Chapter 5

The race down the hallway had allowed me a moment to restore some self-control, though no struggle in my life had been so difficult. Leaning back against my closed bedroom door (was my hand really fumbling with the lock?), I closed my eyes to Elaine's hurried shedding and prepared to make one last attempt at restoring "good order and discipline."

Elaine spoke first. "There's an image I get from you sometimes..." That was no revelation. Probably the fiery pits of hell, where I knew I was going. She caught that and laughed. "No! In the one I'm talking about, you are here, in this bed, and me and my friends are around you. Pat is outside, sucking the blood from a squirrel as all the fire lizards watch, humming." Oh. That image.

"I know what you've been thinking, if not the exact words. You've convinced yourself you have a year, and I'll be eighteen before Pat or Julie rises to mate."

Saved! She had made my argument for me.

"What you've forgotten is that Pat and Julie are not queens." I could feel laughter and mischief and no small amount of lust, even with my eyes tightly shut. "Greens rise earlier and more often." With that smug pronouncement, I missed the last exit ramp, and the highway to hell became an eight lane expressway, all downhill.

I opened my eyes. Elaine was just removing her panties from her left ankle - she threw them at me. In a sudden burst of modesty, she yanked back the bedclothes and insinuated herself beneath the top sheet.

Taking a deep breath, I picked up her scattered clothing and folded or draped each item neatly over my dressing chair. Then I sat and removed my shoes and socks, keeping eye contact the while. As I slowly undressed, folding each article, I felt Elaine's impatience, her building anticipation, her frustration with my pace and my anal behavior towards the clothes. I didn't change my actions; I was savoring each feeling and hoped that she would feel that, too.

Down to just my tented boxers, I said, "Maybe I should brush my teeth..."

That was it for Elaine. Groaning in frustration, she shut her eyes and thrust her hands beneath the covers. Before she opened them again, I was naked and between the covers. I grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands to my chest. "That's my job," I whispered.

"Yessss," she hissed back, "but you're not doing your job!"

"A good worker gathers his tools first and checks out the workbench before plunging right in to work," I countered.

"Whatever," she ejaculated, already tired of the work metaphor. "Hurry!"

I had one more workmanlike thought, and had to share it. "Elaine, this worker has no hardhat." I raised one of her hands to my lips, and sucked in her index finger.

"What does that mean?" she breathed, squirming beside me. The feelings she projected through our fire lizards threatened to destroy my self control.

"No rubbers. No condoms. Are you on the pill?"

"NOooo." It was a groan of utter frustration tinged with fear and panic - and wild lust threatening to overwhelm both.

I laughed. I shouldn't have - the pain that laugh evoked let me know that as surely as if I'd stubbed my little toe. It killed the laugh the same way that act would, too. I released a wrist and brought the backs of my fingernails to the available breast, stroking slowly around the nipple. Elaine gasped, and an instant later so did I. I knew what felt good, without her vocalizations. What had taken years with my wife was instantly apparent with Elaine. I lowered my head to suckle the stiffening nipple.

Elaine fought against her arousal, her fear of pregnancy nearly as great as her need for satisfaction. "We - we - we - ", she tried to say can't, but the word was cut off each time by a gentle nibble. "Ohhhhhhhh," she said instead.

"Elaine," I whispered hoarsely, "sex is only one way to make love. There are others that won't make you pregnant." I let her chew on that as I returned to gently chewing on her nipple. I pictured my head buried between her upraised thighs while I moved my hand in that direction. The pleasure level leapt; the fear was replaced by uncertainty and a feeling I couldn't place. If pressed for a word image, I'd have said, "Nasty."

My fingers reached her mound, lingered briefly while testing the texture, then slid middle first into a lake of moisture between her outer lips. Above, I switched breasts and techniques, licking her areola and lipping her nipple; below, I teased open her inner lips and at the bottom of each stroke dipped briefly into the forbidden channel. Her knees had in fact risen to the position I'd pictured. My thumb began to circle and brush lightly over her clit.

I have read stories in which the writer says, "I didn't know where her body ended and mine began." Language, even as florid as that, is so inadequate. I felt Elaine's/my hand clutch the sheets; I felt my tongue flick her/my nipple; I felt my thumb caress her/my clit (my clit?). I felt our minds begin to shatter as I/we soared away.

Her orgasm gave her no warning - her reaction gave me just enough. If you could concentrate really hard in the white-hot glare of intensly broadcast imagery, feeling, and emotion, you could block it out. The effort was almost as draining as what you were trying to block, but that hard-won knowledge was interesting of itself. I doubted I'd ever want to block an orgasm again, but holding off was a habit from my previous sex life. It had seemed important at the time.

But not now.

Jay opened the front door slowly and listened a moment before entering. Hearing nothing, she grabbed the orange juice bottle from the porch rail and walked in, closing the door with her foot. She let her eyes adjust to the sharp contrast between interior and exterior lighting, then took a glance around. Her dad and her best friend were not in the living room or the dining room - probably in the kitchen. She had stayed away long enough that it was time for dad to make lunch.

She crossed the arbitrary boundary between the living room and the dining room when she heard the wail from down the hallway to the bedrooms. It sent a shiver of fear down her spine. The louder "Yes!" trailing into another wail sent a different type of shiver to erase the first. "All right, dad!" she smiled. She continued to the kitchen to deposit the Diet Coke and orange juice in the refrigerator. Passing through the dining room, she noted the nearly empty glasses and the empty Jack Daniels bottle.

In the kitchen, she checked her pockets. More than enough change to buy lunch somewhere. She didn't think her dad would mind. Smiling, she left through the back door.

In the afterglare of that passion, Elaine began to coalesce again into a thinking, rather than feeling, being once again. I struggled to toss off covers and position my face where we had imagined it. When I sensed Elaine returning, I began the first licks, avoiding her too-sensitive clit but covering her pussy from end to end with saliva.

And she was still sensitive everywhere. The spittle on her nipples was drying, the cooling effect still providing a stimulus there. My tongue took her back to the edge, dragging me along with it. When her clit peeked again from its hood and I flicked my tongue at it, it was as though I was giving me a blowjob. And when I sucked - this time we soared away together.

My next conscious thought was that it was difficult to breathe in this humid place. Then I remembered where that humid place was, and raised my head a little, trying to focus. My next thought was that there was a hair on my tongue, but when I tried to position a hand to let me scrape it off, the knuckles rubbed against sweaty, lubricious flesh. Elaine groaned, "Nooooo mooooore."

I tried to pull free, but first had to disentangle Elaine's legs, crossed behind my head. She was as limp as string. I rolled to one side, then straightened her legs. I was limp, too, and copious evidence of my climax adorned the edge of the bed. As I crawled up to hold Elaine in my arms, I had to displace three fire lizards who were caressing her face with ther heads, their eyes slowly swirly in shades of green and blue.

With an arm across her chest below her breasts, I fell into a contented sleep.

Linda watched her television alone in her room. She had a few hours before her shift at McDonald's, so she killed time by painting her toenails and tending to her fire lizard. She loved the way Ricky's blue skin shone when it was freshly oiled, and Ricky always communicated to her the pleasure he felt when she tended him.

Just now, he lay atop the television, where he frequently slept (she thought he loved the warmth it gave off) when he was well fed and groomed.

Linda began to fidget on the bed. Her boobs felt sensitive, almost achy, as though she were beginning her period - but that was a week away, she thought. Her erect nipples pressed against her bra and she hunched her shoulders to reduce the pressure.

Now her legs bagan to rub against one another. She hardly noticed at first, the feelings in her breast had her so distracted. When she did notice - well, she'd felt those feelings before, so she rose from the bed and locked her bedroom door, then returned to the bed, removing her panties before lying down, smiling.

She unscrewed the cap of her Pond's, and dipped a couple of fingers, readying herself while she conjured up her favorite Ricky Martin fantasy. Long before the fantasy required the laying on of hands, she found her hips rising and falling in anticipation. She rushed the daydream to the appropriate parts and began to apply herself to the problem at hand. She couldn't believe how hot she felt.

The orgasm took her much earlier than normal - not that she was complaining, even though she normally liked to stretch the fantasy out. She tried to catch her breath. Soon she would need to wash her hands.

And then it started again, while she was still breathing hard. That had never happened before. And Ricky Martin was lifting her knees and placing his head there. That had never happened before, either. She closed her eyes and placed her fingers back where they were needed. And it was good, so good. She couldn't remember it ever being that good before. She shook, and shivered, and gasped. Her legs dropped weakly to the bed. And in her mind's eye, Ricky Martin looked up from between her legs and smiled - except Ricky looked exactly like Mr. B!

As she caught her breath again, she wondered if she could tell anyone about her freaky daydream. Even if she left out the parts about what she was doing during the dream, she'd never be able to face Jay again. Best she just keep this one to herself.

Brenda was asleep in the back seat of her father's van. She always ended up in the back, and usually slept on these trips into the mountains. Bronze Keanu slept as well, coiled around her neck like a living necklace. Her mother, Claire, occupied the next bench forward, smiling tolerantly as her menfolk bonded in the Captain's seats in front. Her son Brian acted as navigator, not that one was needed. He and Brian senior talked baseball easily.