Archive-name: SpecMome/stormchi.txt
Archive-author: Storm
Archive-title: Storm In Chicago


    We are more than just lovers, Miko and I. We are friends. Friends
who, in  few short months, has shared far more than most people manage
in a lifetime. That our love affair is imaginary, electronically
enhanced, doesn't matter. It is far more real and satisfying than either
could has imagined, or even hoped for.

    And now, after exchanging photographs and gifts and telephone calls,
a place -sort of- and a time -generally- has been agreed upon. We wait
impatiently.

    Our love deepens, expands, engulfs. No longer content with
exchanging, and collaborating in, online fantasies, we plan our meeting.
We will each come to Chicago and meet at a mutual friend's apartment. A
friend, hopefully, who will find important things to do elsewhere.

    I arrive first and let myself in with the key she sent me. The
apartment is on Lakeshore Drive overlooking Lake Michigan. It is warm
and comfortable. Feminine. It is just the sort of place I has always
imagined she will has. There are fresh flowers on the table in the
dining room. An accompanying note reads, simply, "Have fun you two!"

    I explore, pacing through the rooms impatiently, mind elsewhere. The
kitchen is modern, with a "well-stocked larder." I tend to think and
speak in a manner which was outdated at the turn of the century. The
bedroom is soft. Lavendar accents, the feminine smell of a woman sure of
herself, a large bed. The bed dominates the room. I sit on the edge, and
glance through the window. The failing afternoon sun reflects off the
lake.

    She will be here soon. I will surprise her! My one suitcase has been
placed in the hall closet. She shouldn't notice it. She will, I guess,
come into the bedroom first and put her things away.

    I have carefully planned the surprise. It was born that day on the
phone when she had said, "I has often dream of being at the mercy of a
lover. Of not being able to resist . . ." It excited me at the time. It
still excites me these months later.

    I hear the key turning, and the door opening. Ir footsteps! "God,
let it be her!" I pray. I slip silently into the large closet, hiding
myself behind the clothes. I am able to see a portion of the room.

    I hear her looking the apartment over. She moves with less haste and
more grace than I. Footsteps approach the closet. The door opens and she
is silhouetted against the sun's reflection. Ir opened suitcase is
barely visible on the bed. She reaches in and hangs up something. I
smell her perfume. It is the same scent I smelled on the flimsy bit of
lace she sent me. It overwhelms my senses. I hold my breath for fear I
will spring the surprise too soon.

    She turns and walks to the bed. She removes more articles from the
suitcase and puts them -I guess from the sounds- in a drawer.

    She appears without warning, and parts the hanging clothing,
exposing my hiding place.

    "You!" She backs away from me, startled.

    I move quickly then. One arm grabs her about her waist, imprisoning
her in an iron grip. My right hand rests on her left hip. The other arm
snakes under her left arm, and up across her breasts. My left hand
closes over her mouth. "Don't make a sound. Don't scream."

    She nods and collapses against me. Ir breath quickens. As does mine.
Keeping my left arm in place, I shift my right down and under her legs.
I lift her and carry her to the bed, where I drop her unresisting body.

    "Don't move!" I order.

    Her eyes widen. One hand flies to her throat. The other rises to the
buttons on her blouse.

    "Don't!" I order, and her hand stops, resting on her breast. She
stares at me.

    I have taken off my shoes and socks. My blue sweater and dark
trousers soon are discarded. I hear her sharp intake of breath.

    "Don't say a word! Don't move!"

    She complies.

    I sit on the bed beside her. She raises her hand to my thigh. Seeing
the look in my eyes, my frown, she drops her hand back to her breast.
Acting with a will of our own, against my commands, her fingers caress
her breast. I smile then.

    "I said 'Don't move!'" I take her wrists in my hands and move them
above her head. Ir breasts, her distended nipples, threaten to tear
holes in the silk blouse she bought just for me.

    My hands move to her breasts. I caress them. I tease her nipples
into almost painful erections. She arches her back, thrusting breasts
and nipples into my hands, trying to thrust them through my hands. I
grasp the edges of her shirt and, in one quick motion, tear it open. She
lays exposed to my eyes. She shudders.

    I distance myself from her imperceptably. My eyes never leave hers.
My left hand touches her just below the hem of her skirt. I slide the
skirt up. Up, across her thighs. Up, to her hips.

   A silken barrier vainly tries to protect her, to hide her charms from
me. The dark blue of her panties only emphasizes them. My left hand slid
across her thigh. My fingers scratch lightly across her mound. Her
breath quickens. Her hips rise imperctibly.

   "I said 'Don't move!' I meant it." I firmly press her hips down into
the bed, increasing the pressure on her. My right hand joins my left. I
slide the panties down her legs and off over her feet.

   She whimpers deep in her throat. She moves her hips insistently. I
benb and kiss her. She arches and thrusts herself at me. I move my lips
up across her abdomen, and to her navel. I run my tongue around her
navel, and trace a path upward to her breasts.

   First one nipple, then the other, receives attentions  from my tongue
and teeth and lips. Her eyes glaze, and she bites her lip to keep from
crying out. She doesn't move, though. She will not have me stop now.

   I move my body across hers. My hands seek and hold her wrists. I look
down into her half-closed almond eyes and slowly, gently, insinuate my
body into hers.

   She shudders. Her hips thrust upwards against me, permitting my
access.

   Our love making, for a first time joining, is amazingly slow and
tender and complete. The game ceased the moment I entered her, and I
welcomes her movement, her responses.

                                 * * *

   She nestles happily next to me, head on my chest, hand curled around
my manhood, gently stroking, as I caress her.

   "That was wonderful!"

   She nods. Love and contentment shines in her eyes. "It *is*
wonderful, my Warrior!" She sighs, and laughs. "But next time, *I* get
to hide in the closet! And *you* will be the unresisting victim!"


                                 * * *


    "Miko-san?"  I don't raise my voice. There is no answer. "Probably
got tired of waiting for me," I muse. "Oh, well . . ." I kick off my
shoes, and hang my jacket in the closet. "She's probably gone shopping."

    I walk into the bedroom. "Miko-san?" She is on the bed, asleep, one
arm across her eyes. From the way she is dressed, she *had* been waiting
for me. Her shoes have been kicked off, but otherwise she is dressed to
the nines. She wears a high-necked white, nylon blouse - long sleeved,
tight at the wrists and forearms - buttoned up the front. Her soft,
black woolen skirt has risen to just above her knees, exposing her
stocking-clad legs. A long strand of pearls falls negligently across her
breasts and onto the bed.

    I stand over her, drinking in the beauty of this Ilpless child-like
woman. This beautiful woman, so trusting that even in her sleep she
smiles. My eyes caress her hair, spread over the pillow, raven black and
soft, very fine. I search her face, half hidden by her arm, until my
eyes come to rest on her lips. Of all of her features, this is the one
which captivates me most. Full, sensuous red lips. Half-parted in sleep,
and half smiling. Through them, I can see her teeth and the tip of her
pink tongue. My breath cautches as I remember the actions of that tongue
the night before. Questing, licking, arousing me to Iights I had never
before thought possible. And those lips, caressing and capturing my
manhood. Paying homage to sex and love and lust.

    My eyes travel further. Down her neck, half hidden by the tight
collar of her blouse. I remember the pulse at the base of her neck. How
it throbs with her passion as I run my hand down her cheek, her neck, to
her breasts.

    Fitting action to thought, my eyes travel to her breasts visible in
outline against the sheerness of her blouse. Such wondrous, breasts.
SMall, rounded and perfect. Soft, warm, smooth. Capped with nipples,
quiescent now as she sleeps, which swell with delight and passion when
we make love.

    Down, down. My eyes continue their journey. Across stomach, and
pausing to enjoy the fullness of her hips. Resting only briefly there,
then searching out that magical nest between her thighs. Her skirt is
draped gently across her vaginal mound. It is visible -to me- outlined
in soft, clinging wool. It rises gently in the valley formed by softly
rounded thighs.

    With a distinct effort, I force my eyes away from that lovely
rounded altar where I long to worship this night, and make them continue
down her legs. Her smoke coloured nylons hug her legs, outlining their
roundness, accentuating their softness. It takes all of my will to keep
my hands at my sides, though my right hand does seek out my groin and
begins a slow, insistent rubbing of which I am but half aware.

    I become aware of the warmth of the room. I remove shirt, and
trousers, and socks. In my shorts I feel much cooler, although the
warmth never quite leaves me.

    I sit on the edge of the bed, then. She doesn't stir. My eyes repeat
their journey a second time. And a third.

    I find it getting warm, again, and my breath catches in my throat.

    She stirs, shifting slightly, and resumes her sleep uninterrupted. I
extend my right hand and touch her hair. I lift the ends and let them
slip through my fingers. "Lovely," I whisper. I caress her head, and her
hair, gently so as to not disturb her.

    My hand moves of its own accord, then, down her cheek - deftly
avoiding the arm across her eyes. My fingers seek her lips. Lightly,
with forefinger and middle finger, I trace the shape of them. I trace
them a second time. To my amazement, she parts her lips. Her tongue
protrudes and follows the path previously traced by my fingers.
Hesitantly, I touch the tip of her tongue. It stops, as if waiting.
Emboldened, I toy with her tongue. Pushing it gently, roiling it between
two fingers, stroking it. Bending, I lightly flick my tongue across
hers, then trace the outline of her lips with my tongue, as had she
moments before.

    I feel, rather than hear, her intake of breath. I withdraw. Waiting.
She doesn't awaken.

    I gently bury my face in her neck, just above the blouse's collar. I
inhale the heady scent of White Shoulders. I press my face against her
neck, contenting myself with her warmth and her scent.

    My left hand, my right remains against her cheek, lifts and brushes
across the front of her blouse, across her breasts. Gently, my fingers
seek her nipples through twin thicknesses of blouse and brassiere. I
touch them, gently teasing. She shifts, lifting her breasts towards my
questing fingers.

    I pause again. Waiting. Not wanting her to wake. I want to insinuate
myself into her dreams, make her smile in her sleep. I want to raise
both of us to the absolute brink before she awakens, and I make love
with her.

    So I wait. Gradually, her breathing slows, and she settles back into
sleep. Deeper, if possible, than before. Her breathing steadies, and I
resume my gentle ministrations.

    I raise myself slightly, and watch my left hand slide slowly down
her stomach, across her abdomen. My hand seeks and finds her love mound.
I stroke it gently, fingers lightly scratching against the inside of her
thighs. I increase the pressure of my palm upon her mound. Her hips rise
to meet me. A sharp intake of her breath. I cup my hand around her then,
fingers gently massaging the unseen slit through skirt and panties. She
almost wakens, her arm is flung outward from her face. She half sits up,
then.

    "Shhh. It's only me, Sweet Heart" I whisper. She calms, lies back,
smiled, and murmurs something unintelligible. But she doesn't awaken.

    I slide my hand to the hem of her skirt. Slowly, ever so slowly I
inch it upward, toward her waist. Up, across the tops of her sheer
stockings. A pause. My eyes drink in the contrast between dark stockings
and ivory thighs. My hand moves the skirt higher, higher. Up above her
white satin panties, up to her waist.

    And again I stare at her.

    Arms outflung, face relaxed, almond-shaped eyes closed, lips parted,
skirt above her hips, panty-covered mound beckoning me. Evidences of
moisture at the junction of her thighs. I know she is ready for me. Even
in sleep her lust, her readiness, is evident.

    I reach for the buttons of her blouse. One by one, gently, slowly, I
unbutton them. I lift the string of pearls out from under the collar, as
I slip the halves of the blouse away from her breasts. She is wearing a
white lace bra. The kind I love. Push-up, firmly embracing her breasts,
and fastening in front with a catch even I can master with the fingers
of one hand. I place my left hand on her right breast. I feel her heart
beat, hear her intake of breath. Her breathing becomes heavier,
laborious. Her lips part further. Her dainty tongue licks her lips, and
her head rolls back and forth. A low moan escapes her lips as my hand
tightens on her breast. Fingers slide under satin cup and seek the
distended nipple. My other hand finds and opens the front of her bra.
Her breasts are bared to my gaze. She still sleeps, but seems aware that
she is being made love to.

    I bend and gently lick an exposed nipple. My tongue traces the
outline of her areole and then flicks lightly against the nipple once
more. A sharp intake of breath. I turn my attention, briefly, ever so
briefly, to the areole and nipple of her left breast.

    Again, I withdraw. My hand gently caresses her brow, her cheek,
"Shh. It's just me, m'Lady. Just your Lover." And, once more, she
sleeps.

    I rise quietly, so as to not disturb her, and remove the last
article of my clothing. Naked, I sit at her feet, satring at her
panties, at the mound which marks the entrance to my Valhalla. My hands
glide up her legs. Up, slowly. My fingers curl around the waistband of
her panties. Slowly I draw them down her legs. Her hips lift slightly to
ease my sweet task.

    Is she awake?

    "Miko-san?" I whispers.

    "Ummmm?" sleepily, not quite awake. Aware, perhaps, but not awake.

    The panties reach her ankles. I lift first one leg, then the other.
Her panties join my clothes on the floor.

    And, again, I stare. Skirt above her waist, nothing but stockings
beneath, she lies there. Blouse open and spread to either side of her.
Bra unfastened and open, breasts bared. Her nipples are erect, and
moisture glistens at the entrance to her vulva. I bend, once more. My
tongue gently licks the moisture from those nether lips which hold such
promise, such joy. The taste of her excites me fully. She truly is a
"Sweet Heart!"

    My tongue gently insinuates itself between her labia. I probe deep
within her, then gently seek her clitoris. A sharp intake of breath as
I find her "bush button" as we have come to call it. I gently nip it
with my teeth. Her hips rise of their own accord. One hand seeks the
back of my head. She presses me into the cleft I so deeply enjoy. Her
other hand seeks and finds her own nipple. She is still asleep, as she
massages breast and nipple.

    I continue to pay homage to her with teeth, lips, and tongue. My own
hand seeks my manhood. Slowly I stroke myself to full erection, stopping
just before I climax. I raise myself over her. Stop. Poised at the
threshhold of her sex. With my right hand, I guide my penis gently to
the lips of her vulva.

    Slowly I lower myself until I barely penetrate her. Her hips rise.
She moans. Her mouth opens. I lower my head and cover her mouth with my
own. As I do, I thrust deep within her.

    She is fully awake now. Her eyes are wide open and focus, briefly,
on my face. Then glaze and focus somewhere quite beyond me. I feel her
smile form beneath my mouth, and then her moan. The "click" deep in her
throat as she relaxes and permits my tongue to rape her mouth. Her
screams are silenced with my mouth and tongue. Her hips match mine in
rhythym and intensity. Rising when I thrust, falling as I withdraw. Yet
never letting my penis quite escape her warm, moist tunnel.

    She climaxes a split second before I do, arms banding my hips and
pulling me into and through her. I hold my mouth on hers, swallowing her
screams and gasps, until she lies shaking beneath me. I gently roll onto
my side, pulling her body with me - never withdrawing from her, never
losing contact from within her. My hand strokes her face and lips. I
smooth her hair back away from her face.

    "I love you, my Sweet Heart! Oh, how I *do* love you!"

    And I hold her like this until she falls asleep.

    Even then, I remain within her for long minutes, until I, too, fall
asleep.

    In the morning, we make love with one another again.

--