Archive-name: Dreams/joanna.mf
Archive-author:
Archive-title: Joanna


People ask how it was, that summer with the insatiable Joanna.

I: escorting her on her trimphial process through the art galleries and
salons of the city, and afterward to her private retreat, to serve her as
best I could. She: renaissance woman, engineer, artist, author, adventurer,
and, as I mentioned above, insatiable in her appetites and imaginings.

She had an unusual idea of foreplay--had designed a battery-powered device,
or series of devices, to wear beneath those tights and leotards she favored
to display her wiry body (twenty-three at the time, she had the height, the
small, firm breasts, and the innocent face of a fourteen-year-old...a
fourteen-year-old that has grown up in small-town Texas, rather than--as
was the actual case--the malls of Long Island). I saw her install it many
times: first lubricating, then inserting the small, black vibrator into her
anus, another into her vagina, then attaching (with the aid of EEG cement)
her own design of electrode at the base of her clitoris and on each of her
beautiful, brown nipples, already seeming to tighten and stand. Then on
with the concealing panties and bra, then the tights, the leotard, and
whatever eye-wrenching, breath-stopping topping she had invented. She would
test the remote control, a palm-sized, black device with five pressure
switches, and shiver approvingly as each little machine responded.

Then we would go out to whatever was on that night. Sometimes --at a movie,
say (an opening for one of her director friends)--her hands out of sight in
the darkness, speaking occasionally across the aisle. Only now and then
would her eyes close and her breath catch at some interior drama. Then we
would go into brightness, chatter, movement in a room. She would hand the
control to me and wander off to speak to someone or stand before a window,
a painting. She claimed to be able to distinguish my mood by the touch on
the controls. Sometimes I favored long, circular rhythms that actuated each
button in turn, punctuated with periods of silence--to leave her in
anticipation of where, and when, the next little shock would arrive. At
other times, throwing finesse to the winds, all the buttons at once.

Her self-control was remarkable. My favorite game was to catch her in
animated, intellectual discussion with some gray professor of theoretical
art. From behind, I could see her small buttocks clench. As she stood in
conversation, her back would, almost imperceptibly, arch, she would put
down her glass of mineral water, grasp one wrist in the other hand behind
her, push her shoulders back. (The effect of this bit of body language on
her conversational partner was always a secret joy to behold.) Her high
cheeks would flush, her eyes brighten, and she would, just a little, rock
her pelvis--but meanwhile not miss a conversational beat. I did, twice,
cause her to have to excuse herself and move out of the limited range of
the control, but she was back again within moments each time.

By the time we were ready to leave, to go back in the back of a darkened
car to her apartment, we would be ready to tear into each other. But
Joanna's rule (Was she controlling? Was I acquiescent? What do you think?)
was always "Don't come on the carseat." With our hands down the front of
our pants and her small, sweaty body wriggling, her tongue (that taste of
pate in another's teeth), the rule was almost violated more than once.

But there was a reason, a reward, for whatever forbearance we manage to
maintain. Joanna always made it worth our while. We would stumble into the
room, she would disappear for some moments, and then reappear, naked,
oiled, and smiling.

What followed next would have no pattern from one time to the next. Often
she would lie back on the narrow bench at the foot of the bed, her black
hair falling unruly away from her face, and command me to kneel beside. "I
want to be sucked," she'd say, and I'd bend to with a will. Her hands would
clamp into my own hair, pushing my head to her breasts. Oh! Those breasts,
so beautiful they were, with the small nipples standing to attention like
little soldiers. I'd tease with my tongue, circling, nibbling, sucking,
taking the whole breast in my mouth, pinching with my lips. One of our
hands would slide down her smooth flank to cup her buttocks, now writhing
and spinning, and slip a finger into the rosebud anus. Another hand,
sliding down her firm, rounded belly, would dive into the folds of the
vagina and slide up to her hard, small clitoris. She was always, by now,
oiled and lubricated to a fare-thee-well. The sound of wet, slippery flesh,
her panting, my own moans would fill the small room. She would come
spectacularly, pushing her pelvis up into the air, into our hands, spinning
on a finger.

Then she would sink back into herself, smiling and tender. Only for a
moment though: then it would be her turn (or was it mine?)--and she would
sit me down on the edge of the bed or the bench. And as she took me in her
mouth she looked, through angled mirrors, into my eyes. For the next five
minute eternity neither she nor I nor our locked gazes would
move--outwardly.

But her tongue would.

And when at last I would have to, she would meet my desparate thrust with
one of her own, engulfing me to the engorged root, then pulling back and
swallowing seedspurt. And as I slowly shrank, she would keep me in her
mouth, teasing with her lips, sucking me gently empty and dry.

Or I would be behind her, slowly easing myself into the warm, the grasping,
the snug. As I moved, my hands hooked over her hips (or sliding one finger
down, and up, the wondrous groove) she gripped and held me. She had another
mouth down there, and drank me both ways.

Or (more rarely) she squatted above me, and slowly lowered herself onto my
upright penis--carefully, because she was taking me into her anus, and
wanted me to not move, to not tear the delicate tissue. The tight ring
would slide down around me, the heat, blooming, surrounding me. I would be
slippery with oil and anticipation. Once secure against my base, she would
rock back and wrap her legs around my knees. "Oh," she'd say, her eyes bent
back to me in mock reproach, "you're holding me so wide..." Then reaching
to apply the vibrator, first deeply into herself (I could feel it inside
her, moving against my own stiff shaft) then along the groove, to the top,
to flourish around her own stiffened little stalk. Bending and howling, she
would come as I tried to hold her pinioned, pulling her knees from under
mine, clamping them over her busy hands, still impaled on me. Finally she
would lie quiet. Then I would try to pull out (slowly) a fraction of an
inch, and then (couldn't help) slam her back against me, and come and come
and come.

She said her goal was to be filled to overflowing with our juices. Some
mornings, it seemed that way--her mouth tasted of me, her vagina also, our
skins slurred with each others' fluids. She would disappear then into the
den, into the studio, to her work, for a day or for days. Leaving me to
myself, to plan, to my own work.

Part of what she did was write the stories she'd spun while lying beside me
afterwards, when the morning sun crashed through the half-open window.
Stories that could never have been true, but which, for a wonderful time,
we said were true.

There was...the Island of Children. There, she said, she had grown up with
her identical twin, her brother (genetic manipulation? cloning?)--from an
early age, it was as if there was one soul in the two bodies, and they had
shared and touched each other always as one would touch oneself. Two
touched twoself. (She taking his little sex in her mouth while he slept,
making it stand. Then if he woke, riding him down again--or if he did not,
sucking him while he dreamed.) They were brown and naked in the sun, their
light hair unkempt, sparkling with splashed water. Then they saw the girl
lying on the sand.

                   ------ to be continued --------
--------------------------- end submission ---------------------------------