Fit the first
Professor Thalia Cachonda stretched luxuriously. Her lean body, toned from years of dancing, felt fine. She wiggled her toes, spreading them wide. A few moments before, as she fought for orgasm, they had been curled tight, her toes cramped. Now her body was liquid; her mind a mess.
She liked to lock the door, tilt back in the old oak office chair, brace her bare feet against the huge mahogany desk she had bought at the Antiques Emporium in Sandwich, and really go at it. She kept a powerful "Lelo cruise" handy for occasions like this. Usually, two fingers of her left hand clamped the toy against her clitoris. The middle two fingers of her right hand dug deep into her vagina, churning and tugging at her g-spot. Sometimes, if a faculty meeting had been particularly inane, or her students infuriatingly, it took her quite a while, until her hand ached and her legs quivered. She only knew she was going to get it when her belly muscles started popping and her ass clenched. She didn't try to stop her moaning anymore. Usually, she put on a world music recording, or something from her collection of women's call and response dances, initiation chants, or 'birthing songs' and let that accompany her cries. The powerful sound of women's voices in harmony helped. She could feel their passion.
This time the thorough 'wank' she had given herself didn't entirely help her state of mind. On a midsummer Friday evening she should have been relaxed and happy. The summer term was in full swing and her annual dance project was supposed to be coming to fruition. Meet some fellow profs for a drink. Connect with one of her circle of friends-with-benefits and arrange a rendez-vous. Take in an outdoor dance concert.
Her passion was dance and performance art, preferably in public places, creating borderline outrageous "arrangements," a term she had borrowed from the artist James McNeil Whistler. She wanted to 'paint' an experience on the consciousness of her audience; something that would change them; rub her body, and those of her chosen dancers up against their psyches. Make them leave the performance space uncomfortable, a little damp, itching for touch, aching for release.
It was work the university only tolerated, but the students adored. They filled her classes. And she got grants from around the world to "do her innovations." An anonymous patron had paid for a new rehearsal and performance building. So she pushed the edge. She got the faculty talking. She staged dramatic scenes she knew would shock her conservative immigrant Filipino parents. She liked to do works about sex.
But now she was angry. Someone had betrayed her. She had built an ambitious work encompassing elements of Japanese butoh, African line dance, taiko drumming, hip hop break dancing, and Tibetan style chant. All this with costumes evoking colorful vulvular and phallic creatures and video of huge pink and lavender jellyfish projected on the nearly nude bodies of her dancers.
She was furious at her lead dancer, Antoine. He was graceful, gay, elegant and Asian, perfect for the work. She rarely had to tell him anything. He
felt
her next piece, sometimes before she knew what it was. He invented moves that took her breath away, that turned her on, that sparked questions she could never answer.
But he was gone. "A family emergency." Probably a lost lover suddenly found and in danger of hurting himself. She screamed.
"You are such a consummate bitch to ditch me this way! You know your value!"
He had kissed her as though he meant it and then turned on his heel. She let him go with a wistful hug.
And now she had nobody, or almost nobody. She had herself, and she could try to carry the piece solo. But it would be so much less. Besides, she wanted that energy. She wanted the smell of man-sweat. She knew none of her other dancers were up to it. They were cowards. They just didn't have 'it'. She wanted to feel strong hands pushing and pulling her body. She needed the secret orgasm she conjured in the middle of each piece. She needed it now. Her body was full of restless tension and the funk of need.
She was out the door into her Mini Cooper before the sweat dried on the desk. Overdrove Route Three all the way to the Cape. Snatched a few supplies for dinner. Off to the two room cottage she had named "Barre Relief"at the edge of a marsh in Woods Hole, hidden by tall plumed reeds, and just a tiny walk from a small pebbled cove. The general public rarely came here; it wasn't the fashionable stretch of the shoreline. Still, she had a tacit understanding with certain grad students who were welcome to crash if they needed a respite. Sometimes they came and what happened there was nobody's business.
The house had the 'unopened' smell vacation places get when they are closed for a while. She hadn't been down since she started crafting her opus. A quick gin and tonic with a big slice of lime and a joint by the harbor would smooth her out.
The path behind the cottage followed a stream along mossy, shell-scattered banks where crabs scuttled, to a small delta, a sandbar beyond a shallow pool, sandpipers dodging waves in the distance.
She stripped to nothing but her raspberry bikini underwear; she perched on a large, rough, erratic boulder. Striking one of her two kitchen matches on the stone she fired up the joint and leaned back, elbows on the granite; letting the summer heat enter her, soaking into her beautiful bronze skin. It was the ideal place to sit with her hot feet in the chill water and smoke one of the two doobies she permitted herself on any given day. The stream talked as it met the waves. In the scrub oaks back of the marsh bluejays quarreled. Over the water gulls screamed. She gave in to her favorite motto, "In this exact moment I have no worries or cares."
The joint was turning to ash when she heard a splash off to her left. Something in the tide pool between the sand bars. She shaded her eyes against the setting sun, red-gold near the straight line of the horizon. She found herself holding her breath. Down in the water a pale, muscular form moved. What was it? The sun put the shore in silhouette. She wondered for a moment if it was an athletic woman, because of the graceful shape of the hips, but then she made out the narrow waist and the lithe, well-built shoulders.
She was looking at a man, or part of a man, half under water. He was lying on the warm sandbar perhaps thirty feet away; strong legs, and magnificent round buttocks, perfectly naked. After a while he rolled over. Cupping his hand casually in the warm tidal drift water next to him he rinsed off his privates. Gently, he fondled them and his penis began to rise, transforming from a soft lump to a stiff shaft that caught the gleam of the sunset. He began stroking it in earnest. The motion of his hand danced; faster, slower, gentle, rough. He body was not still. It rose to meet the strokes as though he were fucking the sky. His voice was not quiet; sometimes calling out in a hungry moan, sometimes growling. He spoke to an invisible lover, demanding release.
"Ride me! Ride me now
hard!
Come on now! Take it in. As deep as you can. Feel it, now. Give it to me! Come on! I want it! Please, give up, now, please, now!"
She saw the head of his cock stretch tight and shiny and then a fountain of cream spurted high.
Her vagina clutched tight until it hurt and then released in a wave of flutters. She hadn't had a good enthusiastic roistering for nearly six months. And that one had been a quickie between talks at a conference in Tahiti on "Non-verbal Mating Rituals." It wasn't even with an islander, exactly, just a talky woman from Australia, and they were both hung over from the welcome dinner the night before. She had discovered that a combination of raw oysters, Bloody Marys, and hard, sweaty sex was a fine hangover remedy.
The tide slowly covered the man in front of her.
She flicked the dead joint into the sand and then sat, doing nothing; watching the sun paint the water in Van Gogh strokes of gold, orange, and lavender. A small intermittent breeze touched the back of her neck and brushed her nipples though the silk; (she always insisted on real silk), turning them to hard maroon buttons. She resisted the temptation to cover up or even cup her hands over her boyish breasts.
The man in the water barely moved. Carelessly, she stood and walked to the edge of the water behind him and dipped her toe in. It was warmer than the air. So she slid in gracefully and glided next to the man, settling beside him on the sand. She hadn't realized how large he was. He barely turned his head to give her a tiny smile, then returned his gaze to the now silver light dying on the water. They lay side by side like that until the first stars appeared above Buzzard's Bay. Occasionally, their legs slid against each other.
When the tide began to fill the pool with cold water and the wavelets slapped their mouths, they stood together as if a signal had been given, though neither said a word. She was suddenly chilled, and, knowing this, he wrapped sleek, strong arms around her. They stood like this in silence, feeling the water splash their legs, the grains of sand pulled from under their toes. Her nipples pressed into his smooth chest. He thickened, very large, against her belly. Something released deep in her. Her sex was very hot.
The current tried to knock them down but he held strong and she held onto him. Thalia had an idea.
"Pick me up."
"Excuse me?"
"Pick me up, and if you can, lift me over your head."
"You sure? You're wet and might slip."
"Take a chance, I'm up for it."
"Okay, you asked for it."
Clearly the man had lifted some weights. In one smooth motion Professor Cachonda was swept out of the water and pressed toward the sky. No one had ever lifted her like this. One of his huge hands circled her thigh just below her ass. The other palmed the middle of her back. She relaxed and lay there, her pebble-hard nipples pressed against the sky.
