coffee and idly played with myself, my free hand running lightly up my thigh to my cunt, up to my clit. Lazily, I toyed with it, lightly fingered myself, then took another sip of coffee. The masturbation was more an act of remembrance – it was here, in this small Minnesota resort, that I was first kissed – it was here I first felt the blurred, confused excitement of teenage summer flirtation.

Why had I returned? I trailed a light finger down my breast and tried to answer this question, phrased so solidly, so unavoidably, in the midst of my morning consciousness. I shook my head, drew my knees up. I was now 36 – no longer a child, no longer a teenager, no longer, even, a young adult. The memories were still vivid – I had rented the cabin my family used to rent, when we returned every year. Everyone saved up – saved up financially, but also emotionally, also mentally -- for this one week of bliss. The night before we left, my sisters and I would stay awake all night, excited, whispering. It was only a tiny resort, overstuffed with too many cabins and too many campers, located on a small, dirty lake. For us, though, it was a week’s escape to paradise.

I stretched my legs and rose. I donned a long denim shirt and inhaled deeply. The cabin smelled the same – that fantastic vacation smell of hard water, old sheets, and dirty fish. Next door, a fellow camper was grilling bacon. I smiled. It was, in so many ways, the smell of innocence – and also, somehow, the smell of awakening. I walked to the screen porch, inhaling more deeply the combined smell of my own coffee, my neighbor’s breakfast, and the lake-smell itself. The porch held two large double beds. When I was young, I would sleep in one, my sisters in the other. There was, of course, no air-conditioning – just the wonderful light breeze blowing in, carrying the smell of stale beer and pizza from the tavern, campfires from those around us. I could not remember it ever being too hot – or, for that matter, too cold. Somehow, the lake was always perfect, always comfortable.

This was the first time I had come to the lake myself – on my own – the first time I’d stayed in the cabin by myself. My parents no longer came to the resort – it had become, they said, too crowded, and the lake was now cut off from view. In truth, the resort was not a pretty place – it was, though, a party place, where families played cards and drank too much beer. I remembered my mother and father in lawn chairs, outside the cabin, drinking beer, eating candy bars – smiling – perhaps the only time I saw them happy for an entire week at a time. In fact, this was the first time I was back in the state – back in the Land of 10,000 Lakes – without telling my family. It was absurd, selfish, immature – but I didn’t want anyone to know I had returned, wanted to savor this experience myself – by myself.

I had just finished a Ph.D. program – had endured the whole, hideous thing, classes, candidacy, comprehensives, foreign language exams – and finally, the last nail in the proverbial coffin, the dissertation defense. Through it all – through the torturous work, the abusive professors, the demeaning assistantships – I worked, determined to finish. I live my life in a whirlwind, and this was no different – I finished the entire program within three years. Then, my very own wake-up call – are they still called “breakdowns”? Anyway, that’s when Eddie – my boyfriend at the time, and then boyfriend no longer – found me, alone in my small apartment, surrounded by books I’d pulled from shelves, academic papers I’d torn from my files. I was hysterical, laughing and crying by turns. Eddie put me to bed and then promptly called a doctor. Despite my protestations, I was kept in the hospital overnight, then sent home with a sedative and a prescription for an anti-depressant. Eddie did not call, and I had no other friends. It was over – I had my sheepskin and my funny-looking cap. Now what?

Back to the lake. Somehow, it was the only answer that made sense. It was early – not yet 7:00 a.m. – but I returned to the cabin and pulled my swimming suit on under my denim shirt. When I was a child, and times were more innocent, I would often head down to the lake, by myself, before anyone else was awake. Oftentimes, I was the only early morning swimmer, and I would float, happily, on our old air mattress or inner tube; I knew, then, that nothing could mar that floating peace, that perfect happiness. Now, a towel in my hand, I walked the short path, past the tavern, down to the lake.

I heard the clatter of voices and dishes in the tavern, saw the resort’s owner, Larry, his feet deep in wading boots, head down toward the small shed that housed a million minnows, waiting to be used as bait for the fish that still chose to call the lake – oily, dark, unnaturally warm – home. I lay my towel on the grassy knoll that bordered the lake – this being Minnesota, there was, properly, no real beach. I headed down towards the lake and stepped in. The water was warm – “like bathwater” – my mother used to say, during the few times she joined us in our eager, frequent swims. I felt the slight jolt of the water, then ran in, surface-diving at the end of the dock.

I frolicked there for a while, enjoying my solitude, the fact that the lake was my own. I fought to stay underwater, trying to increase my time with each dive. I turned somersaults and did handstands. After one of these, I turned toward the sun, smiling, genuinely joyful, and then laughed. This I thought to myself This is what I came here for. “Hey – you’re pretty good!” I heard a voice behind me, coming from the dock and the minnow house. I turned – a young man-boy crouched, watching me. He was dressed in waders, too, and earnestly untangling some very tangled fishing gear – obviously, he worked there. Silently, I calculated in my head – no, the owner’s children had grown up with us – one was my very first crush. They were old – or at least, my age. They’re recruiting a new crop, I thought to myself – And good for them. “Thanks – Glad you liked it,” my response was enthusiastic, and more flirtatious than I had intended. The boy dropped the fishing gear and stood up. He walked closer to me, stopping at the dock’s end. “The water’s beautiful,” I said, and then added, “You should come in for a dip.” The boy smiled and his face reddened. He was no more than 18; like most Minnesotans, he was blonde and blue-eyed, his cheeks round and tanned. He swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing lure. “Not everyone is here on vacation, you know,” and he smiled, “I’ve got to work.” “Well,” I said, “That is too bad,” and, turning and smiling at him once more, I headed back to my towel.

That afternoon, I took a nap in one of the beds on the sleeping porch. I lay, feeling the slight cool breeze off the lake, hearing the rustle of the leaves outside the cabin door. I slept heavily, dreaming of first kisses and games of hide-and-go-seek, of tentative gropes around campfires. When I awoke, my hand was between my legs, anxiously, desperately, rubbing my clit. I looked around – anyone could have walked by, anyone could have looked in. I stopped, took a deep breath, and rose to get dressed.

I went to the tavern for pizza and beer; I’m not a fan of outside grilling, and I certainly didn’t feel like cooking. I took a book with me, but, once I sat down, it lay on the table, forgotten. I wanted to pause, to watch, to take the time to inhale again – wanted to smell the stale beer, the burnt pizza – surprisingly, I felt myself getting wet through my denim shorts. I really did, I thought to myself, love this place. I watched the resort’s temporary denizens enter and order their own beer and food. There were families, laughing and roaring at each other, fishermen carrying on their fish-story tradition. “Hi.” And there he was – the boy-man from the dock. Heavily, he sat down next to me. “I’m not working now.” His voice cracked, and I realized how much courage it must have taken him to approach me. I smiled, and relaxed into the chrome and plastic chair. Here was no threat. Here was, quite possibly, fun – and here, perhaps, was innocence – innocence and youth. “I’m glad,” I said, “I’d offer to buy you a beer, but I’ll bet you’re too young to drink.” The Adam’s apple bobbed again. “Don’t worry about it –“ I could almost see the lightbulb manifest over his head, “Maybe I could have one later, at your place.” I laughed. From the corner of my eye, I could see the sun glinting on the lake’s surface, breaking and floating like a thousand diamonds. “Do you think so?” I asked, “Well then, let’s go.”

We walked back to the cabin together. As we left the tavern, I saw him glance around, furtively – he was worried, I thought, about his boss seeing him. I chuckled to myself and watched him walk – his legs were thin, his shoulders hunched. He was thin – his body, his life, had not yet had time to acquire real meat. We arrived at the cabin, and I directed him to a lawn chair. He sank into it in obvious relief. I walked into the cabin and fetched two beers. We sat and drank them, and for a while, nothing was said. “So,” I said, after half the beer was gone, “What’s your name?” “Richard,” he answered, “and you’re Kristin.” “Very good,” I smiled, “And how did you know that?” “You used to come here, with your family, every year.” “Ah!,” I responded, “Larry told you – I’m surprised he recognized me.” Richard laughed, suddenly confident. “He said you fill out a bikini a lot better than you used to.” I laughed, too. “Thank God for that – Richard, how old are you?” “18,” he did not try to lie, and for that I admired him. Half my age, I thought to myself, This kid is half my age. We drank another beer, after, and he chatted about his work, about the lack of fish, about Larry. I nodded, watching his hands, noting the light blonde fuzz on his chin. After we’d both finished our second beer, I leaned over and touched that fuzz. He jumped, surprised, and again, furtively, looked around. “If you’re so nervous,” I whispered, “Maybe we should go inside.”

He followed me into the cabin. I took his hand, could feel him shaking. I led him to the back bedroom, the one my parents used – the thought made me feel odd at first, and then it made me chuckle. I stopped beside the bed. “Undress me,” I said, and Richard, his hands trembling, pulled my t-shirt over my head, then moved to my shorts. He was uncertain and fumbling with the button, and I helped him – I left the zipper to him. I felt the rush of the zipper’s descent and threw my head back, gulping a deep breath. I helped him pull the skin-tight shorts down, then untied the drawstring on his knee-length trunks; they were all he wore. He stood before me, still swallowing, his thin naked body hard as marble, unmarked, clean. His cock was large and thick, and it bobbed eagerly in the waning light of the bedroom. I pulled him down next to me, took his cock in my hand. “You’re 18,” I said, “I assume you’ve done this before?” Again, the nervous swallow, “Yes – but not that often.” I leaned on him, forced him on his back, then moved down to his thighs. I ran my tongue up his hairy, thinly muscled thighs, then flicked my tongue over his tight balls. I heard him gasp, felt the slight pressure of his hands on my hair. I ran my tongue up the length of his cock and took the swollen head in my mouth. I rubbed him a little, then sucked slowly, running the tip of my tongue around his girth. The pressure of his hands increased, and I sat up. “Not quite yet, Richard,” I said, “Now – grab the headboard – with both hands – yes, just like that.” He was now stretched in front of me, and, lazily, perhaps cruelly, I ran a light finger down his side. He jumped, releasing the headboard. “Richard,” I said, “You don’t want me to have to tie you up, do you?” Again, the nervous swallow, “Don’t worry – even if I did, you just might enjoy it.” He smiled, then grabbed the headboard again. This time, I ran my tongue down his sides, tasting his salt and his youth. I wanted that – that 18-year old blood. Wanted that taste of fresh, of new. I bit him, then, wanting that young pound of flesh, and delivered small bites up and down his thighs, his sides, his arms. He was twisting, his cock was bobbing, but he did not let go of the headboard. His eyes were closed, and he moaned; he turned his head, pressed it against his arm, trying to stifle his breathing, his groans. I straddled him, then leaned over to kiss him, gently. He tasted like sunshine, like fresh fish, like old, resort cabins. “I want that,” I whispered. “What?” his voice was husky, “I said – I want you.” “Then,” the swallow, “You can have me.” I laughed, leaning back on his thighs, “Oh, Richard, I know that.” I kissed him again, again gently, but then I bit his lip and probed his mouth with my tongue. I felt a small gasp against my lips. I stopped, sat back. “Give me your tongue,” I said. “What?” his voice was still husky, his hands still wrapped around the headboard, “Give me your tongue.” He stuck it out, nervously, and I sucked it into my mouth, swirling my tongue around his, probing, reaching for his throat. I leaned back. I could feel his cock, beating time against my ass. I reached through my thighs, grabbed it, and placed it at the portal of my cunt. A deep intake of breath. “Do you want it, Richard?” I asked. “Oh, yes,” he whispered. “Don’t let go –“ I said, “just feel – just enjoy.” I eased myself down onto his rock-hard cock, and gasped as I felt its length and girth. I threw my head back, no longer in control, and thrust myself down and down again on that wonderful lengthy, youthful, innocent, 18 year old prick. “Oh, Richard,” I whispered, “That’s very, very nice.” It only lasted a few minutes; finally, Richard could no longer take the restraint, the waiting. An intake of breath, and then Richard was on top of me, his cock thrusting, harder, deeper, into my ready-cunt. I moaned. “Oh, God, Richard – yes – oh yes – oh give that to me,” And I thought about firsts – first kisses, first hand-held walks, the first time I’d made love – and Richard was holding me, thrusting and spurting deep, deep inside me.

We lay there for a few minutes. I got two more beers. We sat on the bed, silently drinking, listening to the frogs and the cicadas. We finished the beer, and Richard got up. “I suppose I should be going.” His voice was still awkward, but I could see his cock, newly buoyant, bouncing in the twilight. “Oh, no,” I said, “I don’t think we’ll waste that.” I leaned towards him, stroked his thickening prick. “I want you to take me from behind,” I whispered, “I want you to fuck me hard –‘ To myself, I thought, Fuck me so hard that a piece of you – a piece of that youth and innocence – falls off inside me and adheres to something internal. His cock wakened, but I could feel his pause, “I’ve never done it like that before.” “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll help you – and your future girlfriends will thank me.” I knelt on the bed, my ass towards him. I felt the slight give of the bed as he knelt behind me, and then I felt his hands on either side of me, sliding, for a second, down my thighs. I reached back for him, opened my cunt with my fingers, and helped him slide his cock inside, deep, so deep. I could hear my breathing become more labored, could feel my face flush despite the early evening cool. “Richard,” I breathed, “Fuck me hard – I need it hard.” He was hesitant, at first, then began to slam into me, I could feel his thighs and balls rocking against my ass, could feel the tip of his cock teasing my womb. I leaned into him, tipped my ass up, opened up for him, for his cock, for his wonderful fountain of youth.

This time, I came before he did. I felt the spasms reach up from my ass, up to my belly, up to that tingly point at the end of my spine. With one final surge, he thrust himself even more deeply, and came, gasping, as I grabbed the headboard and tried to ease the post-orgasm dizziness. We separated, both sweating, both sated. “Well, Kristin,” and I could hear the smile in his voice, could sense a new layer of confidence, “Can I go now?” I rolled over and kissed him on the chin, on that tiny blonde piece of fuzz. “No – not quite yet.” He looked at me in surprise. “Oh?” “Before you go, I want you to sit beside me, in the lawn chairs. We’re going to watch the stars, have one more beer, and eat candy bars.” His laugh was husky. “Okay – I can do that.” “And then,” I said, “We’ll talk about tomorrow night.”