From far away, it’s like a mirage. Through the refracting molecules of the atmosphere it looks like I have her under a colored spell.
With her glassy eyes and intoxicated breath, it could look like I splayed her legs myself and opened her wet doors to ecstasy with my own invisible fingers.
But I’m not a magician. Nor am I that egomaniacal to believe that I have that kind of power, on reserve. When she asked me what my fantasies are, I replied simply by saying that my fantasy is to fulfill her fantasies.
It’s her fantasies that have her under a spell. Not me.
Under the pink sky of a fallen day, and under the black spell of the coming night we are in a neon club. We are at the end of a day and a long string of fantasies.
She has been under my instruction all day long, beginning with my initial request that she wear a short skirt. With no panties. And when I arrived to pick her up in my car, she was grinning as she pranced to towards me.
Today was about playing with this idea of fantasies. Hers. And resultantly, mine. Of taking them into your hand and rolling them around until their scent dissolves into sexuality.
She has told me on numerous occasions that she loves to show-off her cunt. The first time I heard this, my breathy reply stated that she was like me: an exhibitionist. To which she responded by saying, no you don’t understand. I really like to have my cunt seen.
It was then when I knew that this girl and I could truly create something magical. Because of the limitless possibilities of the universe. Because of alchemy and the dark voids in between.
I am not a magician.
I am a writer. In that,
I am a human.
I am striving. Being. Leaning. Falling. Looking. Blinking.
And so when she, the girl, was looking for a place and a space to fulfill some of her fantasies, I showed her the tear in the void and how to crawl through.
And then she became terrified with joy.
Obsessed with moderation.
She is sitting on a stool across the bar area from me. Her skin mirrors the revolving lights around her. To me, she is like beacon: a disco ball. The straw from her drink is sliding sultry in and out of her mouth.
Already, she is intoxicated.
Even before we arrived, she said she was wet.
She is sitting on the stool, with her legs partially open. From where I am sitting I can see her cunt when the light is just right.
I am looking around, trying to find any wandering eyes.
At first there are none, then some…
Earlier, we were walking up and down the promenade. Her skirt riding high, up on her ass. Even after hours of watching her parade about, her perfect curve, where her leg meets her ass, will leave you breathless. The look on her face while she is explicitly naked under that skirt will leave you paralyzed with hope and possibility.
For hours now she hasn’t said much.
All the words have already been spoken between us. Some of the possibilities, played out in our hot conversations when I know she is touching her self on the other side of the phone.
In this everything is beyond talking. Everything here is about action.
And she is the naughtiest actor I have ever seen.
Inside the busy clothing shops along the promenade and I was reaching up and under her skirt for her wet cunt. She would lean into the clothes rack and pretend to be intently looking for something.
This when she was just looking for somebody to notice us.
Then, when we forgot about the scurrying feet and credit card holders and baby makers, we were spotted: She was leaning far into a rack of clothes. Her ass perky and jutted outward as I had a whole hand full of her cunt, rubbing her bald slit. She was lost in her ecstasy, listening to the sounds of others. Feeling the sex dripping down her leg.
Panting, she opened her eyes and then closed her mouth because there she was: a girl, stopped dead in her shopping spree, staring straight at us both. The girl’s lower lip fell away. She blinked. And then she took a deep breath. Her chest heaved up. Then down.
We smiled. Because, what else are you supposed to do?
And then she sighed as I plunged my two fingers to the hilt. Pulling out, I scraped my soft pads on her g-spot. Her legs quivered.
The girl walked away.
But before she rounded the last corner on the horizon, she looked back – skeptical if she should turn that corner and close this wing of possibility. But then she did. And that possibility dissipated.
In the bar – hours later and under the guise of darkness, there is a couple sitting, opposing her. She is sultry with her straw sliding in and out of her mouth. She is an actor. She is hot for this fantasy. She is teasing them with her legs slowly opening. Slowly closing.
Even though I can’t see it: she is breathy. She is nervous. Her eyes are glassy.
The couple is talking. Looking. In-between her thighs.
She is looking at them. Looking away.
Teasing them. Teasing me.
I leave my seat and, through the sea of heads and shoulders and glasses clinking, I approach her.
A couple nights prior and I was invited to her apartment for the first time, for story time. She likes to be read to. She knew I was a writer and asked me to bring some writings. So I brought some of my erotic tales to share.
The night prior and she learned that I wrote erotica.
She said that she wanted me to tuck her into bed with a story. I didn’t limit our experience by saying that she would get a sexy story. Or a dark story. Or a love story.
She laid on her pillow and I, at the foot of her bed. Both of us leaned back, our legs brushing one another’s.
After the first paragraph and I found her eyes with mine. She liked what she was hearing. She was surprised. Pleased. I could see it in her mouth agape. Her eyes, wide.
Halfway into my first story and I could hear her breathing. Every couple of sentences and I would find her eyes. Then her hands. They were wandering down her torso, playing at her waistband.
When I finished my first story she told me, coyly, that she wanted to show me her cunt. She said couldn’t even remember the last time she masturbated in front of a boy. She said read another story. And don’t watch me too much.
I want to show you my cunt, I heard her whisper as I leaned back and flipped to a new story.
Reading my words of intoxication, and I feel as though my pants are unbuttoned – my cock on display. In this my exhibitionism is like hers: frenetic with energy.
To this point, in the darkened club, when I walked up to the girl and put my hand on her thigh – gently sliding up to where her skirt met her leg – we hadn’t had sex. We hadn’t tasted one another. She hadn’t even seen, nor felt, my cock.
Earlier, in that store, where we were made by the alluring younger girl – when my fingers were sliding in and out of her wet sex – I even held my midsection back. So that she couldn’t feel my cock.
She said that she liked guessing. She liked making up stories. Possibilities.
Because once you know your possibilities, the universe immediately closes its wings on your story. But when you are unknowing, agnostic and standing in the face of your questions and possibilities – the results are limitless. Perfect. Untainted.
I can see that the guy across from us has his hand on his girl’s thigh. They are both looking coyly at us. Unsure about what they are faced with. We, like them, are unsure as to what faces us.
I kiss the girl. She twirls her tongue inside mine.
She licks my lips. Slides a finger up and in-between our mouths.
Then she pulls away and while she is looking into my eyes, she closes one void of possibility: With her free hand, she walks down my torso, down my thigh – then back up. She playfully finds my cock with her fingers and outlines my bulge with a nail. Then she grips my whole length with a savage intensity.
She whispers in my ear and then looks at the couple.
On the ride home, she sighs and lights a cigarette and explains, with breathy incantations, how she has never known such arousal.
And when we reach a red light she says,
…and I love your cock…
Behind us there are no cars following. We are not following tail lights either. We are not going home with the other couple. Nor anybody else we have or have not teased on this night.
For where she closed one wing of possibility by fingering my cock and feeling it for the first time – she kept the other wing open and abreast of the limitless universe of possibilities that could be. Would be. Should be.
In this we have been reverent to that magical kind of anticipation which we call: eroticism. In this we did not engage with the other couple. Maybe out of nerves, but I hope that it is out of this anticipation. This escalation. This movement upward into the higher possibilities.
That night we lay on her bed, opposing each other. She is still wearing the skirt, her legs are open. Slowly, as though she is savoring her food, she is tickling her clit. She is breathing heavy.
As I read her a new story, she tells me that she wants me to take out my cock. She wants to see it. But she doesn’t want to touch it. She wants to see how I stroke it.
Halfway through my story and she is coming. Our slow escalation is taking shape and I know my orgasm is coming too. In time. For now however, her legs are twitching and her midsection quivering. And like a good lover I pause, but do not cease my pace. No, I do not stop reading entirely. As my eyes bounce from the page to her electric body, my wet words slowly stroke her inside places that ache with fantasy and the limitless possibilities of this universe between us.
And the ceiling above us opens a little more…