PASS THE STINGER, CASSADY
Paragraphs for Grownups
by Mark Aster
she was completely
As usual I'm in the old house, except that it's not really like the old house at all, much bigger inside with raised platforms instead of rooms and lots of staircases. On one of the platforms a bunch of my old teachers are sitting around a fire talking about the sorry state of K-12 education.
I go down the long dusty stairway into the basement, past the room full of pipes (that was another dream), and into the really huge empty room with concrete walls. The broken door is still there behind the pile of shattered crates, and I slip through into the maze of catwalks and hammocks and spiderwebs of steel cable.
I climb and squirm through and come out on that ledge far above the city, and she's there again, leaning on the low railing with her chin on her hands, bent far over with her bottom sticking up. It's a particularly round and obvious bottom.
I stand, lean, next to her, looking out over the city, and although she doesn't look at me I know she's glad I'm there. I drape my arm over her back, over her bottom.
Although I know it's cold there a mile over the city, and the wind is blowing, I'm flooded with a warm contentment, looking at her pale hair falling around her face, the lights of the buildings far far below us.
I hope I can stay here awhile before the alarm goes off.
There are things I want that I cannot possibly express.
She moves around the room, around the table, between the whiteboard and the computer, and I see her breasts moving under her blouse, her lips moving as she talks, touching and opening and touching and opening. Sometimes her tongue shows, naturally and unselfconscious.
She doesn't know I'm looking at her tongue.
Her fingers, in the light of the projector, are warm and tanned. She is standing up, supported by her legs.
She is wearing a skirt.
What am I doing here?
Her body, her movements, excite and oppress me. Why does she press against my senses as a disconnected, or an accidentally connected, group of parts? Breasts beneath her shirt, tongue in her mouth, her legs under her dress, between her legs (and entirely unseen) her crotch, her sex, her clitoris being gently rubbed in hre panties as she walks.
Why is she not to me a single woman, a single person like these other people? Why is she not a whole, a body and a mind? Stretched out nude at my feet?
There's a young man, a boy, sitting on a ledge at the base of a big glass building, strumming on a guitar, singing old songs. She stops and looks at him, his long blond hair loose falling down around his shoulders.
She has her hand in her pocket holding a quarter in her fingers, and she's wishing that she were someone who could throw dollars into street-musicians' cases, when he looks up at her and smiles.
How many roads must a man walk down,
No request is too obscene.
It started, long ago, as a simple game of chance, using a die to select certain sex-sounds. The player would roll, and following the rules would find a startled gasp, the sound of a mouth opening, a zipper being pulled down. With time the rules became more complex and the set of sounds richer. A moan might be a deep anticipatory male rumble, or the high helpless sound of a bound woman. A kiss might be short and chaste, or long and liquid.
When computer technology was brought to the game, much more became possible. Not only complex sounds, but sequence and series, as short or as long as the player desired. A caught breath, cloth tearing slowly, a gasp, a slap, the rustle of clothing, a moan, the wet sliding of penetration.
Then, of course, the game went beyond sound, to the acts themselves, and from there to the entire ritual, the complete world, of courtship and love and lust and amorous intercourse.
Now it is the roll of the dice, as they are imagined by the steel mind of the computer, that determines her reaction when you touch her hand, determines whether he and his wife will be sleeping with their backs turned to each other at midnight or fucking doggy-style in the dry bed of the Fontaine d' Cote d'Ivoire.
There are things that we have lost, of course. But all things considered I think that we are better off.
"Hello, is Jane there?"
"I'm sorry, she's tied up right now."
A bed, two women, tanned, naked, fingers thrusting, mouth open, body arching.
"Come for me, baby!"
"YES YES AHHHHHH!!"
"Oh, yeah, yeah, baby, COME!"
"AHH! AHH! AAAAAHHHH!!!"
"Did you like that, did you like me fucking you?"
"Did you like me fucking your hot pussy?"
"Oh, yeah, I liked it."
"I like fucking your pussy."
"You fuck me so good."
"Do you want to fuck my pussy now?"
"Yeah, baby, I want to fuck your hot pussy now."
"I really want you to fuck me."
"I want to fuck your pussy and make you come."
"I want you to fuck me, baby, I want you to fuck me with THIS!"
"With, uh, with that?"
"Yeah, baby, I want you to fuck my hot pussy with this."
"But... but that's a box of Kraft® brand Macaroni and Cheese Dinner?"
"Oooh, yeah, baby. It's the cheesiest!"
My erection was now throbbing in his hand, and I was having trouble standing. I leaned back against the tile wall, wet and smooth against my skin. He slid his fingers up to make a tight circle just below my glans, and my cock twitched in his soapy grip.
"That's nice," he said, and stroked a little faster. Despite myself, I moaned softly, and closed my eyes.
He moved even closer to me and pushed his hips forward. His thigh was against mine, our pubic hair mingling, his erection bobbing and nudging against my hip.
He opened his hand and made a fist around both of our cocks at once, rubbing them together and stroking slowly up and down. I felt the heat pulsing in him, and my hips began to rock.
"I just can't tell which is bigger!" he said, and stopped moving his hand. I thrust against him.
"Guess I'd better decide quick, eh?" he smiled, and he put his other hand on my chest, my nipple caught between his fingers.
"What was that?"
"Aah, that was me moaning in passion."
"No, before that. I could have sworn I heard someone say 'She Sucks Her Sister's Tender Nipples'!"
"That is a pretty good description of what was happening here before you got distracted by your inner voices."
"Might I point out that your sister's tender nipples are starting to feeling cold and neglected?"
"Ooh, the poor dear things! Cheer up, tender nipples..."
"Aaaah, yeah, mmmm, now they're hhhhhappy again..."
"Do you hhhhhhhear anything else?"
"What else mmmmmmight I hear?"
"Maybe aaaaaaaahh, She Licks Her Sister's Throbbing Pussy?"
"Not yet; sounds nice, though. Open those thighs, you Hot Lesbo Slut!"
"I love it when youooooohhh talk like a spammer."
"Watch your mmmmmm your language!"
"OOOOH! Click here! CLICK HERE NOW!!"
"Pass the stinger, Cassady."
In her dream, she passes the stinger, a complex steel tool with blinking lights and a tail of data cables, across the bench to Pat. Beside her, hair pulled back under the band of the goggles, Julie delicately maneuvers a tiny drill in the labyrinthine circuitry of the big tan cylinder they labor on.
In the way of dreams, Cassady suddenly finds she has no idea what she is supposed to be doing. She lays her hands flat on the surface before her, feeling the warmth, the roundness, the pulsing under the surface.
Pat curses under her breath, and Julie purses her lips. Only then does Cassady realize that except for their goggles they are all naked, and that the big fleshy cylinder on the bench between them is, of course, a giant penis.
"Well," she thinks, "that's a relief."
"I'm a little nervous, I guess."
"Could we just, like, could I just talk for a minute?"
"Sure. What about?"
"Oh, I don't know, it's... I have, well, this...
"Well, I remember when I was a kid there was this old movie, a really silly movie, with Dean Martin, called 'The Silencers' or something like that, and well in the opening credits there were these women with feather boas like, some of them, and they were, you know, taking off --"
"Yeah, yeah, strippers. And that really, well... And then I remember seeing Rachel Welch doing 'Let Me Entertain You' with these long gloves, and at the end she turned away from the audience and opened up her dress toward the curtains. I think..."
"So you like --"
"Yeah, wait, I, sorry, I have to finish this, then there was Mitzi Gaynor doing 'My Sweet Little Alice Blue Gown' all demure and pretty and then suddenly the music got hotter and she ripped it off and was dancing around in something skimpy, and -- You know I've seen some porn movies, and I hate it when there's this pretty woman in a dress, and she goes over to the man and he puts his hands on her and then in the very next second she's naked on all fours with him fucking her from behind, you know?"
"I wanted to see her taking off her clothes, you know?"
"So you want me to take off my clothes for you?"
"Yeah, I mean if..."
"Real slowly. There's one... button..."
"Oh, God. And..."
"And? Two... buttons..."
"And -- uhhh -- could you look at me while you do it?"
"I think I can do that."
"My, it's hot in here..."
She came in from the plaza through the big glass doors, shedding her clothing as she walked. Off with the billowing crimson cloak and hood, the long shining gloves sheathing her pale arms, the heavy scarlet gown and the whalebone corset. Gently tugging the silver chain, just once, then easing off the delicate ruby clamps from her thick pink nipples. Her breasts, heavy and round, swung free above the swell of her belly, and the flesh of her thighs rippled as she walked to the tall windows to look out for a moment over the city, naked and gleaming.
Then she went to one of the plush couches at the eastern wall and put out one plump magnanimous hand to touch the flesh sleeping there. She stroked a bare thigh softly, teased apart the muscular legs, took the flaccid penis in her palm and stroked it gently, patiently until it came erect. She took it more firmly in her hand and squeezed it as it hardened, the fingers of her other hand caressing and warming the dangling sac below. The body of the sleeper writhed just once, and the swollen member twitched, and she smiled as the thick white semen squirted out to pool in the cup of her waiting hand.
She stepped back, pressing her palms together to wet in the warm liquid, and then hugged herself, spreading it over her arms and her ample shoulders, across the base of her neck and the top slopes of her breasts. She cupped her nipples in her hands and squeezed, rubbing in the last drops there.
Smiling, considering, the massive front of her upper torso gleaming with a stickier gleam, she moved to another couch, opened another pair of legs, these with a thick brown penis lying half-erect on the stomach above them. She gathered it into her fingers, and as it swelled she knelt heavily on the carpet and kissed the tip with her broad ardent lips, her fingers fondly squeezing the base as her mouth tasted the smoothness of the head.
The legs straightened and somewhere a sleeping voice might have moaned. She took the hardening staff deeply into her mouth, into the top of her throat, her nose buried in the clean fragrant hair at its base. Holding it there, and pressing her fingers into the smooth delicate skin between scrotum and anus, she caressed it with her tongue, feeling the blood beating stronger, the beat filling her mouth. Then she slid it out, and back in, and out, and in, sucking gently and moving her fingers to the rhythm.
The legs and flat belly spasmed and the hot member fairly glowed as her lips adored it, and finally the pelvis below it thrust up at her, and jerking twice, three times, it delivered its load into the heat of her mouth. The body settled back into somnolence, and she rose to her feet, swirling the faintly bitter whiteness with her tongue and then raising her hand to her lips and letting it spill out between their curving softnesses, into her palm.
With both hands again she rubbed the warm exudation into her flesh, starting this time with the chest, the round erect nipples, the damp folds below her bobbing breasts, then down over her stomach and her thighs and between her legs, the semen thinner for being mixed with her saliva, mixing on her skin with her own sweat and the juices of her now-swelling vulva.
On her knees again now, not rushing but no longer slow and majestic, down between the creamy smooth thighs of another sleeper, this one presenting to her lips and fingers the twin pink mysteries of labia, of waiting vagina, tender clitoris huddling under its hood. She took the labia one after the other in between her lips and sucked reverently, her painted eyes closed, and she slid two semen-wet fingers up between and gently in.
Opening her mouth wide to engulf and caress the clit-shielding flesh with her lips and tongue, she thrust harder with her fingers, probing in and upward for the spongy pad hidden there in the dark. Kneeling on the carpet, her strong legs apart and her breath coming more heavily, her head and hands between the graceful thighs, she brought the sleeper to orgasm after a timeless time, and the sweet juices flowed out over her fingers.
Walking to the bed, she wiped her fingers over her cheeks, her neck, her lips and jaw. Then she lay on her back on the matresses, the weight of her round fecund body pushing down into the softness, and spread her legs and put her fingers into herself, bringing up her own honey to annoint her nose and her eyes, the broad high cliff of her forehead. Coated now with drying juices from her thighs to her hair, she smiled, and sighed, and opened her legs all the wider, and with gentler strokes began caressing herself toward her own long-delayed, greatly anticipated, raucous and helpless and bed-thumping climax.
He was dozing in the big chair in the livingroom, staring at a big mandala on the screen, when she walked in, this time wearing a thin salmon-colored cotton dress. He looked up, blinking, waiting for her to say something; but she didn't. She just walked over to him and took his hand, put it up under her skirt on her bare hip, so he could feel that she was naked underneath.
He smiled and ran the back of his hand into the fur between her legs, but before he could press against her she knelt between his knees and opened his pants.
He took a deep breath, wide awake now as she ran her tongue slowly up his stiffening cock. She took the smooth head between her lips and gently began to suck. He moved his legs further apart and closed his eyes.
She moved her head slowly up and down, and his body dissolved in pleasure. He opened his shirt slowly and moved his hands up and down his chest as she sucked him to a raging aching hard-on.
"That ought to do it," she breathed, and stood up and spread her legs and straddled him, her dress up around her hips. He ran his hands over her flesh, cupping the firm globes of her ass as she guided his cock between her thighs and inside her.
He gasped as her moist pussy slid down around him, and he almost said something, but she fell forward onto him and opened her mouth on his and probed him with her tongue. Buried deep between her legs, he could only moan, only lie there with his mind helplessly engulfed in bliss, her hips circling and beginning to pump.
Coming inside her, he thought, I'm going to come inside her. And he gripped her ass harder with his hands and they fucked joyfully.
She lets me look at her.
She lets me lie behind her, when she's sleeping on her side under the sheet covered with the tiny writings of spiders, and I can bend myself around her and feel her against me and put my arms around her her body and touch her skin.
Sometimes, she lets me kiss her.
Cassady stood, fully clothed for the moment, in the smoky fragrant darkness. Julie and Pat in their black silken loincloths stepped up to her through the incense. She took a deep breath and let it rush out of her. It would be good to be cleansed. She was tired of irony.
Pat put her hand on Cassady's shoulder; her long hair and round ripe breasts and belly made her an ancient Goddess in the dimness.
"One thing," she said, her fingers touching Cassady's collar, the base of her neck. "There are cameras."
And there on the invisible ceiling, in at least two corners, she saw the glint of the lenses. Julie kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"We thought it might do someone good to see."
Cassady closed her eyes. Julie's hands stroked her back, and Pat's hip nudged her.
"I'm OK with that."
Pat put both hands on Cassady's shoulders and drew her face forward. Her first kiss was light and soft, her second longer and deeper. Cassady's lips opened, and Pat's tongue came hot and moist into her mouth. She felt herself beginning to shake.
"Shhhh," Julie whispered, her lips by Cassady's ear and her small hands slowly undoing Cassady's clothes, "you're safe here."
Cassady ran her hands over the warm bare skin of Pat's sides, and the outer slopes of her breasts. Pat looked into her eyes, her soul floating bare just below the surface.
"I like safe," she breathed, "safe is good."
Then Pat's mouth was on hers again, and Julie was kneeling on the soft floor at her feet, working her pants down over her hips.
It was good to be back.
"Just touch me," he says.
I could touch him, we're practically in public, we're fully clothed. A second ago I could have reached out casually, punched him on the shoulder or put a finger on his sleeve. The fabric would have been ordinary, not really him at all. The shallow sea of air around him, warm with his warmth and smelling of his sweat and his aftershave and the dark recesses of his body, would have been entirely irrelevant.
But if I touch him now --
-- might it mean something?
She woke up in the night, on her stomach under the sheet, her arms around her pillow, her legs splayed, her head to the left. It was a shallow waking-up, and she didn't open her eyes. She lay there in the dark, feeling the bed under her, her hair across her face, listening and wondering. She heard herself breathing, lightly, and heard Julie beside her, asleep, breathing more deeply, quietly, contented.
"My shoulder itches," she thought.
Then she was asleep again.
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