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 ---------------------------------

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