A Creative Erotic Story
"All Along a Curved Line" by Peter Baltensperger
Lenny always knew exactly where he was in time and space. He knew precisely where he had been and, with uncanny precision, where he was going in life. He liked to organize his existence accordingly – accumulations of moments, beads on a string, keepsakes for other times. And by not stepping on any of the many cracks in the sidewalks he walked to and from his downtown office building and to lunch and back every day. He happened to be on his way to his favorite café when he bumped, quite literally, into the woman who would, as he was to find out later, provide him with the best sex he ever had.
Her name was Lucy. She was almost as tall as he, at least in the sandals, with a bit of a heel, that she was wearing. He liked that. He could look directly into her sparkling green eyes and would just have to bend down a bit to kiss her, if it ever came to that. Which it did, much sooner than he could have hoped. She had soft, full lips that he spent a long time licking and nibbling, and an agile tongue that he spent a long time sucking. They flicked their tongues around each others' mouths with such great fervor that they almost forgot to breathe, probing snakes complementing each other in their eagerness.
She had beautiful red hair, he had never been with a woman with red hair before, and she had it stylishly arranged around her oval face with the pronounced cheekbones, the soft chin, the succulent lips. She had excellent breasts, from what he could tell, cradled by what appeared to be an expensive lacy purple bra and half covered by a low-cut patterned blouse. The matching skirt she wore was short enough to accentuate and display her long legs to their best advantage and to make him wonder what she was wearing underneath, if anything. Probably some skimpy thong, he mused, color-coordinated, no doubt, just large enough to cover what were, he was sure, meticulously maintained wisps of red hair; yet the panties would be small enough to keep him fantasizing about what it concealed. He couldn’t wait.
"Undress" by Paul John Ballard available at Obsession Art
As it turned out, it was indeed a thong that she wore under her skirt, flaming pink to go with the purple bra, and the words “Enter Here” embroidered on it. She also had a thong that said, “Eat Me”, but he wasn’t to see that one until later on. She had a colorful butterfly tattooed right beside her red fuzz giving him a titillating vista. All she would have needed to complete the picture would have been an arrow, but that would probably have been too much.
She had a pale blue unicorn on her left breast, facing her cleavage, the horn an intriguingly phallic symbol pointing to her other breast. Oh yes, and a nipple ring, just the one, underneath the unicorn. Many women, he had found out long ago, loved unicorns, even more than horses, the whole masculinity of the rippling flanks, the powerful muscle patterns, the horn a constant reminder. He loved tracing her unicorn when he fondled her breasts, and her butterfly when he was about to fondle her pussy, and she loved it when he did. She loved it when he played with her like that. Sometimes she took his hand and placed it on her breast herself, or on her pussy, depending on her mood and inclination, and when she was getting hot and couldn’t and didn’t want to wait.
He always liked doing things the right way, and she appreciated that and always showed her appreciation in her sexy, sensuous ways. She was an expert when it came to showing her appreciation. He counted his money into neat piles and took the direction of his feet very seriously as he did everything. He bought color-coordinated condoms, ribbed inside and out, for both their pleasure. He masturbated regularly and slowly to keep himself in good sexual health and used his rubber vagina sparingly so as not to get spoiled.
Sometimes he switched hands, to give himself a different experience. When he used his other hand, it was almost as if someone else were doing it to him, almost, he fantasized, as if it were a woman.
He liked her hands on him even better than switching hand. Lucy was excellent at it. She took his penis into both hands and rubbed him very lightly and very slowly so as to prolong the pleasure the way he liked to do it himself. His orgasms were always incredible experiences in her skilled hands, shaking him to the very core of his being.
And it all happened because of his meticulous attention to the cracks in the pavement. It was difficult, sometimes, to avoid them all, what with all the downtown office people hurrying every which way, pushing, shoving, trying to get wherever they were going as quickly as they possibly could. He liked to take it more slowly and concentrate on where he was going. That was why he bumped, quite literally, into her, because he was paying too much attention to the cracks and not enough to what was going on around him, as he was wont to do.
He thanked his good fortune for being the way he was, otherwise he probably would have missed her entirely. He apologized profusely, gesticulating all the while. She, in turn, smiled warmly at him with her big green eyes. Since he was on his way to lunch, he invited her along, and she readily accepted. It was the least he could do. It was the least he could do for himself. The hurrying crowd wasn’t paying any attention to them, which was just as well.
They sat across from each other at one of the small tables in a corner of the café. That way, he could keep looking at her fine features and at the smooth tops of her breasts, especially at the smooth tops of her breasts, and she bent over the table quite frequently to let him see further down. He noticed that she had her legs crossed under the table, her knees almost touching his, her short skirt even further up her legs, and he kept wondering what she was wearing underneath.
He was almost certain that if he had crawled under the table with the pretense of having dropped something on the floor, she would have uncrossed her legs for him. But he only fantasized about doing that. He wondered if she could tell. Probably, but he didn’t make himself stop the fantasy. It was too tempting and too nice an image not to indulge in it. Sometimes he almost forgot to swallow, so intrigued was he with her. He often almost forgot to do certain things when he became too involved in something.
She had a ham and cheese quiche, a small salad with a vinaigrette dressing, and a glass of water with a slice of lemon. He had one of the café’s famous German sausages with sauerkraut and the delicate house mustard. He didn’t usually have anything to drink with his lunch, but he decided to follow her lead and ordered a glass of water with a slice of lemon as well. He only sipped at it a few times, not wanting to spoil the flavor of the food. She took a sip after every bite, to cleanse her palate, no doubt. He preferred to indulge in the flavors, even though he had the same thing at least once a week, creature of habit that he was.
Their lunch was a succession of moments, fragments for the memory bank: the way she picked up the first piece of quiche with her fork, tasted it, savored it, her face a contented smile. The way she poked around her salad, picking out morsels, the freshest leaves. He couldn’t take her eyes off her the whole time, collecting the fragments, stashing them away. One never knew.
Coffee afterward, a light crème brulée, her sandaled foot up and down his leg, tentative images of a pink thong.
He told her about the cracks in the sidewalk.
She laughed. “I’m not surprised,” she said.
“Why?” he wanted to know. “How could you tell?”
“I just knew,” she said. “The way you talk, the way you act. It had to be something like that.”
She told him she was wearing a flaming pink thong. She didn’t mention the sexy embroidery.
“I’m not surprised,” he said.
“Would you like to see?” she asked.
“What?” he exclaimed. “Here?”
“Why not?” she said casually. “All you have to do is drop your fork and bend over to pick it up.”
He did. She quickly uncrossed her legs, completely without guile, and sure enough, there it was. Of course he couldn’t see the embroidery, that was for later, but he could clearly see the uppermost part of her beautiful thighs and the piece of pink material covering her secret. His penis was getting big and hard.
“Thank you,” he said when he resurfaced.
“No, no,” she said. “Thank you.”
She told him she was wearing a matching purple bra.
“I can see that,” he said, focusing on her breasts again.
She leaned forward coquettishly, and smiled, then pressed her breasts together with her upper arms. He thought his erection was going to break through his trousers.
“Thank you, again,” he said, trying to keep his excitement under control.
“No, no,” she said. “Thank you.”
He told her about coming and going, and about knowing where he was. She simply smiled, but he could see in her eyes that she understood.
They did it face to face the first time they did it, he on top. They could look into each other’s eyes that way, watch their excitement build, see their faces being transformed. He could feel her passion, the depth of her desire. He could hold her breasts. He liked it that way: straightforward, from one place to the next, always from one place to the next, where one was, where one was going to be. Apparently she liked it that way, too, the ecstatic gleam in her wide eyes his witness. For starters, at least. They would have time enough, he hoped, for variations, experimentations, discoveries. Which they did, as he was to find out in due course.
He was holding her breasts in his hands, holding the unicorn with its horn. He loved holding her breasts in his hands, their globular softness a perfect fit. Her contours, her sensuous curves, her scents, her taut nipples imprinted themselves on his palm, so he wouldn’t forget. Important memories, impressions, emotions etched into the palm of a hand, on an electric arc in the brain, jumped across synapses, compartmentalized for future references, recollections. A significant sliver in a sliver of time. A treasure. Dream in a dream, sequences superimposed on each other, fragments of time, floating, suspended in a hand, in a mind.
She moaned appreciatively and spread her legs, gasping at the initial penetration. She was so ready and wet he just slid into her, without any effort at all. At the same time, she was sucking him in. He liked that, too. No complications, no difficulties, no fuss. She sighed deeply when he started to move in and out of her, then picked up his rhythm and met him thrust for thrust, a perfect duet in an extended concerto. They were floating on notes of crescendos, staccatos of interludes, eyes locked to eyes. They could see deep into each other’s souls, could feel the intensity of their resolution, the abandonment to the moment, to mutual subjugation to the other, to the fusion.
She had the most agile vagina he had ever encountered. He hardly had to do anything, she was so adept with her muscles, tightening and relaxing in harmony with his thrusts. And then their first orgasm together, simultaneously, even though it was their first time, they hardly had to work at it at all, it seemed to come so naturally, so automatically, as if they had been doing this for years. They shook and shuddered together, she crying out with the intensity of her pleasure, he moaning and groaning as they rocked together on the bed. Their orgasms rushed through their bodies like storm-swept breakers on a wild sea, unbridled lightning and thunder in the sky, synapses tumbling over each other in their brains, their souls shivering with absolute delight. This was how it was supposed to be, how it had to be.
Their bed was a ship on a wild ocean, the rolling, unruly waves whipped by a relentless wind. They could feel the Earth itself tilting, back and forth, back and forth, rocking their bed, rocking them. After a while, he fell off her, stretched out beside her, took her into his arms, she taking him into hers. They had been swept into a whirling vortex, had been sucked down and spewed up again, and there they were, flung down on the bed, entwined, gasping for air. And then the moon shone into their room, a golden treasure in their mutual sky. It was a perfect touch, a perfect addition to the already perfect tableau.
After they caught their breath, he went down on her, knowing she would most likely need more. She sighed contentedly as he slid down her side. He parted her soft, moist lips with his fingers, found her eager, swollen clit with his tongue, began licking it slowly, methodically, to make it last for her as well. He lost himself in the deliciously flavored juices, the soft, fragrant pussy parts, the heady scents. As he kept licking her fervently, hungrily, he could feel her tensing, her legs trembling in anticipation, her body squirming on the bed, and then she came, again, and yet again. She howled with pleasure, primeval screams from the bottom of her soul. Grabbing his head with her hands, she pushed down, pressing his face into her pussy, he still licking and fussing her, until the rush of excitement gradually subsided and her body went limp.
By that time, his penis was quite ready again and he climbed back on top of her. He put his knees on either side of her, his hands on her delectable breasts, his strutting penis in comfortable reach of her hands. She took him into both hands and slowly, ever so slowly, pulled back his foreskin, pulled it forward again, back again, knowing exactly what he wanted her to do, what she wanted to do. From one place to the next to the next. It always ended up that way. It always worked that way, without fail.
His hands were moving over her smooth breasts, over her unicorn tattoo, over her nipples, tugging lightly at her ring, fondling her, caressing her. All the while she rubbed him and squeezed him and fondled him skillfully until he squirted all over her breasts. To his most pleasant surprise, she put her hands on his and helped him rub his cum into her silky smooth skin until her breasts were covered and her unicorn and her ring.
“That was incredible,” they said.
“More than incredible,” they said.
“Absolutely,” they said.
There definitely weren’t any straight lines anywhere, only curves, the sensuous curves of her luscious being lying beside him, titillating his mind, fondling his soul. And cycles, cycle after cycle, carrying them through the bliss of their togetherness as they breathed heavily in unison, feeling their pounding hearts against each other, floating on the pale blue sky of their afterglow.
They rolled on their sides and took each other into their arms, melting into each other, sharing time, sharing space. Their satiated minds kept playing with images of flaming pink thongs and purple bras, cracks in the pavement and curved lines, places to come from and places to go to and knowing where to be, holding on to each other in their own perfect, sensuous world.
Originally published January 2010