Posted by Alex on January 21, 2004 at 13:47:30:
In Reply to: A Picnic posted by Barbanne on January 20, 2004 at 23:03:33:
"So, do we have any plans for tonight?" I ask as I lift a just cleaned plate from the dishrack and start to dry it. This is part of our evening routine; Barb and I arrive home at about the same time (she drives and I walk), we share a pot of tea while we talk about how our days went, and then I'm shooed out of the kitchen so she can make supper. Usually I offer to help, but Barb's very proud of her cooking and ... well, I just get in the way. I insist on doing my part to help clean up, though.
"No. There is still a basket of laundry that needs to be ironed," she sighs, "It'll probably take me all night." Barb absolutely loathes ironing, and for an instant I consider telling her not to bother with it, or at least not to do my clothes, but this is an argument I've learned I cannot win. She'd just come back with 'It has to be done, Alex' and after that burnt blouse fiasco a couple of weeks ago, it's obvious I can't do it. Rather than bring it up, I just shake my head and make a mental note to sneak out sometime tomorrow and pick up some fresh flowers.
Once the dishes are finished, I dry Barb's hands for her. There is an awkward silence as we look into each other's eyes and, since apparently neither of us can think of a better way to fill the quiet, I lean forward and kiss her full on the lips. I press her hands, still wrapped in the teatowel, to my chest. Barb opens her mouth, her tongue trying to force its way through my lips, and I let my own tongue explore the inside of her mouth for a second or two before I pull back. She keeps her eyes closed until she gets her feet flat on the floor again (even though I bend down a little, she has to get up on her tiptoes to kiss me when we stand this close together).
"So I guess there's not dessert tonight, is there?" At this her eyes snap open. She pulls her hands out of my grasp and throws the moist towel at my face.
"Oh! You horrible man!" I start to laugh as I fold the towel neatly and hang it back on its place on the oven door. Barb is standing with her fists on her hips, trying to look very stern, but her lips are quivering and one corner of her mouth is beginning to curve upwards, threatening to become a full-fledged grin.
"Ah, c'mon, Barb. I was just kidding."
"Don't give me that line! No. If you want dessert you're just going to have to go out and get it yourself." She jabs me in the stomach with one finger and stops me short as I come close, trying to give her a big hug.
"Really, Barb, it was just a joke. To tell you the truth, I'm filled to the gills right now. I couldn't eat another bite if I wanted to." Her nostrils are flaring now and her lips are pressed tightly together in an attempt not to smile. I arch one eyebrow then the other, a maneuver that usually gets a laugh out of her and nearly succeeds this time. Just as she is about to burst, she turns her head to the side and takes two deep breaths through her nose. When she faces me again her eyes are sparkling with mischief. Uh oh. Barb's got a plan. I'm going to pay for this later, I just know it.
"No. I want you to get out of my house and get your precious dessert." She says the last word with such disgust, she makes it sound like the very pronunciation of it has left a bad taste in her mouth.
"Don't be that way, hon. I didn't mean it."
"You should have thought of that before you said anything, shouldn't you?" Barb grabs hold of my wrist with both of her hands and starts to drag me to the door. I make a good show of resistance, clutching at the kitchen doorway and grimacing.
"I'm sorry, Barb. Please forgive me!"
"It's to late for that, I'm afraid."
"No! Pleeeeeeeaase!" I quickly step between her and the door and drop to my knees. She nearly falls over when I wrap my arms around her thighs, bury my face in the waistband of her apron, and start to sob loudly. A single 'Ha!' escapes her before she claps a hand over her mouth and stares straight up at the ceiling. I can feel her stomach muscles contract as she tries to maintain control of herself, an effort not assisted by my begging for forgiveness while rubbing my nose perilously close to her groin.
"Get up," she orders through clenched teeth. "Get up and get out. Now!" Pinching my ear painfully between her thumb and middle finger, Barb hauls me to my feet and ushers me the rest of the way to the door. With a smack to the back of the head and a playful kick to my rear, she sends me out onto the concrete patio. As quickly as I can, I turn about, but she has already closed the door behind me and I can hear the lock snap in place. After a glance around to make sure none of the nieghbours are watching, I start pounding on the door ... well, maybe not pounding, just knocking lightly. I'm not brave enough to continue this game too loudly outside, and Barb knows it. Her face appears in one of the tiny windows and she waves me away with one hand. I give her my best 'wounded puppy' look, to which she responds by crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. I'm still laughing when she walks away.
God, how I love that woman!
It must happen at least a dozen times a day; the light will hit her a certain way, or I'll recognize her scent while I'm out, or I'll hear something in a song on the radio, or a warm breeze will brush against my cheek, reminding me of her touch, and I'll think "Alex, old boy, you are the luckiest man on the face of the Earth." What I ever did to earn her love is as much a mystery to me as the standing stones of Stonehenge, the pyramids of Egypt, and the legend of Atlantis all rolled into one. She certainly doesn't stay with me because of my looks (any number of women will gladly testify to my unattractiveness or, at best, my complete and utter unremarkability) or my money (I make pizza for a living -- between the two of us, we're fortunate to be able to afford a night at the cinema once a month).
To even think about what my life would be like now if she hadn't approached me after that book launch we both attended frightens me. She'll never believe I had spotted her from across the room even before the pretentious author began his speech, but I had and knew right from that instant that the courage to walk up and talk to her wasn't within me. She was too far out of my league. To even make the attempt was to invite crushing heartbreak -- and I've experienced more than enough of those, thank you. But it was she who came to me. How did I ever manage to get through that first conversation without making a total fool out of myself? I'm not at all surprised that I forgot to ask her for her phone number or offer to drive her home. Embarrassed, certainly, but hardly surprised. Yet she kept at me and for that I will be forever in her debt.
It is a beautiful evening and I decide to walk to the few blocks to the store rather than drive. The extra time will give Barb a chance to prepare for whatever she has planned. Besides, it will give my body the opportunity to start digesting the delicious meal she made. I wasn't lying when I said I was full.
The local grocery store offers an impressive selection of desserts, but I've pretty much made up my mind by the time I get there. I pass by rows of cookies and tarts and continue on by a multitude of cakes (though I am sorely tempted by my favourite -- carrot spice cake, yum!) to the huge freezers stocked with ice cream. It is my intention to buy the sweetest, most calorie laden flavour I can find, but the very idea of a bowlful of Triple Chocolate Fudge makes my teeth hurt and gives me a sugar high headache. I settle for a litre of Butterscotch Ripple instead.
On the walk back home, I try to keep my pace under control. Not so slow that the ice cream melts, but not so fast that I'm out of breath and sweating when I reach the door. My heart is already racing with anticipation as I imagine what Barb might be doing. In an effort to distract myself, I try to think of what I might say when she complains about my choice of dessert.
Absent-mindedness is an affliction I've had to wrestle with my entire life. It has taught me to plan ahead for those times when I forget one of life's minor details -- like the key to the front door. There is a spare duct-taped to the back of the mailbox. I use it to unlock the door, remembering to put it back in its hiding place, ready for the next time, before I enter the house.
"Barb?" No answer.
I head to the kitchen and put the ice cream in the freezer, between the ice cube trays and the extra loaf of bread, before I begin my search in earnest.
"Barb? I'm back. Are you here?" So it's to be 'Hide and Seek', is it? Fine with me. All I need to worry about now is what state she'll be in when I find her. Will she be 'dead' like she was the first time we played this game, or like the time I found her naked and unmoving in the bath? Or will she be pretending to cower and conceal herself from her 'murderer' (that would be me) as she did when I discovered her huddled under the basement stairs? Or will it be like the occasion when she leapt at me from out of the bedroom closet, growling and brandishing a butcher's knife (a rubber one, of course)? I had had to turn the weapon against her and 'kill' her in self-defense that time, which had been fun. Barb's imagination is boundless. Sexplay with her is like riding an endless roller coaster while blindfolded -- you're never sure which direction you'll be turning in next, but it's so much fun finding out.
A cursory examination of the kitchen shows me she's not under the table and she hasn't wedged herself into the pantry again. Nor do I find her with the vacuum behind the jackets in the hall closet. In the lounge room, however ...
The room is a mess. Magazines and cork coasters are strewn about the floor, apparently having fallen off a violently overturned coffee table. The white-framed painting of my grandfather's farmhouse hangs askew just above the bare nail that is supposed to be holding a picture of Barb and I from last Christmas. In the corner above the stereo, a small hanging spider plant twists and swings like a pendulum. Our well-worn, secondhand, leather reclining chair has been laid back as far as it can go and turned a few degrees to the left. Draped over the footrest is Barb's skirt. Her nylons dangle from a floor lamp that is now leaning in the corner next to the couch. Stretched out, quite literally, on the couch is Barb.
Her right knee is bent over an armrest, her foot still several centimetres off the floor. Her panties are clinging to her left ankle which is up, over the back of the couch. She is naked to well above her waist. I lift the panties off of her foot and feel the wetness soaking through them. Barb, the naughty, impatient girl, has started without me.
"Oh my God! Barbara! No!" I start getting into character as I move forward for a closer look, letting the damp garment fall to the floor. Barb has hiked her blouse up until it is tucked just beneath her shoulder blades. Her beautifully smooth tummy is visible as is the bottom portion of her ribcage. Some of the blouse's lower buttons are still done up, but enough have been opened to expose part of her chest. The bra cup that is supposed to be covering her right breast has been pushed up and as I crouch on the floor next to her, I can see her nipple standing erect.
As I lift her right hand from the floor to check her pulse, I notice the missing Christmas photo lying there. Two of her fingers are touching my image's lips, a gesture that nearly melts my heart.
"No pulse. It can't be!" The strings of her apron have been tied around her neck, the apron itself is balled up beside her head. I undo the knot and press my fingers to the side of her throat, checking for a heartbeat once again. As I do so, I gaze at her face. Her mouth is gaping wide, her tongue hanging out to one side (she can stick it out further, as I've witnessed more than once, but it takes effort to keep it out that far for long), and her brilliantly blue eyes are rolled up as if she is intently studying her own eyebrows. She is gorgeous.
Having failed to find a pulse once again, I make one last attempt. I rest my head on her chest, nestling into the opening in her blouse as best I can. I'm supposed to be listening to her heart (which is beating quite strongly -- and I can even hear her slow, long, deep breaths, though I can hardly see them), but I can't help myself and begin to tenderly kiss her bare breast, teasing the nipple with my lips and tongue.
"Nothing," I conclude after a few seconds. "She's dead. Dead! God, no! It's all my fault!" I drop my face onto her stomach and start to cry. "I never should have left. She would still be alive if I had been here. And all because I wanted some dessert! Now my Barbara's dead ... dead ... dead..." I use my hysterics as an excuse to slowly brush my nose and cheeks up and down her midriff, gently kissing and licking her -- tasting her -- the whole way, hoping my whiskers aren't too rough on her sensitive skin. My left hand reaches for her tit while my right travels lightly along her inner thighs, fingers combing through curly pubic hairs as they move from one leg to the other and back again. Finally, I rub my entire hand over her groin and down between her legs, stroking her hot, wet, nether lips with one finger.
I straighten up and look at her face once more, sniffling and blubbering like I'm just getting my emotions back under control.
"Ah, my poor dear. My love. My heart. My Barbara." My voice is barely a whisper as I caress her cheeks, gently closing and kissing her eyelids. I gather her tongue into my mouth and press my lips to hers until I've managed to get her mouth almost completely closed. "But I know what you wanted me to do if this ever happened." Scooping her up in my arms, I become acutely aware of how light she really is. Even as completely limp as she is right now -- dead weight, as it were -- she seems a mere whisp of a woman. You're going to eat that whole litre of ice cream, I mentally project at her, if I have to tie you down and feed it to you myself!
Barb's arms dangle freely as I carry her to the bedroom. Her feet sway from side to side, and her head hangs as far back as it will go, bouncing a little with each step I take. Long frizzy hair brushes against my pant leg (I take special care not to tread on it as I did once before -- poor Barb didn't stay dead very long that night).
Getting into the bedroom is a tricky matter, but I manage it without accidentally smashing her head or feet against a wall or the door. I place her across our bed, careful not to pin her arms uncomfortably beneath her, and straighten out her legs. I want to move very slowly, to savour every movement and every touch, to drink everything in with as many of my senses as I can, but there is an aching in my groin which sends very urgent messages to the part of my brain which interprets such things. It says, "You'd best get things moving up there, bud, or you're going to miss the boat! We can only wait for so long down here, you know!" and who am I to argue with my own bodily functions? Still, I try and maintain a certain level of control. To rush now would ruin everything, but maybe shifting to a slightly higher gear wouldn't damage things too much.
I undo the last few buttons on her blouse, open the garment wide, and slip her arms out of the sleeves (never an easy thing to accomplish and usually requires that I sit her up for a moment -- luckily she chose a loose-fitting top today and I'm able to extricate her without too much awkwardness). I take a few seconds to kiss her neck, shoulders, arms, and hands before sliding my left arm under her upper body and lifting her sightly so her back is arched. With my right hand I snatch the blouse away like a magician removing a tablecloth from beneath a complete set of expensive china, crystal wine glasses, and sterling silver cutlery. Then there are a few seconds of thick-fingered fumbling as I struggle to unhook her bra with one hand before I can set her down once more. I stretch her arms straight up over her head, slide the bra up their length (much easier than getting the blouse off!), and stand back to properly admire the lovely, dead, naked woman laid out before me. Yes, Alex, you are one lucky bastard -- and don't you ever forget it!
More messages from below -- "You've gotta do somethin', Cap'n! We kinna take the str-r-r-ain! We doon't have the power-r-r-r!"
"Patience," I mumble. "Just hold on a little longer. Wait for it. Wait for it." As hurriedly as I can without making too much noise or losing my balance, I strip myself and pray Barb doesn't hear my sigh of relief when I pull down my pants and undershorts, freeing my throbbing and intensely erect cock from its imprisonment. I reach down, cup my scrotum for a second, then stroke my member once. "It won't be long now."
I still want to move slowly. Barb's doing a remarkable job of playing dead, keeping herself completely still and limp, but I know she's aware of everything, feeling everything, and I want to give her as much stimulus as I can. I love this fantasy, necro-fetish stuff, and part of thrill for me (besides just plain making love to a beautiful woman, that is) is trying to make her 'come to life', to make her lose control. I don't always succeed, but that's fine. I need that sort of challenge to enjoy anything I do.
Of course wanting to go slowly and actually accomplishing the feat are two entirely different things. I worry that I'm moving to quickly as I make my way up her body, starting with her toes and moving on inch by inch, touching and kissing and squeezing and licking and fondling and sucking and probing and tasting and generally molesting every bit of her with as much of myself as I possibly can, all the while mentally pleading with my body, "Wait. Hold on. Just another second. Please. Wait. Wait for it. Not yet. Wait."
By the time I finally make it to the top of her, Barb's face is flushed and beads of sweat are forming on her forehead. I want to make a joke about how I always thought dead people went pale instead of blushing, but I doubt I could have said anything more articulate than a grunt at that moment. My breath is so laboured, my gasping is making the loose hairs on her head sway like long grass in a stiff breeze.
I reach over her head and entwine my fingers in hers. She doesn't make any move to grip my hands and the tiny part of my mind that is still rational knows she'll be proud of herself when she thinks back on it. Then I slide into her.
Normally, I'm very clumsy when it comes to sex -- particularly when it comes to 'getting it in'. I tell myself it's because I just haven't had enough practice yet and that, with time and Barbara's loving patience and instruction, I'll improve. Today is different, though. Today ...
My cock has no trouble finding its sheath today. It slides into Barb's welcoming cunt and her invisible, velvet muscles seem to pull it further and further into her. The sensation electrifies me and I gasp, a short, sharp intake of breath. And at that moment the whole world explodes into an uncountable number of colours.
The next few seconds -- or minutes, I lose most of my sense of time at this point -- are a jumble of sensory data. I feel a powerful, painful swelling in my groin and, just as the ache makes me cry out, it disappears, replaced by a rushing sensation as my entire body jerks and contracts over and over again. Barb is moving under me, I feel that, but I don't know if it's because of my spasms or if she's convulsing on her own.
The next thing I know, I'm opening my eyes and Barb is lying next to me. I'm still holding on to her left hand. I'm covered in sweat and my heart is still racing, but my breathing has nearly returned to normal. I don't think I've ever felt so ... relaxed.
There is a tiny trickle of blood dripping from the corner of Barb's mouth and I wipe it away with my thumb. I'm guessing that she bit her lip at some point. Her breasts rise and fall so wonderfully as she breathes. She looks like she's sleeping peacefully. I brush a few stray hairs away from her face and I watch her for a moment, marvelling yet again that, of all the men in the world, she's chosen me.
"Barbara?" I whisper as I continue to run my fingers through her hair. She doesn't respond. "Barb? Darling?" Then I see her breathing seem to stop. The coy little minx -- she's still playing dead! We'll just have to see about that.
Poor Barb doesn't stand a chance. She's ticklish.
"You brute!" she screams. Tears stream down her cheeks and she laughs uncontrollably. "Stop it! Stop it!" I cease my torture of her and roll off to the side. She takes a few seconds to collect herself, then slaps my chest. Hard. "You are a horrible, horrible man, Alex."
"I know it." I grin at her and wink. She threatens me with a backhand, and I throw my hands up in defense. "Okay, okay. Truce!"
"No more tickling then, right?"
"You'd better." She snuggles up next to me, her head resting on my shoulder while she twirls one finger in the hairs on my chest.
"I love you, Barbara. You know that, right?" The love of my life looks up at me and I meet her gaze unblinkingly.
"I love you too, Alex."
We stay that way for a while, not moving, not talking, just looking at each other and enjoying the sensation of being close to the one we love. Then a wicked smile spreads across her face and I can feel myself grinning in response.
"You want to go again?" she asks.
"You bet! Only this time, let's make the neighbours think I'm really trying to kill you, shall we?"
"You're on." She kisses me on the mouth and manages to wriggle out of my grasp before I can get a grip on her still nude body. She's up and out the door before I can even sit up.
I'll give her to the count of 10. Then the chase is on.