PAPISTS AND STUDIOUS
Paragraphs for Grownups
by Mark Aster
"So you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus."
"That's Tori Amos."
"You can make me come, and sometimes I think that just because you can make me come you think, I don't know, you think like it's this huge thing that I should just be centering my life around."
"I mean, it's really good, sex is really nice and everything, but how much do you really think I owe you for an orgasm."
"I can make you come, too. Do you think you like owe me your life and your soul and everything just because I can make you come? That it's like the most amazing thing in the whole world?"
"Really! Do you?"
"Well, uh. I mean, I guess. Yeah. Yeah, I do."
After a few months, she took to wearing a large plastic phallus, thick-veined and purple, under her clothes, so that in business meetings when the men closed the doors and dropped their pants, waving their dripping members in the air, she could join in, her own staff bobbing and gleaming with the best of them.
"So the message here is that it's impossible to communicate with women, but if you approach them with violence, they will give you pleasure?"
"That's not exactly what I was thinking."
"What were you thinking?"
"Well -- maybe the women are symbolic of other things in life."
"Why do women always have to be symbolic?"
"What if I told it like this:
A woman wakes from a drugged sleep and half-remembered dreams of suffocation, to find herself in a small dark room. Outside the room a hundred tall men walk to and fro. Their bodies are straight and forthright. She is afraid to meet their eyes.
Every night, one of the men sleeps in her bed. They do not speak, and she is afraid to touch him, to touch any of them. Her dreams are troubled.
One night, her desire flowing into madness, she throws herself onto the man in her bed and tries to wrap her hands around his neck, tears streaming from her eyes. He overpowers her easily.
Throwing her onto her back and pinning her helplessly, he rubs his body against hers, and ultimately fills her moist vagina with himself, and they climax together. His body is large and warm.
From that time forward, she begins to come to terms with her new existence.
Would that be better?"
"It's saying that if a woman resists oppression, she'll be raped, and that'll be good for her."
"So the story is anti-feminist whichever way around I tell it?"
"Is that impossible?"
"It doesn't seem fair."
"I think we've been over this before..."
A man wakes from a drugged sleep and half-remembered dreams of suffocation, to find himself in a small dark room. Outside the room a hundred tall women walk to and fro. Their bodies are round and forthright. He is afraid to meet their eyes.
Every night, one of the women sleeps in his bed. They do not speak, and he is afraid to touch her, to touch any of them. His dreams are troubled.
One night, his desire flowing into madness, he throws himself onto the woman in his bed and tries to wrap his hands around her neck, tears streaming from his eyes. She overpowers him easily.
Throwing him onto his back and pinning him helplessly, she rubs her body against his, and ultimately takes his erect penis inside herself, and they climax together. Her body is large and warm.
From that time forward, he begins to come to terms with his new existence.
Sex is fine, of course. We take off our clothes, quickly, and she lies naked on her back on the bed. I lie on top of her, and we kiss, and rub, and she guides my penis into her vagina. We move, and groan, and climax.
Lying on the edge of the bed now, while she sleeps, I wonder if you can predict the future by looking at the tangle of clothes on the floor.
"I'll bet there's a secret room. Let's see if we can figure out how to open it."
"Good going, Freddy! You've found the secret door!"
My, observes the well-dressed and attractive woman, it certainly is hot in here, isn't it?
It certainly is, agrees the equally well-dressed and slightly older man, who is a stranger to her, but with whom she shares a waiting room, or some other anonymous semi-public space.
Would you be disturbed if I were to remove some of my outer clothing? the woman asks, looking down at herself to draw his attention to that outer clothing, and to how it fits the contours of her body, her breasts, her ample thighs, the modest curve of her stomach.
No, the man replies, no I would not mind that at all.
As you can see, we've tied their wrists to the bar over their heads, high enough that they cannot quite stand flat-footed, and must actively use the muscles of their feet and legs to ease the weight on their arms.
Aren't they lovely?
Yes, certainly you may touch her, she won't mind. They enjoy this, really, the opportunity to display themselves, to be admired. See how their mouths smile, or relax in a calm echo of smiling. I wish I could show you their eyes. But regulations, you know; the blindfolds.
By all means, cup her breast in your hand. Feel the sweet weight, the smoothness, soft but firm. All the clichés made true.
See the confident muscles moving in their arms, in their backs, in their long and elegant legs as they shift in their bonds.
Certainly take his penis in your hand, stroke it, feel the warm spheres handing relaxed below. Kiss her nipple, take his staff into your mouth (see how quickly it hardens?). Slide a finger between her legs. They don't mind.
I see you're pleased. Naked bodies stretched this way, especially fine ones like these, are the height of beauty. With their arms extended upward, the flesh and bones of the chest, the hollow softness of the stomach, the roundness of the buttocks, present themselves charmingly.
Am I certain they don't mind? Of course! Being on the bar, being in the blindfold, are quite pleasant. Challenging, an opportunity for self-exploration.
As you'll find out soon enough yourself.
Everyone gets a turn!
She stands in what looks like the ruins of her mind, where none of us can help her, and she wonders if her breasts are big enough.
I remember kissing her once, under the moon, her legs long and slim, her skin smelling like honey.
"Giving head and shitting are alot alike."
She was coming out of the bathroom, wiping her palms on the hips of her jeans to dry them.
"You know. There's this tight like sphincter of skin around this cigar-shaped thing."
"Yeah. And a mouth and an anus both have some pleasure nerves, so it feels good to suck dick, and it feels good to shit."
"Oh, great. So my penis is like a turd?"
She was sitting next to me on the sofa now, her left breast casually pressing my arm, her face close to mine. Talking about shitting.
"Only a little like a turd." She laughed.
"Marvelous, I'm sure that'll help my performance alot next time you go down on me; thinking about how it's like shitting."
"Performance anxiety while being sucked? Never!"
"C'mon, I'll show you." She was opening my belt, sliding down next to me on the cushions.
"Hey!" But her fingers were inside my pants, and her breath warm against my skin as she pulled out my penis, and the traitorous thing was already stiffening. She thinks you're a piece of shit, I thought at it. It didn't seem to care.
"See?" she said, kissing the tip, "No problem!"
And as she slid her mouth down the staff, I thought of it as the rose of her anus sliding around a thick brown tube of turd, and it only made it that much sexier.
She chuckled as she sucked, and all I could do was lie there with my fingers in her hair, and moan.
Her lips glisten scarlet on my desktop wallpaper.
Was I supposed to be doing something?
I have to go to the bathroom, but I'm not supposed to make a sound.
She comes into the room and smiles at me. At least I think she's smiling; it's hard to tell in the dim light. There's a television on in some other room. She takes off her blouse.
The mattress dents under her weight as she climbs onto the bed, on her hands and knees with her chest over my head. She presses her heavy soft breasts, still held in the white cups of her bra, into my face, one after the other. I smell laundry detergent.
She chuckles to herself. If I weren't tied up, tied down, would I put my arms around her? I don't know.
She stands up long enough to take off her bra and her jeans, then she straddles me again, dangling her breasts over my face, not quite touching. They sway back and forth gently, round sacs of flesh with dark brown nipples. She lowers herself suddenly, smothering my nose and mouth and eyes with her right breast. I open my mouth and run my tongue over the skin.
The bed creaks slightly; she's rocking forward and back on her hands and knees. She presents her nipples to my mouth, one after the other. Her other hand is between her legs, under her panties, the fingers moving up and down. I'm becoming breathless; now I smell the muskiness of her sweat.
She sighs, and sits up, and leans down, and kisses me hard on the mouth. Her tongue is blunt and probing. Then she gets up and puts her clothes back on.
I don't think she came. She just likes to make me suck on her breasts, and to finger herself in the half-light until she's tired.
The room smells like her sex. I really need to go to the bathroom. But I'm not supposed to say anything.
"So is it your cousin that's the dominatrix?"
Something curls in the window, sinuously draping itself across her naked body.
"Hold on, there's something in my eye."
He kneels at her feet and bows his head. She slides the blades out of their sheath and smiles a terrible green smile.
"You know how much I like it when you do that."
Will you sing for me? Will you sing for me, in your high and spirited voice, while I undress you, and touch your feverish skin, and drink from your well?
"I've never seen him do that before."
He is fucking her. He is fucking her. He is fucking her hot insatiable cunt.
"After the movie, will you take me home, and we can -- you know?"
Have another donut. My little sex-kitten.
one of them with a cigarette
"Ahhhhh!" She made a huge gasp and an enormous sigh out of it, a bodyfull of sound, and she strode through the door and across the room and hurled herself forward onto the narrow bed with her arms over her head.
"That was awful and amazing. Like trying to breathe beer-foam for a week!" She talked loudly, much more loudly than she had to, into the pillow, the pale green pillow that dented under her head.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my hands on her sides, squeezing her with the yellow cotton T-shirt against my fingers. I leaned over and kissed her skin between her jeans and her shirt, where her shirt was rucked up and a strip of flesh showed, taut tight female back-flesh with a lovely spinal dent.
She sighed again.
I put out my tongue and licked her skin in long slow strokes. I pushed up her shirt, and licked her back, and kissed the skin of her side, and she wriggled and purred and laughed. I pushed the shirt up above her shoulders so it coiled around her neck, and I kissed and sucked at her elegant shoulderblades, warm and firm and downy.
She turned over.
Her right breast came sweetly into my mouth, and I closed my eyes and sucked and ran my tongue over the tender pink rough skin of her nipple. She pushed against me, twined her fingers in my hair, reached down around me to undo her pants.
I pulled her shirt up around her head, pinning her arms; I pulled her pants and panties down below her knees, spreading her thighs. I kissed her navel, and licked apart her labia, and made my tongue broad and flat and ran it up and down between her legs, and she shouted and moaned and laughed. Her pussy tasted of sweat and honey and bliss.
When she was completely breathless, I slipped two fingers into her, and slowly and deliciously she came.
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