The Poem of the Pillow

Swollen nipples gliding gently against the mink coat. That was Cullen's main memory of Lisa Foxworth. She had opened her full-length mink coat that evening, as they stood near Rockefeller Center in the snow, and revealed that she was wearing only a black thong, a black garterbelt, and black stockings underneath her mink coat. It was not the first time Cullen had been stunned by her sensuality during that whirlwind week in New York, when their chance encounter had led to a passion neither had known before or since.

As Cullen Favver leaned back in his leather chair, and turned to face out the picture window behind his office desk, his mind reeled under the sheer weight of the sensual images. He recalled the way he had recoiled in unexpected pleasure when Lisa had kissed his nipples. He hadn't known that male nipples were that sensitive, but she patiently taught him. Her instruction -- and he thought of it that way -- was the devil's work. Adjusting his tie, and straightening his vest, Cullen recalled the way she had kissed his thighs, her long hair brushing them. He recalled the way she would look up, almost mockingly, as she kissed his erection.

But then, returning to his senses, Cullen sat up in the chair, righted his tie, and turned to his appointment book for the month. The holidays were approaching, and surely he could escape the surly bonds of vocational responsibility for a week or two. Perhaps he would go skiing, relax for a few days, get some fresh air. Fresh powder, roaring fireplaces, wool sweaters, relaxing mountain hot tubs. It all seemed to fill the bill.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, it had began snowing during the Pledge of Allegiance. The light, powdery flakes danced through the clear mountain air outside the windows of the little classroom where Lisa Foxworth was teaching the stem christie. She had mastered the Arlberg method years before, while completing her doctorate at Ruprecht-Karls-Universitat, and Lisa still enjoyed spending a week or two after Christmas instructing tourists in skiing. It provided a welcome break from her usual routine of biochemical research, and enabled her to keep her firm, lithe thighs in top condition.

As Lisa gestured to the class, and turned to the blackboard to refer to her drawings of various ski maneuvers, many minds in her mostly male class began to wander. Lisa reminded several students of Bailey Quarters from "WKRP in Cincinnati." She was dressed conservatively, yes, but there was an undercurrent of sensuality -- a caged heat. As Lisa turned and demonstrated various ski positions, more than one of her students began to wonder about their studious, yet athletic, teacher -- her demeanor so utterly professional, yet her body so completely tantalizing in a soft cashmere sweater and casual jeans that hugged the supple curves of her body and were a convincing testament to the toning effects of daily skiing.

Upon first catching sight of her, others were reminded of Candace Bergen. Surely, Lisa had the same clear features and the same flowing hair. And yet there was something else. Lisa had the same direct gaze -- a gaze full of knowing sensuality. It was a gaze that left observers wondering if Lisa was the type of woman who would wear a leather garterbelt under a business suit.

When they saw Lisa flying down the slopes, her hair streaming out behind her, it was easy to discern her total abandon. Then she seemed wholly physical, a flickering flame of pure sensuality, a living embodiment of the theories and techniques she had diagrammed so well. It was but tiny step to imagine her laughing and panting with excitement in a snowbank, and it was this image that spurred even some of the most timid to strap on skis and perch at the top of the most precarious runs at the resort, visions of post-ski interludes with Lisa dancing in front of them.

Knowing her mainly for her expert ski instruction -- and her increasingly rare jokes about Gandhi -- Lisa's students had no way of knowing that Lisa had for years been fascinated by the rich tradition of 17th Century erotic Japanese woodblock prints. She loved Utamaro and his print "Lovers in an Upstairs Room." Utamaro published a book with twelve racy prints. He did shunga, literally "spring pictures," of bijin, the sensuous women who were the subjects of the prints.

On bitterly cold winter mornings, Lisa would arise and shower. As the hot water teased her slender, fit body, Lisa would begin to feel more alert, more ready to face the day. And, being a very healthy person, she would begin to feel the first twinges of daily desire. She believed that sex was inherently an optimistic thing, as her professor years ago in college had taught. Drying herself with a large white towel in front of the full-length mirror in her bathroom, even Lisa could not help but admire her lean, yet tempting figure.

Years ago, as an undergraduate, Lisa had taken "Thong Empowerment 101," a course in which students were taught how to cope with the trials and tribulations of life by means of lingerie therapy. As the course unfolded, Lisa found that there was something uplifting about donning a pretty satin demi-bra. She shivered with delight while putting on stockings and a garterbelt, especially while fastening the stockings to the garterbelt and imagining a handsome guy slowly, slowly kissing the tender, tan flesh at the tops of those stockings.

And, while all of those experiences were positive, Lisa was most cheered by the process of slowly, slowly wriggling into a wispy little thong. The little bits of fabric, designed to tease both the wearer and the viewer, almost seemed to have been designed by a diabolical force. Lisa knew from her boyfriends over the years how much they enjoyed the visual tease of thongs. How they would gaze, their eyes burning, at the thong fabric as it began its journey around her body.

Lisa loved to lounge on a bed in her thong, with a boyfriend watching her. She loved the teasing that led up to sex itself. Lisa enjoyed calculating how long it would take before a boyfriend would be unable to simply watch, how long before he gave up and had to kiss the fabric of the thong. How long before his lips found the silken fabric of the thong. How long before she felt rough, whiskery cheeks kissing the sides of her legs, kissing her stomach, kissing her firm, tan hips, the hips totally exposed by the thong. How long before kisses would descend upon her thong tan lines, tickling and tantalizing. How long before kisses would fall on the thong itself.

With such thoughts racing through her mind every morning, Lisa would slip on one of her delicious thongs and put a hunter green silk robe on over her tan, taut body. She would sip hot coffee and stroll around her bedroom, admiring the Utamaro prints arranged on the walls. "Leave of the Beauty Before Driving" and "Moonlight Revelry" and the rest would lift her spirits. She knew that Utamaro used models from the "pleasure district" and she appreciated that description.

Lisa believed that she, too, inhabited a pleasure district. She lived a very conventional life, yes, but Lisa was a closet hedonist. Clad only in her silk robe and her delicate thong, she gazed every morning upon the erotic scenes depicted in the shunga -- scenes of love in some cases, yes, tender pictures of youthful embraces. But there were pictures of raw sensuality, of steamy passion, of gratuitous lust. As Lisa sipped her morning coffee and looked upon the paintings, her nipples would begin to swell under the silken robe, and she would begin to imagine herself in the paintings. She would imagine her own svelte, yet lush, form responding to the caresses of a lover.

As surely as the day follows the night, Lisa found that her morning routine inflamed her desires. She knew that regular aerobic exercise improved blood flow, and Lisa believed that one often unreported benefit of fitness was more frequent sex. And better sex. Although she could not quantify it and report it in a medical journal, Lisa was convinced that the quality of her orgasms had improved not only with age (she was 37), but also as a consequence of her daily jogging or skiing.

And so, every morning, Lisa's light green eyes also turned toward her rosewood chest. There, on velvet trays, were the sex toys she had purchased in the Orient. Ruthlessly efficient? Yes, yes, they were. She looked at the toys, the gleaming ivory, the golden beads, and she felt almost miffed that the toy designers knew her too well. But then she felt that old, familiar weakness, the need to feel her first orgasm of the day, the wish to feel the delightful waves of pleasure sweep over her.

But there were so many choices. Should Lisa merely employ a battery-operated vibrator to have a strong, rapid orgasm and then march off to work? Many days, when she was weary and had no extra time to linger, that was the pragmatic decision. On weekends and vacations, though, she had the luxury of additional time. Then time's winged chariot was not hurrying near, and she could summon a boyfriend to serve as a toy selection and utilization assistant.

On a lazy Saturday morning, Lisa would take a battery-operated vibrator, a bottle of scented oil, and a strand of tiny anal beads from one of the velvet trays. With almost agonizing slowness, she would massage oil all over her body. Looking at herself in the dressing mirror, she would see the oil gleaming on her engorged nipples, see the oil shining on her firm stomach, see the oil glistening on her shaven labia, see the oil on her well-shaped thighs. And, though it smacked of narcissism, Lisa was somewhat seduced by the visual beauty of her own form.

Tilted the mirror in its oak frame, Lisa angled it toward the bed. There, she was able to see herself recline on the sheets, and she was able to appreciate the delicious nature of the view her male friends enjoyed. She was able to see her delicate, painted fingernails dance over her swollen nipples. And feel the thrills they provided at the same time. She saw her red fingernails slowly, slowly touch her tummy. Watch them slowly, slowly touch the smooth labia. Watching in the mirror, and feeling the sensations at the same time, never failed to excite her.

Using the oil, Lisa would gently insert one of the tiny anal beads, gasping as the forbidden pleasure first hit. Then, flicking on the switch of the vibrator, she would tease it over her nipples, her stomach, slowly moving herself toward the inevitable first orgasm. Adding a second bead brought Lisa to the brink of climax, but with years of experience she knew how to balance there, on the edge of orgasm, prolonging the delight. Finally, when she was unable to bear the wait, Lisa would add a third bead.

At that point, almost in a frenzy of need, Lisa knew that the merest touch on her clitoris would send her over the cliff. Slowly, in a tiny circular motion of an oiled index finger, Lisa would caress her clitoris and trigger the orgasm. As Lisa began to come, she would think of an erotic image to enhance her orgasm. Lisa would reflect on the image of semen on her swollen nipples. Or Lisa would recall gasping with delight as she rode in the cowgirl position, her hips flexing and moving.

For later orgasms, Lisa drew upon other memories of sensual pleasures she had enjoyed. For instance, Lisa thought back to that week in New York, that crazy week with Cullen. Lisa recalled that first afternoon, when they were returning to their hotel conference room. The elevator was inoperative, so they were taking the stairs, and Lisa was kidding with Cullen, walking up the stairs in front of him, deliberately teasing him with views of her hips in the tight jeans. Finally, in the stairwell, Cullen touched her belt, dropped to his knees, and began kissing her jeans. Lisa was wearing a deep red thong under her jeans, and she could feel Cullen's hot breath on her hips as it burned through her jeans.

Oh, yes, Lisa recalled that interlude in the stairwell. She had turned to Cullen and grasped the stair rail to steady herself against the onslaught of his passion. There on the stairs, Lisa had felt a wild delight rising at the thought of imminent discovery; yet the urgency of their desire did not afford delay, even for five minutes to make their way back to the room. There, in the stairwell, Lisa lowered herself and balanced precariously on the stairs, fortunately carpeted in a deep pile. Cullen knelt several stairs below and continuted to kiss in a path that would lead him exorably to her thong.

Glancing upward with the merest shred of discretion, Lisa herself quickly unbuttoned her jeans and wriggled out of them. Lacing her fingers through Cullen's dark hair, Lisa urged him to nibble on the red silk. HIs warm breath contrasted with the cool air of the unheated area, and the sensations the contrast evoked were delightful. Almost as soon as she felt his lips on her skin, she was racked with a paroxysm of ecstasy.

But that was not all. Still weak-kneed, Lisa started to lift herself to a standing position, but Cullen suddenly swung her up and she realized the further possiblities of the space. She leaned back against the wall, drawing Cullen to her. The stairwell was narrow enough so that she could hardly do anything else but brace her legs against the opposite wall, and Cullen, by now, inflamed with passion, covered her shoulders and neck with kisses as he took his pleasure as well. His hands firmly holding her hips against him, he brought her once again to the heights of delight to as he satisfied his own desire.

It was these memories that edged into Lisa's consciousness as she struggled to focus on the ski diagrams on the board. Try as she might, the sight of so many broad-shouldered bodies turned eagerly toward her only reminded her of the one in which she found her ultimate match, Cullen. Yes, their encounter had been brief, burned away like individual beauty by time and fevers in an Auden poem, but the images remained. Never before or since had a man satisfied her like Cullen, with his rapacious appetite tempered by finesse. She had been driven to acts she still blushed to remember, but he had incited a desire that still raged through her when she allowed herself to dwell on that week. Often, at night, when she had fulfilled her instructional duties, she allowed herself the indulgence of thinking about things she had not only done with him, but things she would have liked to have done. Her imagination was fertile; her ideas innovative, and her desire limitless, it appeared.

But Lisa returned to the immediate. She placed the chalk decisively in the tray and dismissed her students. Surely, a quick run, followed by a long hot stone massage, and maybe an evening in front of the fireplace would be pleasurable, if not an embodiment of the wild delight she craved. She would be content with that. She collected her ski gear and went out to the slopes, where she skiied until dusk forced her to quit, pushing her muscles until they burned.

Feeling the satisfaction of her grueling athletic endeavor, she decided to forego her massage and head straight for the hot tub instead for a long soothing soak. She deposited her skis and approached the communal hot tub just as the sky began to spit large downy flakes. But it was a perfect night; the water steamed, and she could see her breath echoing a similar spume of smoke as she exhaled. She was so tired and so desirous of some solitude that she somehow failed to notice that there was one other occupant of the hot tub until she lowered herself into the water. She fixed a polite smile on her face and decorously allowed her eyes to drift toward the line of fir trees beyond the deck as she leaned back against the edge of the tub.

She was almost in a hypnotic state when she heard her name in tones of disbelief. "Lisa? Is it you?" Her eyes jerked open and she couldn't believe what she saw. Yes, it was he--Cullen, the object of so many fantasies. His face, his body was so familiar from her memory that she was sure without a doubt. All too well she remembered how hard his muscles felt beneath the velvety skin, the way his green eyes half closed in passion, how he kissed her neck and earlobes, and licked between her fingers.

Cullen stood, half-swam across the hot tub toward her, and lifted her up into a long welcoming kiss. But then the kiss of welcome turned torrid. It had been too long, and Cullen had to kiss her shoulders, had to taste the snowflakes as they fell upon her warm arms. Soon, Lisa removed the top of her bikini and watched as little snowflakes and little kisses began to fall upon her turgid nipples.

Lisa stood to place her bikini top on the edge of the hot tub for later retrieval, and then gasped as Cullen took that opportunity to kiss her tummy. His kisses moved higher, to her engorged nipples. She looked down and saw his tongue licking first one of her nipples, and then the other. She watched the tongue snake out, and then felt its sensual impact. Shivering in the chilly air, and trembling with desire, Lisa descended into the water and pushed Cullen back against the edge of the pool.

Looking up, Lisa began to undo his bathing trunks. As she pulled them off, she noticed his erection, and began to kiss her way up one of his muscular thighs. As her taunting kisses climbed higher, Cullen sucked in a breath of air, wondering if Lisa would repeat the procedure she had demonstrated in New York, whereby she would lightly feather kisses over his testicles as he writhed in pleasure. Although Cullen was quite healthy and could easily have three or four orgasms per day, he knew that Lisa enjoyed making him ejaculate on her schedule rather than his own.

Being the master of his fate and the captain of his soul, Cullen elected to lower himself into the hot water for a few minutes and compel Lisa to experience some of the oral pleasure she had been lavishing upon him. He pulled Lisa into an upright position and began to kiss her thighs. Turning upward, Cullen kissed Lisa's bikini bottom, which was the only remaining garment preventing her from being deliciously nude. And the word "delicious" was on Cullen's mind as he slowly untied the side-ties of the bikini bottom and once again caught side of Lisa's shaven form.

It had been many months since he had seen Lisa fully naked, and Cullen could not wait to taste her again. He plunged his face toward her tan, taut thighs, kissing the soft inner parts of them. He found it difficult not to simply rain kisses on her with abandon, but his rational sense reminded him it might delight her more to delay her orgasm a little bit by slowly running his tongue over her shaven lips. And, as the snowfall increased in intensity, so did Culllen's kisses, forcing Lisa to say "Oh!" over and over until the familiar spasms of her first orgasm began.