AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 20

The roar of the wind, as the convertible drove on the freeway, was rich with multiple meanings and sensations.

It was an elegant home, top of the hills in a dreamy, upper-middle-class neighborhood.  Puny compared with Estelle’s grand residence, nevertheless just from what Courtney could see in the dark, it was obviously three or four times the size, and twenty or thirty times the price of Mom’s.  In the triple-garage was one of Reed’s other cars, a mint condition 1953 Bentley convertible.

Inside, her hand stopped his hand on the hall light switch.

After simple, deeply satisfying moments of just holding each other, standing inside the doorway, Reed maneuvered and picked Courtney up off the floor and into his arms.  He carried her into his bedroom, and deposited her reverently on his bed.

The room, masculine and sparse.  It was not a wild seduction chamber; no waterbed, no mirrors or gimmicks, no erotic art on the walls.  It was just a comfortable place to crash, king size with many small and large pillows, colors of brown in the low light.

His eyes . . . looking at her with such affection . . . his first touch, so sweet . . .

It was a renaissance of Courtney’s sexual thoughts, as she abandoned all preconceptions, all calculation: A complete metamorphosis of the fuzzy, guilty, shameful secret urges that always misfired, sputtered unresolved & unfulfilled.

She had long been a nitty-gritty feminist, wrestled intellectually with each position, variation, touch and sexual movement, to find the sexually equal ideal.  Doctrine dictated her politically correct clitoral orgasm, unfortunately rarely achieved without self-masturbation.  Vaginal penetration was inherently irrelevant to a woman’s sexual pleasure.  Passivity was not acceptable, the missionary position far too submissive, the doggie position too animalistic and degrading.  Heterosexual sex, itself, somehow suspect.  Cocksucking was the penultimate boo-boo (swallowing sperm the lowest, lick-the-gutter evil deed).

But all this was theory, barely achievable, nearly impractical theory, as Courtney knew in even her most hard-line feminist days.  Beyond the theoretical sex, the empirical, anxiety-ridden night-by-night Reality was so sadly deficient that Courtney almost found herself among the legions of women who regularly bartered humping for cuddling, a man’s ejaculation for the feminine pleasure of being held and momentarily lingered over.

But this special moment with Reed neatly sidestepped all Courtney’s thinking.  The beginning of a journey down a new road.

No words.  Only the eyes, the bodies, the hands communicated.  Reed lay next to her, snuggling side by side.  And inside of her, the warmth spread from her sexual organs, glowing, reviving her senses, making every touch, every caress, exquisitely sensitive.  She felt a deep and profound sense of security, of arrival, almost as if she had come home and was now truly safe.

Undressing suddenly burst into a shared, exuberant joy, a scramble to throw aside the clothes and expose the inflamed skin.

Quick Instamatic comparisons of other bodies flitted across her memory.  Vlad’s wider, more padded Teddy Bear softness; and a thin, pale boy from college days she had spent a night with long ago, petting and cuddling.

But Byron Reed had muscles.  And again she noticed the curious scar on the outside side of his right arm, below the elbow.  The thin burn scar, ugly rough pink, three or four inches long where no hair grew.  Courty touched it for a moment, feeling empathy for the pain he must have felt.

Reed’s taut musculature proved good conditioning.  While tentatively feeling his shoulders, his upper arms, the cords and muscles that had effortlessly carried her weight, she peeked at his penis, and then into his eyes.  Slightly smaller but thicker than Vlad’s joystick——as he liked to call it——Reed’s was as fiercely erect and excited as a circumcised penis can be by a woman.

Looking into his eyes, she felt fabulously feminine and desirable; endorsed, approved, validated; a sexy superstar, a winner in life.  All comparisons ended for her there.  It was so gratifying, the glowing coals of her desire burned deep red, her arms drew him closer, held him, touched him, stroked him, she wanted to touch and hold him everywhere at once, she wanted to pull every part of him closer and more intimate to her.

Reed eased himself on top of her, while her arms pulled, tugged, urged, held, wanted him.

He bent his head down and brought his lips to hers.  His tongue danced across the edges of her lips, and entered.  The Universe seemed to actually pause as their tongues touched, her hands feverishly brushing his neck.

She felt aroused, powerfully sweet, delectable . . . she felt allure, enticement totally beyond any ability to resist . . . she felt completely alive, involved, unconditionally seduced.

He rolled off of her, and as part of the same motion pulled her over on top of him.  Slowly, his hands went everywhere, compelling her, exhilarating her, challenging her.  She curved down to kiss his lips again; his hands gripped her, kneaded her flesh roughly in moments of acute lust, then his hands would delicately touch, amorously stroke, and almost tickle her.  Completely lost in the intoxicating sensations, Courtney passively luxuriated in his arms, actually unable to concentrate, her body movements were involuntary, pleasure induced.

His hands held, cupped, and loved her thirty-four-inch size-B breasts, dabbed at her breast beauty-mark under her left nipple; his fingers moved, circled, glided around, dug into her rounded buttocks; his hands seized her narrow waist, lifted her, placed her precisely where he wanted her.  Like a detour, a side trip, his hands held her hands, fingers exploring her fingers, hands touching, feeling every inch of skin along her arms and shoulders.

High, groggy with love, she couldn’t find the energy to open her eyes, couldn’t find his mouth to kiss him . . .

Then their lips were together, their tongues were touching, arguing passion, his right hand holding her down to him by her neck, possessively, as his left hand stroked her pussy, petted her, finding the pinpoint of her passion, bringing a new ardent rush to her pleasure, as the French kiss continued, her tongue disputing his, thrusting aggressively into Reed’s mouth.

When she thought she might detonate, fly apart into tiny, vibrating little love fragments, Reed raised up, and kissed her down onto her back.

He lay down on top of her, his heated skin textured, musky.  Courtney felt wind-swept, sun-swept.  Their eyes locked into each others.  Her legs spread wide, her toes trying to find the edges of the bed.

“Forever and forever,” Reed promised.

So slow . . . so tantalizing . . . so slow . . . his penis touched the folded flesh that partially enclosed her clitoris, poked, missed, and then slid intimately into her liquid vagina.  Reed shuddered slightly.

Rather than igniting her passion, it seemed to exert a calming and soothing effect.  She felt as if she were gliding high, like the wind through the summer trees.  Reed remained perfectly still, lay upon her, his body in fantastic tension.

“I love you,” he said.

Whisper-soft, Courtney traced idle patterns on Reed’s back.  Her eyelids were closed, but in her mind’s eye she was flying over a moonlit beach, the surf effervescent and sparkling, as graceful and incandescent as her body felt now.

Courtney felt as if she had always known Byron Reed, as if they had been matched before the Universe began, paired, preordained, as if the Universe’s purpose was to bring her and Reed together.  He was so revealing, so naked and vulnerable to her.

Reed began to move in and out of her, rousing her, though the motion was achingly slow, tempting, barely hinting at friction; each slide a delicate forever, a drift that took eons to complete.  It was breathtaking, mesmerizing, the way so little kinetic energy, such small, timid thrusting could tingle her spine and overflow her sexual river.  Her spirit was swirling in a rushing brook above a waterfall.

Was it an hour later or a minute later?  Was it a mere moment of Earthly joining, or the timeless eternity of Heaven?  Pleasure drawn out, suspended, increasing in intensity and duration until it approached pain, until the sensations ran down the narrow line of discomfort, wavering back and forth across it . . .

Unprecedented.  No, she did not expect to orgasm with Byron Reed.  Did not think of it.  Did not consider it as a spontaneous possibility.  Probably would not have asked for it.  It was an enchanted screw, and Courtney surrendered to the spell, as the drug of sexual fever surfed along higher and higher waves, approaching . . . approaching . . . ever so close . . . Could it be?  Could it possibly . . . Yes!  She was going over the edge!  She was gripped by that primitive, building, unrelenting force that focused on pure rapture.

But the sky fell.  Reed erupted.  He suddenly power-thrusted his penis into her.  He was slam-fucking her, slashing his penis into her, and coming in quick violence.  Groaning, wheezing like a train grinding to a halt, he seemed to fall on her like a weight.

At a dizzying height atop the final wave of ecstasy, Courtney teetered on the brink, spinning as the wave surged, tickling her, tricking her with the mirage of orgasm, a storybook simultaneous orgasm.  Reed’s final grunting movement sharpened her senses, whetted her sexual appetite to an awesome Urge, a Need to climax NOW!

Courtney thrashed about savagely, bucking and moaning like the whore of Babylon——but she hurt Reed, who needed absolute stillness at that moment, and he had to withdraw.

Frantically, Courtney tried to finger herself to bring herself off.  She struggled, but lost the thread of it: the struggle destroyed the mood.  The more urgently she wanted it, the further it receded into the unobtainable distance.

Every cell inside Courtney seemed to blacken, become numb; a horrible, blunt agony.  Tears of disappointment welled in her eyes, and streamed off the sides onto the sheets.

Then Reed was moving her body, but Courtney was despondent, completely disconnected to what he was doing to her; she felt raw, abused, and humiliated.  Every hateful, evil thing they said about the male species was true.

Reed was holding her.  Petting her.  Cuddling.  He had bent her stomach over a pile of pillows . . . she was clutching the pillows . . . she felt destroyed . . . as his hands slowly calmed her, soothed the ravages of her soul, brought under control her sexual blisters.

Long and gradually the pain and bad feelings left, were slowly replaced by other pleasurable sensations of caring, warmth . . . then, gently, the barest tingle at first, the long, slow road up the path of arousal.

Reed became erect again.  He plugged into her vagina from the rear, while teasing her clit with one hand.

Again, and for a long, slow time, Reed seemed to touch her everywhere.  But there was a new possessiveness to his touch, a new intimacy, a casualness of ownership.

Then Reed focused.  Concentrated.  He narrowed into one thing, one activity, one method.

Sex stripped of the otherworldly idealisms.  Sex like unfinished furniture.  Industrial strength sex.

One hand, fingers mostly holding and stroking her neck, almost as if Reed wished to hold her, to dominate her, to control her, to keep her held there bent over the pillows.  The other hand, fingers becoming intimately acquainted with her clitoris and environs.  Penis thrusting, penis invading, penis angling in and out, penis never ending, a penis steam engine, and the orgasm rushed up unexpectedly on Courtney . . . It seemed to come from nowhere, and ended almost as quickly, nothing to brag about, a pipsqueak pop and a series of gentle internal ripples, it nevertheless left in its wake a freshened, revitalized Courtney.

The penis machine continued.  Held precisely to the spot, fingered on her most sensitive button, penetrated, penetrated, penetrated . . . she had a little more warning, this time: the orgasm warmly snuggled up to her, cuddled her, kissed her, and then threw her in a Jacuzzi of whirling undercurrents . . . and Reed chuckled.

But continued.  Penis robot, penis inspired by love, penis that couldn’t get enough.  Penis Animal!  Penis right up inside her, penis that just won’t stop, penis rocking, penis pounding away, penis counter-point and polyrhythm, penis four-to-the-bar while the fingers played triplets on a clit throbbingly erect.  An orgasm running a race with her, sprinting alongside, dashing toward the string of temporary ecstasy, faster and faster, and then as she hit the string of the finish-line and the crowd erupted, the pulsations carried her along, she was lifted up on the shoulders of the crowd, thrown up on a higher plateau of energy where passivity was no longer a viable option.

Courtney exploded in Reed’s bed like unstable nitroglycerin!

She had had quite enough of that stupid sexual position, Thank You!

Scrambling forward, fighting out of his grip, kicking the pillows aside, turning on him, wrestling his body to a clear win, Courtney burst upon him; a tiger uncaged, a tornado touching down.  Reed was startled, surprised: what have we here?  Raw, feminist power grabbed his stiff, slippery penis in her hot, little fist; primitive female power directed Reed’s body where SHE wanted him, and like a wildcat she jumped on him, lay him down, straddled him, and engulfed him.

She was a fast-forward female; straining, wiggling, striking down any of Reed’s attempts to move or change positions.  She had his erection inside of her exactly the way she wanted it, moving precisely as she liked, at the speed and angle of choice.

Reed tried to raise up on his elbows and move his hips, but the lady packed a wallop; she slapped his face, and shoved him back down horizontal, demoted him: his only job was to stay hard.

An electrifying fervor took her over; a wild, crazed zest for all that sex had to offer.  She orgasmed again, but now her body could never be satisfied.  She wanted activity, change, variation; she bored with the prospect of another orgasm.  It was not enough!  Besides, Reed was not behaving himself: First he came too soon, then the hopeless excuse for a man refused to come!

Courtney leaped upward on the bed, presenting her vagina to his face.  She was drenched.  She grabbed two fistfulls of Reed’s long hair.  Wider and wider she spread her thighs, lowering herself.

“Lick,” she commanded.

COURTNEY, Chapter 21
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47