March 14, 2004

  • It's a beautiful day, but all but totally wasted.   After we stayed up all night watching the late comedy shows, Brett and Maya woke me up at twelve rough housing in bed.   There was a terrible growling and whining, and then a surrealistic red horse head appeared before my sleepy eyes as if out of a carousel dream, only to pop open in a cloud of stuffing as it was fiercely gouged between the eyes.  


    "Christ!"   I yelped, rolling over to find Brett making another laughing advance on Maya with the hobby horse.   From the sound of her aggravated vocals, she just hated the thing, and lunged at it so hard the head fell right off the stick.   Then she dove at Brett's hand as if feigning a miss and nipped it.  


    "Ow!   You little medwick!"   he cried, shoving her off the bed.


    "Watch it!   She's delicate.  You can't just throw her like a cat."


    "I heard,"  he murmured, flippantly examining the welts.


    "We really freak at horse heads in bed,"  I teased defensively, worried about the dog's future.   "Especially after last weekend.    Don't you know we're Italian, here?"


    "Really?"   he breathed, playfully pinning me against the mattress with all his weight.   "I thought we were French."   He gripped both my wrists with one hand and pulled my arms back above my head, holding them down tight and forcing my neck to arch to either side passionately.   Hey.   Gentle rough kisses assaulted my face and neck as his other hand roamed under my gown.  


    "My, aren't we--"


    My jesting protest was cut off as he covered my mouth again, ending the long, twisting kiss with a quivering tongue thrust.   He rubbed each nipple until they peaked, then lit a flaming trail down my heaving chest to suck one hungrily.   I felt my red hot clit jut guiltily against my snug nylon panties as he rammed his stiff knob between my thighs, saying, "Yield, lady." 


    Okay.


    He yanked at my lace neckline, ripping my negligee down to my thighs.   "We can dispense with such frippery, for now, Mademoiselle,"   he pronounced like a real knight, tossing my ruined gown and panties to the floor.   "Open."  


    I was commanded to lie still, spread my legs wide and keep them down.   I shyly obeyed, wedging my stockinged feet between the edge of the mattress and the cool wood of the footboard.   Then he was inside me, swift and hard as if defeating my maidenhead, then slowly and fervently, like a wood cutter working away at a large tree.   I felt like the dutiful lady of the manor as I silently took each thrust.   After a few minutes he absently let go of my hands, and I held him loosely as we rocked to and fro.   He feels a little badly about this, I thought.    This......rape.    He was sweating, gasping, taking a long time.    At least I knew I was unsure.   The fantasy's rarely like the reality; real players' scripts never match.  There's far too much doubt in the way.    And I was too tired.  


    I let out a low, practiced moan, more out of fatigue then insincerity, and he gratefully picked up the pace.   I should've resisted the urge, for I almost went into a true climax as he quickened against my cervix, ejaculating fully into me with several short, deep thrusts.   


    By the time we were done, it was almost two, so I didn't demand the favor.   Class ends this week, and it's about time we all submit to the blue book doldrums.   Instead I retreated into the john to reflect and pee, the familiar smell of washed down cum wafting up like pollen on the wind.    The toilet paper was mildly stimulating to my slick lower lips, so I decided to finish myself off anyway with lightening fingers.


    I guess it's what comes of shopping sprees and witches' Sabbaths; yesterday we girls accompanied Cokie on a five-hour Wiccan workshop one of the High Priestesses was giving at her large Bohemian beach house in Newport.   The breeze was lively, the music was loud and the tea was hot, and Rubenesque middle-aged ladies were rapidly shedding their silk caftans to pair off behind ornate folding screens and seek their pleasure on one of the many "feather beds" covering the wide hardwood floors.   Tres sinful, indeed, but not for us; hearing a rumor last Fall that the whole house is rigged with hidden video cameras, we wouldn't so much as intercept a reefer (though the "Green Man Cake" was passingly good).   I don't know where Ashleigh was during this time.    


    After a light take-out dinner of assorted whole grain finger sandwiches and fresh lemonade, we gathered in the yard, a big overgrown vegetable garden overlooking the sea.  While the fog rolled in and the night cooled down, Wolverine walked from girl to girl, lighting our sweetly scented beeswax candles with hers so we could each practice calling down the moon.   It was neat.   Filled with the spirit, I finally took off my top and tied my batik skirt up at the hip.   Cokie, who along with Chelle had gone sky clad from the outset, volunteered to lead the Harvest Dance later.  Wolverine was very impressed, even more so when Ashleigh claimed she'd been overtaken by the flaring blue light force of an Indian Warrior during the closing meditation.    I didn't dare tell the young Priestess, who was on fire about Ash's joining the coven, that big sis would totally forget her by next weekend, to be off pursuing her next passion, but I would've liked to.  Somewhere along the line she'd really learned the Brentwood sell, even though she never dug L.A., and is only into impressions, not commitments.