Nocturne in Claret

For Steve ... but which one?

8

The close heat of the summer night makes you keep your window wide open and a fan on. Only a thin cotton sheet covers you. That and your boxers. That and your boxers and your fatalistic determination that you're not, in the strictest sense, fuckable. That shit covers you like a pall. It has been about nine months since your last lay—an easy single-night affair at a Hallowe'en party. She'd left before dawn, hadn't called, hadn't returned yours. And now you sleep alone. Tonight, especially so.

One of your roommates is out of town at yet another conference in Hawaii. Lucky bastard. All those bikini-clad beach bunnies with big boobs and beautiful skin. Even if he doesn't get laid—which he will—the beach time alone is worth it. The other of your roommates is staying at his girlfriend's. Another lucky bastard! He gets laid regularly, and she's smokin' hot. Even your dog has chosen to sleep outside tonight. Who knows what stray bitch he'll pick up. But there you lie, restless and alone inside the town house you all share.

The night is close. Sticky. The darkness veritably swims in front of you, whether your eyes are open or not. It's one of those brown syrup nights, Rembrandt dark, that makes you ache for the pleasure of someone to suffer it with. It's impossible to sleep in, but fucking in this weather is all the more bestial. And when you think of bestial sex these days, there's only one woman who crosses your mind.

It's that clever, leggy blonde student who sits at the front of your seminars and laughs at your jokes. Every class this semester she's been in these filmy sundresses, many of them sheer, all of them unrepentantly short. And when she smiles at you, her eyes flash wild blue sky or deep chilly lake, and you feel lost.

Everything she does distracts you. All today, for instance, she's been scratching at a bug bite on the inside of her thigh just above the hem of that mercilessly short skirt. Every time she scratched you found yourself wondering just how she got a bug bite that far up the inside of her thigh with a decided bias toward naked sex in the woods. Nevermind how short her dresses are: she was naked in the woods. It's admittedly irrational. Stupid, really.

But how you have wanted to be the naked woodland god of this nymph girl—all flesh and curves! How you would have swatted the offending mite without missing a beat. You would have been aware of her thick thighs at all times, on either side of your hips, bouncing up and down. Unlike that clearly careless cad who's fucking her now, you'd be good to her.

Today's seminar was on the love-war analogy so common throughout Western culture. Curvy nymph girl, with glowing eyes and smiling lips engaged in the discussion with such ardour you were proud to call her a student. Up to a point.

"So, that's why you see so many analogies in English literature to penises and swords," you'd instructed the class.

"No," said the honeyblonde nymph from her plump bow-shaped lips, "you see so many analogies to penises as swords because swords have been made to look like penises. But that is why you see so many analogies to women's bodies as land. Breasts as hills, vaginas as valleys, the mons veneris. Women as property."

She'd beaten you. She'd beaten you with those lips, and that sweet throat and sensuous voice. And those breasts that mocked you. She certainly had her high ground. And as she called to mind vaginal valleys, your mind spread her legs in her seat, above her head in a great anti-feminist V. You have wanted to conquer her all summer, and this one class threatened to undo you because of it.

You heard yourself bounce back and remind the class that historians still often refer to countries as "she". Then you'd asked for other examples of the phenomenon, and the gap of silence was filled with a rush of desire to demonstrate the analogy in full detail with or without the honeyblonde nymph's permission.

"Stand up, please."

"Okay."

"Lift your skirt above your waist."

"Sorry?"

"Do it or I'll fail you. Show everyone what panties you're wearing then come here and kneel in front of me."

You've been trying to repress these thoughts all afternoon. You don't want to disrespect her with your libidinous fantasies. If only you could thrust her into some back corner of your mind—lock her away somehow in the annals of your intellect. Then bring her out to play whenever you felt like it. She looks so soft.

No! You mustn't sully her like this. She's a good woman, not a whore. She's a student! You're her TA. Even if there could be something, there couldn't be. You could never have her, even if she wanted you. Which she definitely doesn't. She's out of your league, and she's too smart not to know it.

As you put an end to your heated self-scolding, you realise that the room has turned blessedly cool. It's probably one of those fifteen-minute cold snaps this city is so understatedly famous for. It's relaxing. You make another concerted effort to push your student from your mind and breathe deeply. Perhaps you can get to sleep in the sudden cool.

Within minutes, entopic dream images are floating about your person and you begin to hear snippets of her voice. Things she's said to you, things you've wanted her to say. She giggles and it sounds like bells, pulls you close to her perfumed hair and says, "I bet your cock is real tasty!" Your heartbeat fires and you bob up above consciousness to get another taste of the crisp air. Is it that much colder than it should be? Maybe you had imagined the extent of the heat.

Something strange has happened. The left side of your body is cold and the other side warm. There is a soft pressure on that cold side, a slow undulating friction, even and gentle. Your thigh tenses against it and the sweet sensation grows bolder and becomes definable—the cool caress of womanly flesh. But there's no one in the house. You must be dreaming. You're lucidly. You breathe deep to stay asleep.

"Mm," the womanly flesh moans in your ear. You can feel a fine sensation in your chest hair as of long fingernails tracing up and down, back and forth, and there's a spot above your knee that's begun to glow with sensuality. It's motion and slickness, and it's getting warmer. She's getting warmer, rubbing herself on your thigh. Then she grinds herself hard into your thigh, and you grind back against her pubic mound. She's solid.

"Ah!" she breathes, whoever she is. If she is. You don't dare open your eyes. The dream is too good.

You can feel her breasts against you now, feel her arm entwined with yours, and her lips tickling at your ear breathing cool air. She sighs, breath warm now on your neck. And her fingernails reach the bottom of your ribcage. She nips at your chin and you jump as the bite electrifies your throat. That hand is getting lower and lower but it's still so far from your cock, bobbing as it is inside its cotton prison.

That giggle again, and the tinkling bells of fresh morning snow, like icicles. Then her tongue flicks at your ear, a tickle before she bites again. It hurts -- too hard -- and you gasp. She mews and her hand slinks southward, just out of reach now of your life-sized erection. No matter how you bend, you cannot make it touch her hand. She is simply too quick. The bells give you vertigo.

"Who are you?" you all but squeak.

"Whom do you want me to be?" It is not the voice of the honey-blonde nymph, but you say her name. The honeyblonde nymph says your name in return. Suddenly your hands find strength and then her body. She is warm and soft and curvy. She is lithe and lustful, the way a nymph ought to be. Her breasts are inviting and lovely and you plunge between them, lapping and licking and nipping and sucking. She clutches your head against her chest, runs her fingers through your hair, gripping and moaning when you latch onto a nipple and suck. "Oh yes!" The supple sweet flesh of her tits juxtaposed to the rigidity of her large lovely nipples—those sand dollars you may or may not have seen through her dresses—makes your erection rage. It's pressed against her thigh. You're struggling to get your underwear off so you can touch some part of her body with your prick before she smothers you to death with her luscious boobage.

A frustrated grunt escapes your lips. Your boxers have snagged on your cupidity. She kisses your hair, grabs the elastic band. The bells, the vertigo. Your underwear is gone and your fiery arrow is being stroked by a smooth, gentle hand. She strokes you from tip to nock, while you assault her high ground with your mouth, conquer a generous nipple with your teeth, then the other. She yelps. Her strokes become faster, beginning to undulate like a hilly landscape.

It's such an intense relief to have your penis pleased by someone else. Her hand is turned now, the palm flat against the underside, and her long-nailed fingers are caressing your long-neglected testicles. You look up to thank her, but your words are halted by a hot mouth pressed to yours. You grasp her to you, keeping your eyes closed, rubbing your hands about her curvy body, over hilly breasts and the grove of her waist; between and about the supple firmament of her peachy backside; snaking around her tree-like thigh to feel the hot sap that's accumulated on the brim of her well. And her hand is still going on your arrow -- so good!

Suddenly, desire has retreated. The white-hot tension rising from your loins has cooled to a disappointing red. The fire riding your shaft is gone. In its place is a sharp stinging sensation, possibly her fingernails pressing into the engorged bulb. You grit your teeth and groan. She flicks the tip of your cock. "Not yet," hisses the voice of the honeyblonde nymph. "I'm having too much fun. And I'm hungry."

There is a shuffling, a rustling of the sheet, a motion about your body and in a moment you feel a pair of warm lips against the underside of your flagging erection. "Mmph!" she cries. "Your cock... tastes so... delicious!" Each pause is punctuated by a lip-smacking kiss against your shaft. Then she slides her mouth up to the tip, gives it a fleeting lick, and returns to the base to worship meekly.

Her warm, moist breath spills out on your sac, tantalising between hot and cold, and her tongue rubs lovingly between your stones. Desire returns to your shaft in full. Her flaxen hair is tickling your thighs. Heat from your loins disperses about your body. Her hand runs up and down your torso collecting the heat while she gives open-mouthed kisses up to your arrowhead. Your mind spins and to stop the whirl, you place a hand on her head. Her hair is so soft!

"Who are you?" you ask again, but in response you feel her mouth close over the tip of your cock. Her tongue dips beneath the slick, wet recesses of your foreskin and you groan again. This time she groans with you, a full throaty sound that vibrates up her tongue and onto your arrowhead. You buck your hips in an un-voluntary effort to feel more of the warmth of her mouth, but her mouth moves up with you. Another low chuckle, the bells, and her tongue between the head and its cover, swirling and swivelling. Then some deft albeit tentative licks into your eyelet. Her hand pulls your foreskin from the tip, and she gives two bobs of her head over it.

"Mmm," she says, circumnavigating. Her gentle palm finds your balls and her mouth descends your shaft. Soft, kissable lips tighten around your sword as it slides into the sheath of her mouth, past her palate, and easily into her esophagus. She nips the base. You yelp more in fear than in pain.

Briefly you are reminded of just how wrong this is. The name of the honeyblonde nymph swims in your head. The thoughts of her that you've kept down bubble to the surface. The insane, animal things you've wanted to do to her cunt and her mouth and her ass, and her hills, and her trees, her feet and her hair and her hands. You have wanted to possess every part of this student of yours whom you assume is an insatiable sex maniac; and you have wanted to do all of this to her in front of your class.

Meanwhile, you can feel that mouth bobbing vigorously up and down at the head, sucking insane pressure, making your shaft expand, like it will burst into flames. You wish you could open your eyes to see that beautiful round face with those precious blue eyes looking up at you. You wish you could watch her plump lips pump your blood-laden blade. You wish you could fire your cum on those lips, or watch her swallow it down her throat. But you can't because if you open your eyes, the dream will end. Instead, the sloppy sound of her saliva escaping the suck is a souvenir of your solitude: no one can hear it. It makes you dizzy.

And then you feel her legs land, left and right, about your head. Your heated breath meets a fleshy wall. You knew the honeyblonde nymph would have a cunt like a home-cooked meal. Your grateful hands grab her gracious thighs. She presses her plump pussy lips on your mouth, amplifies the pressure in your penis, groans in pleasure and begins to grind.

The taste of her large, rigid clit as you spell out the Greek alphabet on it is gorgeous. Her flesh is smothering you. You can feel the erotic tension of suffocation build in your chest. If you died while her cunt was coming on your face, you would die a happy man. Her meaty ass cheeks feel like heaven in your palms. You're getting very little air, and your head is swimming manically, tossing and turning in disbelief. Your cock slides so easily in and out of her throat.

In a flash, the sensations are gone! Your face and penis -- both sopping -- feel the sting of the frigid air in your bedroom. How did it get so cold in here? Where is the honeyblonde nymph?

"Let's fuck!" pants that sweet voice in your ear. "Yeah!" She straddles you, kisses you and you taste your meat on her tongue. And then you are engulfed in heat and warmth, and slowly undulating pleasure. It's only your meat, but it feels like she's cooking all of you. Her vigorous thrusts are burning you up, making you sweat. And she leans forward, tummy and breasts pressed against yours. And she's licking your face where her juices are cloying. And her breath is cold. You've got your hands on her hips, your sword is sliding gracefully in and out of her honeyblonde whore hole.

In time she finishes cleaning your face and kneels up. Your shaft descends further into her cavernous well and she begins bouncing her butt on your thighs, belly dancing on her knees. She undulates backward and forward, bending your hot iron against the forge of her slick slit -- that slick slit that was moments ago sliding up and down your thigh. That slick slit that was almost visible to you this afternoon in class. (If there is a merciful God, then the honeyblonde nymph doesn't wear panties.)

"I don't," she whispers in your ear, "but God has nothing to do with it." Then a circle of her hips, a grunt, a sigh, and she's bouncing again. Up and down, leaning forward and working the upper part of the blade, teasing the tip that it might fall out. Then up on her knees again, bouncing and swivelling, and forging your sword in her fire. You feel like a holy warrior whose weapon is being graciously blessed.

"Open your eyes," she says, and you see her there, in the urban night light, barely a silhouette of a woman, but realer than any dream. She is the shape of the honeyblonde nymph, but she's not there.

"Who are you!" you demand, even as you feel desire tighten your stones and run those familiar electric rivulets up and down your sword. Please let me come this time, you think.

"Mm-hm," she says, breathing hard. Her pumping speeds up; her cunt tightens on your shaft. She screeches, grabs your hands, places them on her tits. You've lost control of yourself, your hands squeeze of their own accord, plucking at the nipples. A high-pitched squealing moan emits from this thing that's riding you. All she rasps in response to your demand is, "Silly boy! Don't you know you should never go to sleep in an empty house?"

Your vision explodes in a gorge of yellow and red and blue. The tension in your balls erupts and sends lightning up your sword to the point. Your heart races; your blood boils in your ears. Under the blood, there is the sound of a protracted disembodied holler you assume to be yours. Your cum is shooting hot and fast inside her. It's going to impregnate her and she will be bound to you forever through that child. The honeyblonde nymph will be yours. Desperate, you grab her hips and use her like a doll as the final thrusts pump the last of your jism into her cunt.

You awake in a cold sweat, teeth chattering, nauseous. A glance at your bedside clock: 3:00 a.m.. You no longer feel like a paladin. You feel demolished. Your head aches. Your mouth is dry. You're weak. And you feel empty, like you've lost your one true love, or something even more dear. With growing certainty, you reassure yourself that you do have a student you've nicknamed honeyblonde nymph.

The effort of throwing off the sheet leaves your body exposed to the balmy night you couldn't fall asleep in. You're blessing it now. Maybe it will help restore some of your health. A vision of that mysterious feminine form flits across your memory. Your stomach turns. If she was the honeyblonde nymph. But she couldn't have been your honeyblonde nymph. It was a dream. But it was real. But it wasn't.

Again the image of that shape, that shade. A crushing pain in your chest, and your stomach heaves. You lean off the bed and retch onto the floor, but nothing comes up. It's as if you hadn't eaten. But your not hungry. Your head feels light. You begin to lift your head, to roll back around but you faint and fall onto the floor.

Breathing heavily, you crawl to the bathroom and rest your forehead against the porcelain tub. In a few moments the physical world comes back to you and you can breathe normally. Even the nausea is abating as you consider how incredible this entire experience is, and how you could never tell anyone. Whatever has just happened must never pass your lips. It's a secret, and you're bound to it. Forever.

A deep breath. You're not weak, or cold; the cold sweat has dried. Your headache is subsiding and you can spit again. But there's still something missing. You still feel empty, forlorn. You would be sad that you've been left without it, but you're not sure you ever had it. Besides, what would the point in being sad be?

You stand, look at yourself in the mirror non-plussed. Your eyes seem a little hollow, a little like you need to get some more sleep. The rest of your body, you realise for the first time in a while, is an image of attractive masculinity. The V-shape of your torso and the hair on your chest are indicators of your virility. There's a cold confidence that seeps into your consciousness.

As you pull on your boxers, you are struck by a vague thought: I wonder if I'll ever see myself again. It's a queer way to think, considering what you saw in the mirror, but you're calm. You'd be upset at how calm you are if you remembered how. Strange, though, the idea of seducing the honeyblonde nymph and fucking her cute brilliant brains out no longer presents itself as un-designable. So you decide to do just that, then roll over and go calmly to sleep.