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Message-ID: <36899asstr$1024643404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] "Midsummer" RP (MF, rom, oral, slow)
Date: Fri, 21 Jun 2002 03:10:04 -0400
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"Midsummer"

H. Jekyll

Story Codes:  MF, rom, oral, slow

* * * * *

I am reposting this story for the 2002 ASSM Summer
Solstice Romance Festival. 

Why did I choose this story to repost? It is one of my
favorites, as well as having a "midsummer" theme. I
wrote it when I was just beginning to move from
stories of domination to stories of love, need,
loneliness, and vulnerability. I added something to
this that made it special for me. Sex stories tend to
have characters who are physically perfect, sometimes
impossibly so -- plastic fantastic lovers, so to
speak. I had always hated that in stories and tried to
make my characters look more believable. 

In this story I went beyond that. What if a character
had a deformity, something that almost no one would
find arousing? Can that person find love and
fulfillment? I had in my head a scene from Joseph
Heller's "Catch-22," in which "a woman materialized
with her whole face disfigured by a God-awful pink and
piebald burn that started on her neck and stretched in
a raw, corrugated mass up both cheeks and past her
eyes! Yossarian could not bear to look, and shuddered.
No one would ever love her. His spirit was sick..." 

Did that have to be the case? I wanted to write for
Heller's burn victim, and in fact I actually knew a
woman with a badly burned face who found love, but I
hadn't the heart or the skills to write that story. 
So I took baby steps, introducing a woman with
congenitally deformed hands. I know some women, each
of whom has a bad leg, and I had considered legs, but
in Washington, DC, the lovely clerk at a hotel's
registration desk had misshapen hands, and their
image, her image, stuck with me.

The story also let me incorporate some wonderful lines
from Shakespeare.

For a long time "Midsummer" was my most successful
story at ASSM, and it was later published in the
e-zine "Clean Sheets."

Today there are portions of it I would write
differently, but I have left the text as it was first
posted.

* * * * *

Copyright 2000 by H. Jekyll. Permission is freely
granted to post on any site that does not charge for
entrance, as long as full attribution is given to the
author. The story should not be read by anyone under
the legal age to read sexually explicit stories, or by
anyone in a location where it is illegal to read such
stories. 

I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms,
and I promise to respond to them. Please send them to:
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

The H. Jekyll stories are archived in the Alt Sex
Stories Text Repository, at:  
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

I am indebted to Maggie McGee for wise counsel.

* * * * *

Midsummer 

H.  Jekyll

My love's hands are deformed.  They were deformed at
birth.  If you see her on the street, or walk up to
her at our library's reference desk, you will see that
three fingers on her right hand are shortened and
webbed, and her thumb is curiously shaped.  Her left
hand is more affected:  all the digits are stubs, so
that it looks something like a paw.  On its own your
face will swing to her hands.  You won't notice, or
will forget, her tired-looking eyes, always tired
looking though green and bright, and though she never
acts tired.  It will be at later meetings that you
will realize that her eyes are the centers of galaxies
of freckles, or that her lips are full and her mouth
is friendly.  You won't be able to help yourself. 
You'll try to look only sideways, in glances, but
you'll miss the auburn hair that brushes her
shoulders.  You might notice her breasts.  I did.  Her
breasts are round, and they stand apart as though
competing for your attention.  Using only the
library's poor reference collection, she solved a
research problem for me before I officially started
teaching at her school, and I noticed her breasts when
I first saw her.  But there were her hands too.

I don't think she has any real limitations, but that
isn't the point.  Of course other children were cruel
to her, and adults showed too much concern;  with the
best of intentions they focused attention on her
hands, so she was always an outsider, always the
different one.  Oh, she developed an engaging way
about her and was studious and competent. She even had
boyfriends and was once a little wild, I think a
little desperate.  Everyone liked her, but she didn't
believe that any man could ever really love her,
because she was a freak.  Well, she was wrong.

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

The library is a quiet place where she can meet people
on her own terms, where her competence shows through,
and where she can help people.  Any library is holy to
me, even a small one in a liberal arts college up in
the hills.  It was an auspicious place for us to meet,
on my third day on campus, my office just set up, I
jumping into research as part of the plan to start
anew.  The need for a reference librarian would give
me a chance to learn something more about my new home
and to talk with someone.  The department was pretty
vacant, it being summer, and there was no one in my
empty apartment.  

She was efficient and still warm and friendly, and I
saw immediately the things she did to take attention
off her hands -- long, loose sleeves, holding her left
arm a little behind her, keeping her right hand partly
closed.  I had written a book on stigma and the
practices of people with stigmas, and I thought: 
Don't mention the damned book!  And don't stare,
either at her hands or away from them.  We would get
to them if we became friends.  

I thought:  Look at her breasts.  They're safe.  

We chatted for a bit, and I knew that she knew that I
was trying to keep her hands from being a focus, and
that she was resigned to it.  I can't just ignore
these things when I first encounter them anymore than
anyone else can.  You have to get past that first
meeting.  But her face and her breasts helped.  

She had been reading a copy of "Snow Falling on
Cedars" when I came in, and she had put it down the
wrong way, spine up.  I asked what she liked most
about the book:

"Oh, the description of the landscape.  I love the
details of it, how beautiful and important it is, but
I can't get past the irony of how it is finally just a
setting for human conflict."

I told her I had read it mainly for the sex, and she
laughed, her tired eyes crinkling and her lips
opening.  She answered:

"Then you must have been disappointed, since it was
mostly unhappy or unconsummated."

"What?  There's some other kind?"

After she laughed again, and looked around quickly to
see if any rare summer patrons were offended by the
noise, she talked about the issue of love between
Japanese and whites in that period, and I said
something enormously romantic like:

"Today Asian American women have the highest
out-marriage rate of any group in the U.S."  

We sociologists do have the golden tongue.  But there
was a spark, by God!  I could feel it and, tired as
they were, her eyes showed it.  I leaned in toward her
over the counter to talk.  I was already wondering
what excuse I could use to come back, but the time
wore on, I looking for any sign that she needed to get
back to work, or wanted to, and she showing no sign of
either, instead coming up with new topics when we
finished old ones.  Finally I simply had to leave, and
I must have forgotten to be concerned about her hands,
because I just stuck out mine to shake hers.  Oh shit!
 She had to shake it, of course, but I could see she
was reluctant.  Her hand was soft.

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

It was a dark wood house on a hillside.  Deep
twilight.  The other hills stood out as blue-black
shapes against the midsummer sky, and the shapes of
trees were easy to make out.  Close by, individual
leaves were lit eerily green with moonlight.  There
were a few scattered houses in the distance, lighting
the hills like large stars, and more were clustered
down in the hollow.  Above were the real stars, and
one or two feathery clouds framed the moon.

I was glad she was at the party because I didn't know
many people yet, and because she was alone.  We were
both singletons.  I'm sure that was planned by our
hostess, to have equal numbers of men and women.  It
was too soon for people to have started trying to set
me up with single women, the game I hate.  I'd almost
rather be alone.  She was well-known enough for people
to have stopped trying to set her up, so there were no
pressures, and I could enjoy being with her.  

I circled the veranda, chit-chatting, learning the
folklore of the school.  She drifted aimlessly over to
ask about my research, and pretended to be interested
in it.  We got drinks and went over to the railing,
where we could watch evening mist sift out from the
woods and set a backdrop for fireflies.  

There was a time when I would have gone on about my
research until I had bored her completely.  Times
change.  The moon lit her face while she told me about
a grand sexual scandal that had led to the departure
of a president a decade past.  It was a great story,
but I could see individual eyelashes.  Even individual
freckles showed, but not on her throat.  That was pure
cream.  I had an idle thought about what she would do
if I bent to kiss it on the line between shadow and
light.  I thought:  Sweet cream lady, I could eat you
with a spoon.  What would you do if I said that out
loud?  Instead I asked:

"You think Puck is down in those woods?" 

"Robin Goodfellow?  Oh heavens no!  I'm sure he's off
on some errand involving a changeling.  Oberon and
Titania summer down there, though.  It's a little
known fact.  And nights like this are reserved for
passion, surrounded by all their court of fairies."  

"In a *group* no less!  You know, I always lusted for
Titania.  And in these woods!"

"Hand in hand, with fairy grace, will we sing and
bless this place."

My, she knew her Shakespeare, or at least *that* play.
 A lucky choice on my part.  Or was it?   By
coincidence or not someone started a CD of
Mendelsohn's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and we both
suddenly had chill bumps.  We had to laugh.  Had
someone been listening to us?  It would be too eerie
otherwise, but the night had now gone mystical.  When
we laughed we leaned into each other, and I kept the
contact as long as I could without being crude.  She
asked:

"You don't think that's an omen, do you?"  Her pupils
were large now.

"Maybe a summons.  Maybe we should go down there to
seek enchantment."

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

But instead we were called in to play "Trivial
Pursuit."  We resisted leaving the night, but it was
okay, because we were teamed together, squeezed
against each other on the floor around a tiled coffee
table.  We were a very good team, too.  

We were especially good because of our unique
strengths:  she knew the answers and I cheated.  In
the middle of the game I told her to watch me, then I
picked up a piece of pie and put it in our token right
in front of everyone, and nobody noticed.  We almost
couldn't continue because she was laughing so much.  I
did it again.  Folks were wondering what was so funny
with us.  We were wiping tears and we leaned our heads
together conspiratorially, and then we kissed.

It was just a quick kiss, not much more than a peck,
but we looked at each other for a second, maybe two,
before going back to the game.  I 'fessed up to
everyone about my conniving and put back the pie
pieces.  

Sometimes coincidence deepens into magic;  things
happen for some easily explained reason or no
particular reason, and the world transmogrifies,
changing itself into an enchanted garden where
everything has special meaning and nothing merely
exists.  It happened.  For her next question my
freckled librarian was asked the role Mickey Rooney
played in the 1930s film version of "A Midsummer's
Night Dream."  We had to stop to stare at each other. 
No one would believe it.  We hardly believed it
either, but it happened just like that, and I felt my
hair stand on my neck for the first time in years. 
She shivered and gasped and I put an arm around her
and said:

"Maybe we're already under a spell."  

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

We walked under the moon.  It wasn't too late yet; 
the party wouldn't wind down for awhile.  We talked
about nothing in particular, just wanting to be in the
magic.  We put arms carelessly around each other's
waists and walked touching hip to hip, chatting.  I
didn't feel nervous with her.  A gravel path led down
through a meadow and into some trees.  We passed some
other people who were out there, said hello, and went
through the trees.  On the other side a wooden bridge
crossed a little stream, from which the mist rose
especially high.  We walked to the center of the
bridge, to where we were in the mist, infused with the
sweet night smell of it, and we paused.  She leaned
back against the bridge rail and then I stepped in and
kissed her again.

This kiss didn't just happen.  Everything was
progressing so quickly, because of the night or the
fairies or just the time, and it simply seemed right
to kiss, so before I stepped to her I knew I was going
to do it, and she was already waiting.  We kissed long
and sweetly.  I caressed her cheek with my hand while
we moved our mouths softly over each other's, so
softly we barely touched.  We pulled back to look,
eyes into eyes, then went back to kissing.  Her
breasts were soft bumpers against my chest.  

I put my hand back to her face and used my thumb to
feel how soft her mouth was, and she bit it gently,
held it in her mouth with her teeth while she licked
it, and then she sucked it completely inside.  I used
that hand to lift her head, and I bent to kiss her
neck like I had wanted to do earlier.  I went further,
down to the indentation where her neck meets her
chest.  Her chest rose and fell like the swells of the
sea:  deeply.  I could feel her heart beating.  By
then my hand was out of her mouth and she licked my
ear slowly, circling to its center.  When we rose we
returned to kissing again.  We moved our tongues
together, back and forth, sucking each other in turn,
breathing into each other's mouth.

I was completely aroused, caught in the night magic,
in her magic.  Her breasts moved against me and I
wanted to kiss them and caress them and then move down
to her hidden magic, between her legs.  Oberon
whispered to me to do it.  I almost did.  I should
have.  Instead I thought:  this is going too fast,
don't push things, don't scare her.  So I played safe.
 I took her hands instead.

As fast as lightening flashes the enchantment was
gone.  It was the same scene, but everything was
different.  She stiffened when I took her hands,
jerked them away, held them just behind her back for a
moment before bringing them out to her sides.  She
looked both sheepish and frightened.

"I'm sorry.  You're sensitive.  I wasn't thinking." 
What could I say?  You can't apologize your way back
into the magic.  We both tried.  She said:

"Oh no.  I was just so silly."  

She put her arms around my waist and we hugged, but
something was wrong.  We kissed, a little kiss.  We
weren't comfortable together.  The moon was just the
moon and the night mist was just water.  After a few
moments she said that she really had to get home, and
I walked her back up the hill to the party.  I did
kiss her good-night.

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

It is a family curse that I often don't sleep, so in
that one way the night was like all other nights. 
Those events.  They were a puzzle, something just
beyond my grasp.  How had I been so suddenly taken
with a woman, and so powerfully?  I had been
infatuated several times, and in love.  I knew them
well.  This was familiar, it was like infatuation, but
not.  What was it?  I recalled dropping acid in
college, and how the experience was something like
smoking very good marijuana, though no one would ever
confuse the two.  This was like that.  I wouldn't
confuse it with infatuation.  Perhaps I really was
charmed?  That would be okay.  The heart has its
reasons that Reason knows nothing of:  I didn't need
to know the reason.  

I kept remembering the whole evening, one part in
detail, then another.  It always ended with the
crashing end, where we had both suddenly awakened to
ourselves.  Ah damn.  Damn.

Outdoors, then, to walk around the campus.  Two a.m. 
A lovely campus, a lovely night, but no magic.  Ending
at the library.  Don't do this, idiot!  So, across the
Commons, past the Union, along residential streets.  

A still night.  I had seen one car and no people.  A
few windows had lights behind them.  I came to a lake
and walked all the way around it on a bike path,
listening to my footsteps, some crickets, and one or
two night birds.  There were only the night creatures
and me.  I thought:  here you are, alone again, your
natural place in the world.  The lake was covered by a
low, flat mist.  In places I could run my hand through
it.  It came away just a little damp.

Finally back to my apartment.  I found my old
Shakespeare, turned to the plays.  There was the line
she had quoted, by the fairies.  I read the whole
play, then went to the sonnets, the ones that explore
regret.

The sky was starting to brighten, just a little.  I
thought I might get on the web and go to a porn site,
to get some pleasure at least.  It might help, but I
just didn't have the heart for it.  Oh to sleep,
perchance to dream.  What was that?  Hamlet?  I slept.

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

Everyone tells me it is common for people to have that
experience, to have been open and free with a special
one, then the next time to be shy.  We were like that,
remembering the kissing and the caressing and the
moonlight, but caught in the fluorescent lights and
Formica-topped library tables.  Surrounded by the
knowledge of nations, neither could think of much to
say.  Saying and thinking were different things,
though.  I kept wondering what she looked like naked. 
I knew this game my mind played with me, knew that it
made talking harder and that I should concentrate. 
But no.  Thoughts slipped in, asking myself what
sounds she made when she fucked, wondering if she
would like the things I liked, while we hemmed and
hawed about office hours and some professor I'd have
to meet.  We said nothing about the kissing.  Finally
she invited me to dinner in desperation.

It was the same there at first, even in her ancient
little house so rich with history that it had an
historical plaque on the front porch.  Even with a
yard that had been converted mostly to shade gardens,
which made it a much better candidate for fairies than
the house last night had been.  The house gave her
something to talk about, and the cooking gave her
something to do.  Me?  She let me open the wine.  

She had decorated the house to fit its age, and it had
that aura, like the old and spooky house of my
grandmother, that I had loved as a child.  I sipped
Cabernet and leaned on the kitchen counter while she
prepared the salad and checked the pasta and told me
about all the families who had owned it before it
became hers.  I appreciated the house, and I liked her
histories.  It was nice to watch her be domestic,
wearing an apron and puttering in the kitchen.  

Could she go on like that if I were to play with her
body?  I had quick flash images of fucking her on the
dinner table, of smearing the butter all over her body
and licking every bit of it off.  My mind was playing
games with me again.  When she showed me through the
house, and we got to the bedroom, I saw us doing
spoons naked under the comforter, the window open on a
chill Autumn morning, watching leaves fall like snow.

She had candles everywhere.  We ate in a room lit by
candles in antique lamps while something other-worldly
played, something by Arvo P rt.  Finally, with the
second bottle of wine, the evening began to shine for
us and conversation became natural.  The candlelight
flickered on her skin.  When she moved quickly I
almost saw ghost images following her.  

At some point I made up a little haiku about her house
and its atmosphere.  I did it off the top of my head. 
Haikus are so easy.  All you have to do is count the
syllables, and it impresses people.  It impressed her,
but she snapped back with a naughty limerick.  

"Whoa!  Poetic one-upwomanship."

I almost went with something from Andrew Marvel's "To
His Coy Mistress," but I couldn't remember enough of
it.  I can't recite that many poems, and before I
could stop myself I had done the limerick about the
man from Nantucket.  As punishment she made me wash
the dishes.

Later we sat on her quaint porch swing and held hands,
her right and my left, while we talked and joked.  The
time came to get up, and I hesitated, not sure. 
Should I be aggressive?  But she took over matters.

"Men!  Do we women folk have to do everything for
you?"  She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled
me down to kiss.

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

Lying naked in her bed, eating her softly, filled with
the taste of a woman again after a long time gone,
watching her undulate by candlelight.  

She had made this so easy.  After we'd kissed we had
simply walked to her bedroom together, not talking,
just looking at each other, back to our route, then
again to each other.  When she had let me strip her, I
had been careful of her hands.  It was an odd thing,
but I didn't care.  I would have recited the catechism
to her if it would have paved the way.  When she had
stripped me, she had used her right hand and her teeth
on my buttons, my fly, and my belt.  Oh, it was good. 
She had shifted herself so her right side was more to
me.   It hadn't mattered but I'd noticed it.  

Her head was back and her eyes were closed.  I played
with her breasts while I ate her.  The word "luscious"
came to my mind, but whether I meant her breasts or
her pudendum I don't know today.  Both were a little
plump, a little over-ripe, perfect.  She was a quiet
lover, showing her passion mainly in sighs, only
occasionally with little growls.  Her right hand lay
on my head;  her left was beside her head, under the
pillow.  

I watched her move as I sexed her, watching her body
respond to her pleasure, knowing what she must be
feeling to move like that.  She came right to the
crest, and I slowed down, just breathing on her sex,
to let her slide back into a trough so I could prolong
this and make her high again.  I love watching a woman
inflamed.  

She pulled at my head and made a sound of impatience. 
I took her sex in my mouth entirely, sucking her and
licking her clitoris.  In only a moment her sighs
turning to those growls that began softly and became
louder.  Her body went rigid and she started to buck
against me, and then her right arm started flicking up
and down almost spastically.  I was buried in her, my
face pushed into tightly curled hair, but I watched
and I saw everything:  her face, her twitching arm,
her closed eyes.

Afterwards she lay spent for a bit.  I moved up to her
head and stroked her hair and gave her butterfly
kisses.  My prick was like a dog waiting to pounce,
sitting pretty but wanting the treat.  The dog won't
wait forever.  Her breathing finally slowed and became
normal.  She opened her eyes to look at me and got a
puzzled look that turned to a smile.  She pulled a
couple of pubic hairs off my face.

"Oh my poor dear," she said, "I hope I didn't give you
splinters."

"I just needed more fiber in my diet."  

"You said a mouthful."  

There was more, equally inane, bedroom banter.  We
thought we were being cute and creative, and basically
I think you had to be there to appreciate it.  I'm
glad no one was.

She ended the conversation by rising half up and
pushing me down to my back, then moving to crouch over
my hips where she could look straight down at my
penis.  I knew she was going to take me in her mouth. 
Yes!  She knelt right at it and held the head up to
her mouth, red mouth and bright red cock, then looked
me in the face and said:

"Oh my love is like a red, red rose."

For a second I thought I was supposed to return an
appreciative chuckle, though what I wanted more than
anything else was for her to move down and swallow me.
 Which she did right then.  She was on my left side,
kneeling, and her hair fell across her face as she
started sucking me.  She grabbed my prick with her
right hand and pumped it up to her mouth while she
moved her head downward.  Her left hand was folded
somewhere under her.  I wanted to see my prick in her
mouth while I was feeling it, so I brushed her hair
back.  

She was sucking and doing something with her tongue
that brought me up awfully fast, so I used both hands,
one to grab my penis, the other to stop her head.

"Wait, wait."  I was panting.  "Stop.  I'm almost
coming."

"I know, darling."

"But you don't have to ..."

"I know.  Now lay back down like a good boy."

Of course I lay back down.  I didn't have to be
gentlemanly for her, so could just experience what she
was doing to me.  She stopped for a moment, breathing
on me, a lot like I had on her, pumping me very
slowly, and then she started again.  I held her hair
back again to watch her suck me.  I wanted to feel
where my dick went into her, so I reached my right
hand out to where my penis met her lips.  Deep in her
mouth she was wet and hot and I could feel her flesh
moving over me.  It was happening.  Soon I forgot to
watch, and my hand fell away from her hair, but I kept
my other hand right at her lips, where I could feel my
dick slide in and out of her mouth, and I felt her
mouth with both my dick and my hand as she brought me
up and over.  When I started to come she sucked and
pumped until I was milked completely dry.

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

In the shower I soaped her first.  I stood behind her
to soap her, and reached around to feel her slippery
breasts move rubber-like through my hands, her nipples
big against my palms.  When it was her turn she worked
my prick with soapy hands, and Lordy if it didn't
start to grow.  I washed her underarms, her pussy, the
tight crack of her ass, then she did me, returning to
my penis after everything else was soaped.

It was time.  I said:

"I want to wash all of you."

I held her forearms, pulled both hands out, and kissed
her left hand.  I tried not to show that up close I
suddenly found it grotesque.  I hadn't expected that. 
Just for a second I wondered how long it would be
before I could become accustomed to it.  She didn't
like any of this at all, and averted her head.  She
didn't jerk her hands away this time, but it wasn't
good.  One step too far, I thought, but I decided to
brazen it out: 

"I want all of you."

She spoke without looking at me.  "Please.  It's
awfully hard for me.  I don't want you to see it.  Or
to touch it."  She nodded toward her left hand.

"I let you see how scarred up my legs are."

"That's different.  Scars on men are okay.  Also
they're, how to put it,"  and here she did smile a
tiny smile up at me, "alluring to me."

"Well, there's something about you that's alluring to
me.  You come as an alluring package."  

But I let go of her arms and didn't press the issue
any more.  Instead we wrapped arms around each other
and hugged.  Her slippery belly was against mine, and
again I felt her slippery breasts, though with my
chest, and again they were rubbery and malleable, and
I could feel her nipples easily.  We kissed.  My penis
was half erect, busy being tickled by her pubic hair. 


"I'm sorry," she said.

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

I hadn't yet fucked her and wanted to, not perhaps as
much as she wanted me to, but enough.  My poor penis
wouldn't obey though, and wasn't going to get more
than half cocked.  There are only so many things you
can do and so much time you can use before the end
becomes obvious.  

I asked if she had a vibrator.  Of course she did.  So
we made spoons and I put my little cockette into her. 
She held the vibrator and brought it all the way down
to where it touched both of us, touching the base of
my penis and brushing my balls.  The vibrations were
intense and flowed all the way up to the tip, enough
that they made me tense up.  They helped me grow, so
that I could move in and out of her without slipping
out, and I could fill her better.  My hands were free,
allowing me to play with her body while she moved the
vibrator.  She roused quickly and I raised up to watch
her face.  I wasn't going to be able come, but she
didn't need to know that, and I got to watch her as
she got closer and closer and started making those
growls again and came beautifully.

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

I dozed.  When I woke she was asleep, half curled and
facing me.  The blinds were open and the light was
enough for me to be able to see her.  I watched her
sleep for awhile.  She was breathing so deeply it was
almost a little snore.  

I moved closer to her and put my face on her cheek,
lightly, then moved up and kissed her forehead through
her hair.  I didn't want to wake her, so I lay still
with my face in her hair and touched my hand to her
cheek.  I caressed her arm just below the shoulder. 
Her breathing stayed constant, the only sound in the
room.  That empowered me to move my hand to the hollow
where the flat area at the front of her hips starts to
swell out to her belly and the skin is exquisitely
soft, and I moved the backs of my fingers over her
there, my fingertips just barely touching her hair.  I
did the same thing to the front of her breast;  her
nipple was almost flat now.

Almost without a break in her breathing, she said "Hi"
in a sleepy little voice.  I pulled away just enough
to see her face:  she was smiling a sleepy little
smile that matched her voice, and her eyes were barely
open.

"I'm sorry," I said in just over a whisper.  "I didn't
mean to wake you."

"Oh that's okay," in that same voice.  She yawned,
then swallowed, opening her mouth twice while she did
it, like a small child.

"Go back to sleep, love."

"Okay."  She yawned a second time, then she snuggled
up to me until her head was touching my chest, and she
was asleep again almost immediately.

I placed a hand on her shoulder and lay as still as I
could, watching her sleep.

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

So went the weekend.  She woke me early and we walked
into town under a red sky, to a little breakfast place
that had sections of the "New York Times" spread
around for people to read.  I wondered how they got it
out here.  We sat outside under an awning to eat, and
she kept glancing up from the book reviews to catch me
looking at her.  A mourning dove cooed softly about
being alone in the world.  

She wanted to show me everything, and dragged me all
over town.  I was happy to go but needed sleep.  After
lunch we went back to her house and fucked softly with
the blinds open, so that I could see her sweet body
clearly while we did it.  It excited her to think that
a neighbor might see something and it excited me that
she got excited.  When we were finished we lay
together on our sides, face-to-face, me still in her. 
Our legs were braided together.  My left arm was under
her head and I held her tightly to me with my right,
and I kissed her face all over while we murmured.

I fell heavily asleep, so heavily that I didn't even
notice when she rose.  I slept for hours while she sat
in her rocker beside the bed and read.  Finally, in
the evening, we collaborated on dinner, nothing much
really, just being domestic together, desperately in
love and not wanting the time to end.

None of this, nothing, prepared me for what happened
when I walked up to her in the library on Monday.

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

Something was wrong, I could tell it before she knew I
was there.  Her posture was off, stiff, and her face
was like a mask.  What was it?  What had happened?

"Why didn't you tell me about your book?"  Her lips
were tight.  Her voice was tight, too.  Suddenly her
expression made sense.  I knew exactly what was
coming.  She'd found my book about stigmas, and she
thought she was a project of mine.  How to respond?

"My book?  What do you mean?" 

"You know exactly what I mean!  How could you?"  Her
eyes had some tears in them, that she was trying to
get past.  

"'Practicing Stigma'.  Did you really  think I
wouldn't ever see it?  What was I, more data for you,
for your next edition?  Maybe about how girls with
messed up hands try to deal with men?"  

She was more hurt than angry, but she was angry
enough.  I couldn't get past that, knew that it wasn't
possible until time had passed, but knew that I had to
try, to start.

It was a miserable failure.  Sometimes you can see
what's important in life dribbling away, can know it's
happening, and know you should stop it but not know
how.  The words, the sentences come later.  Oh they're
there in abundance after the fact, showing up after
the battle is lost, asking 'why didn't you use me?'. 
You stand in a world that just moments before had been
solid, secure, and experience an epiphany of
desolation.  The room seemed darker, and I felt myself
grow smaller as I listened to her build a case for my
guilt, a case I couldn't dispute.  It was just so
complicated.  Finally she dismissed me, said:

"Please, just go away.  I don't want to hear anything
you might have to say."  

She waited until I started to leave, then turned away.

Trudging out, finding a path between the stacks,
trying to be manly, trying not to be weak, failing, I
finally turned and half shouted:  

"You're wrong.  You're wrong.  That book had nothing
to do with us.  It didn't.  It just didn't."  

She never turned back to look at me.

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

I was sitting on a concrete bench under a dogwood,
near a little fountain.  The fountain has only a weak
string of water that scarcely bubbles into the pool. 
This is a tiny square formed from two old buildings
and two old enclosed walkways.  Only a small door and
a low arch lead to it;  they are connected by a
sidewalk, and there are stepping stones to the bench. 
The ground is covered by moss instead of grass.  It is
a good place to be alone.  I've never seen anyone use
it, not even the squirrels who otherwise panhandle for
food.  I stared into the fountain until it grew dark.

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

Hollywood gave me another chance.  She wouldn't see
me, so I walked to her house and stood on her porch
passively, for hours, ignoring the fact that she
ignored me, until she couldn't stand the tension.  I
had seen this in a movie, and I didn't know what else
to try.  Probably she would have talked to me after
awhile no matter what, but it must have gotten me
points as an eccentric.  Or a stalker.  

She gave me five minutes and said that after that she
would call the police, which I think she would have
done.  So, I quickly apologized about the book.  Then
I told her I could prove that none of that had
anything to do with her, if she would come by my
apartment.  She wouldn't agree, so I told her that if
the weekend had meant anything at all her she owed me
this one thing.  I had seen this in a movie, too.  It
seemed a better line than anything I could make up,
and it worked.  She would come.  And I?  I had seen
"Animal House" and had decided that it was time for a
stupid and senseless gesture.

So, when she got there I pulled out a pair of modified
gloves.  I had sewn the fingers down so that the
wearer would have to close her hands into fists to get
them on.  The gloves were long enough to reach her
upper arms.  I had fitted Velcro straps along them to
hold them on tightly.

"Well?!"

"Well, you're so sure that your hands are everything. 
So cover them.  Put these on."

"That's idiotic!  What do you think you're trying to
prove?" 

"Now just do this for me.  You'll see in a minute, or
you can walk out of my life."  

As I said it I wished that I hadn't added that last
part.  I wasn't at all prepared for her to walk away,
and suddenly I realized how stupid this really was. 
Nevertheless, I took the gloves and pulled one up her
left arm, then the other up her right.  She tried to
push her hands all the way through, not realizing the
nature of the gloves, and she didn't figure it out
until I had strapped them on securely with the Velcro
straps.

"Now, you're just like any other woman who is bound
for pleasure."

She grew irritated, angry.  "You think I'll wear these
just so you can have your fun and not have to look at
my hands?  How does that make me like other women? 
They wouldn't have to wear them for you!  I'm not
going to humor ...  "

"Oh no.  Wait.  If you'll just turn this way..."  

I fastened the gloves together, then quickly lifted
her, and put the straps over a hook above the door. 
She wasn't heavy.  She had to stand partially up on
her toes to keep from hanging by her arms.  She looked
up and pulled at the gloves and for a moment was
stunned.  

"You see, any woman at all who was going to experience
helpless sex would need to be fitted like this."

I pulled her to me and kissed her.  Her breath rushed
in and out.  She pulled at the fastenings, struggling.
 She screamed at me:

"Let me go!  What are you doing?"

"Wait just for a minute.  No, wait.  Okay.  I won't
hurt you.  And I won't do anything you don't want. 
I'll let you down in a minute.  There's a point.  Just
let me make my point.  Please."

She quieted, standing bound with her hands pulled over
her head, as odd a situation as I'd ever been in.  I
knew she wanted me to be able to set things right, and
that she thought I was crazy.

"You hate your hands.  You think you are polluted,
right?  I don't know if I can make you think I accept
your hands, but listen."

I started in my best reciting voice:

	"Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,	
	That they behold, and see not what they see?	
	They know what beauty is, see where it lies,	
	Yet what the best is take the worst to be."

Yes, I had memorized it just for this.  For a moment
she went completely slack, stunned again.  I kissed
her again during this.  Then, her tired eyes grew a
different look, but a complicated one, as though she
were between states of mind.  She started struggling a
little again, but laughing too.  Not a sweet laugh.

"So I'm the worst?  That's what you think, wee Willy
Shakespeare?"  But I was ready:

"No.  No, you're the best.  Listen again."

	"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?	
	Thou art more lovely and more temperate."

I kissed her again, and yes she did kiss back a
little, but she also laughed again, this time a laugh
with some possibility of happiness in it.  When I
stepped back to look in her eyes, I could tell that
she had decided that maybe it was okay to make a point
this way.  She leaned out to me to kiss, stretching in
her bonds, then said:

" I appreciate what you're trying to do.  I really do.
 But that last couplet was written to a man."  

But there was a hesitation, so that it took her two
tries to say the last sentence.  Perhaps that was
because I started unbuttoning her blouse in the middle
of it.  She twisted back and forth, but not seriously,
and her look turned to that of one who was beginning
to enjoy the game.

	"By heaven, I think my love as rare	
	As any she belied by false compare."

She stood quietly while I finished her blouse and
reached around to unfasten her bra.  She had nothing
to say to this.  I raised the bra and bent to kiss her
breast, to take her nipple gently in my teeth and give
a little bite.

	"Let me confess that we two must be twain,	
	Although our undivided loves are one."

"That doesn't mean what I think you think it does."  

She had a hard time saying it, with the little gasps
she was making.  I slipped her skirt down off her hips
to the floor, and then her panties.  I ran my mouth
all the way down her front, ending at her pubic hair.

	"I like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz  	
	of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes	
	over parting flesh...  "

"That isn't Shakespeare, you cheater."  

She was breathing faster.  She pressed her pussy out
to me.  I put my arms between her legs and spread them
and put my face up into her and sucked on her.  She
groaned and pushed her pussy harder to my face.  

I let her down, unfastened the straps, and slipped the
blouse and bra to the floor.  I wrapped both arms
around her waist and hugged her to me, and she put
both of hers around my neck, and we put our mouths on
each other and feasted on each other.  Her eyes looked
almost feverish.  

I wasn't done with perversity.  Though it was in a
good cause it was making my prick hurt, but it had its
own magic, my magic, and it was working.  I wouldn't
let foolish consideration disenchant our world again. 
I told her:

"Lie on the bed and stretch out all your limbs."  It
was my first bit of non-poetry in awhile, but I
couldn't think of a line that said just that.

She spread herself out, looking me in the eyes, moving
seamlessly between wantonness and anxiety, not sure at
all but wanting to see this through.  She hiccupped. 
I tied her softly to the four bed posts, then began
tickling her body, licking her, then going back to her
mouth.  I took off my clothes, while she watched.  I
squatted over her abdomen and pushed her breasts
together and moved my penis back and forth between
them.  Ahh.  Then I said:

	"Lady, shall I lie in your lap?"

She had an inspiration:  

"My darling, sweet man, will you please shut up and
fuck me?"

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

We are lying in her bedroom, the dark broken only by
the moon, the stars, a street lamp, occasional
headlights, and the five candles we had lit.  It is
the best we can manage, and it is enough because we
are together.  Early autumn here is cool.  Her house
is open and while there seems to be no breeze the
drapes move just slightly.  Her bedroom overlooks a
creek, so we are serenaded by frogs and crickets.

We could watch leaves swim to the ground, one here or
there, but we aren't watching leaves.  We're playing
serious games, I, on my back, looking up at her, she
kneeling over me, my penis in her hands.  She holds me
erect in her right hand, and with her poor left she
rubs up and down my shaft, then around the head.  Her
left hand is especially soft.  She leans further down
to take me in her mouth and excite me, and I close my
eyes.  After a bit I make a noise and move up into her
mouth.

"Oh no, darling, don't move.  Remember, you're mine
tonight."  Her tired eyes shine.

I love her not because she will take my penis in her
mouth.  Yes, for that too.  Also, though, because she
trusts me with her hands.  Oh, too because she's smart
and pretty and has large, lovely breasts and freckles,
and she knows poetry, and ... well, let me count the
ways.  Right now I love what she is doing.  I hold my
ass tightly to the mattress while she moves her wet
mouth up and down my prick and pumps me with her
hands.  We don't wonder if we are being watched by
court fairies.




=====
H. Jekyll's stories are archived at:  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

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