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Message-ID: <47955asstr$1085278204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm@yahoo-OBLITERATE-SPAM!-.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Muzak to my Ears {Mg(g+) rom}
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Date: Sat, 22 May 2004 22:10:04 -0400
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                        Muzak to my Ears

                     by Vivian Darkbloom

    Any day that begins with a grindingly tedious wait in
    a dentist-office lobby deserves suspicion. Compounded
    by the hideous grating on my ears of the most
    wretchedly insipid music imaginable. Look, I've got 5
    earrings and one eyebrow-ring (for balance), I wear
    black leather and silver spikes, and my hair is a
    different color every day. The only strings I want to
    hear shatter the air with monstrous distortion
    through electronic speakers. I want the earth to
    tremble and the sky to split open, and the temple
    veil to tear into two geometrically equivalent
    swatches. And that's with the volume set on "1."

    Waiting, I sat alone in the room across from a pale
    young brunette girl with braces on her teeth, in a
    prim, trim, and proper light-blue school-dress.
    Around her neck is a clear quartz crystal in a silver
    setting that is inscribed with strange symbols. Maybe
    eleven years old, she was beaming with delight,
    swinging her legs back and forth under the chair.

    "Guess what!" she asked me, unable to contain her
    exuberance. Her bright eyes shone with the light of
    the moon.

    "What," I said.

    She cocked her head to one side. "I, get my braces
    off today."

    "Wicked," I replied, suppressing my grumbling.

    "So you know what that means," she continued.

    "No, what."

    "I have to find someone to kiss." Fluttering her
    eyelashes, she lifted her knees up, putting her heels
    on the edge of the chair, which meant that her lovely
    pale-blue dress fell back to reveal her prim little
    panties (with frilly lace around the edges) scrunched
    in suggestive shapes, behind which my seething
    imagination eagerly vivified her thinly veiled soft
    sweet sticky wonders.

    I chastised myself for staring at, and madly
    imagining about, this little girl sitting right there
    mooning me, but with the early morning hour the
    blossoming of sexual arousal only grew worse with my
    resistance, and with her apparent obliviousness to
    what she was doing. She fixed her eyes curiously,
    innocently, on my bulging crotch.

    I shifted self-consciously, and reached for a
    contemporary periodical, grabbing what was on the top
    of the stack, and furtively leafing through it. Some
    kid's magazine about the world of nature. I tried to
    seem fascinated with the article on squirrels, and
    keep myself from staring as she put one leg down and
    began swinging it rhythmically.

    She stared innocently at me, (squirrels) with
    enormous beautiful blue-green eyes, (squirrels!) and
    swung her leg in rhythm. Her rhythm was perilous. It
    was a veritable hazard. (Squirrels, dammit!) It
    should have been declared a national menace for the
    way it sent warning shivers down my thigh. The
    seasons and tides were at risk of being thrown off,
    for being so distracted by her rhythm. Her rhythm
    could set fire to an entire city in one stroke, and
    the firemen would have to come get out their hoses...

    A nurse appeared at the portal "Gianna Dubuque?" The
    girl stood up, and skipped innocently through the
    doorway as the nurse escorted her into the bowels of
    hell.

    Gianna, a beautiful name to call out in the middle of
    an orgasm, I thought briefly. I shook my head. Sheer
    lunacy. For once I was grateful for insipidly
    fluttering trill of a flute as it abruptly doused any
    shred of passion I might have been feeling. What in
    blazes, makes people associate romantic feelings with
    music that's got five million and forty three violins
    in it? For me, it's the sound of hard rock with the
    volume turned to eleven.

    From within the room where the receptionist was
    working, I heard an entrance, and the receptionist's
    voice, apparently talking to the dentist: "the repair
    man is here. He's sitting in the waiting room."

    "Oh good," came the disembodied reply. Entered the
    dentist through the portal, an anemic timid older man
    with thick glasses, in a white labcoat. "You're the
    repairman?" he inquired.

    "Wheatley Ericsen, systems installer for the Muzak
    Corporation," I introduced myself. "How can I help
    you?"

    "Yes," he smiled timidly. "Well, I called because,"
    he lowered his voice, as if afraid to disturb anyone.
    "the music is too loud."

    "Well," I laughed. "That's easy. There's a volume
    knob, along with a multifeatured equalization unit
    that can adjust the perceived volume as well as the
    actual decibel level, with preset curves calibrated
    for the reproduction devices..."

    He shook his head. "No, that's not -- what I mean
    is..." He pointed his finger "there. Listen:"

    I listened. I heard some of the most boring,
    saccharine, drippingly inane trumpet solo I have ever
    listened to.

    "What do you mean?" I asked.

    "Tsk," he impatiently clucked, seeing that I was just
    not boarding the train of thought he found so
    obvious. "Horns."

    "Horns?"

    "The horn was an instrument of the hunt. It drums up
    primal responses of adrenaline and excitement. See,"
    he hushed his voice once more to confide in me: "This
    is a dentist office."

    I was glad he informed me of that.

    "I need music to help people stay calm. To soothe the
    savage beast. To calm the restless soul..."

    "Well, sir." I cut in, "I would observe that you
    happen to be tuned to the most tranquil and relaxing
    channel that we have available at the Muzak
    corporation. However, if you like, I could put you in
    touch with one of our audio architects, and he or she
    would be glad to review the selection available."

    "I would appreciate that very much. You know, I just
    don't understand the music young people listen too
    nowadays. So much energy and excitement. It just --
    causes me anxiety."

    "I understand, sir. If I could just get you to help
    me fill out this customer feedback form, I can get
    started on fulfilling your request..."
      ________________________________________________

    After a conversation like that, only one thing will
    do the trick. Doughnuts and coffee. Well, two things.
    Doughnuts and coffee and a cigarette. None of this
    fancy gourmet malarkey either. Gimme the coffee from
    the corner store, the kind that could unpaint
    golden-gate bridge. The kind that, when you say "It
    tastes like weak battery acid" they open up a battery
    and pour in more acid.

    So I'm sitting in the Muzak van, in the parking lot
    of the doughnut shop, listening to Sex Pistils. See,
    before I got called in to work for Muzak, I did
    car-stereo installs. I got a good rep for being able
    to wire anything for sound. See for me, wires are an
    extension of my nervous system. Speakers are my
    eardrums. My blood is the flow of electrons. I am,
    like, cosmically connected to the essence of
    vibrational impulses flowing through the resistors,
    transistors, coils and capacitors of your sound
    system.

    A buddy of mine was working over at Muzak, and he ...
    what? You can't hear me? Here, I'll turn the music
    down a little. Was on 1.5, I'll turn it back to 1.
    That better? Good. Yah, probably a good idea to turn
    it down, seeing as the bass vibrations were doing
    some scary things to the plate-glass windows in the
    doughnut shop over there.

    Maybe the 15-inch JBLs are a bit much for the van,
    but hey, I got a good deal on them from the rep. I
    tell you, give me good old-fashioned membrane any
    day. This boxy Boze subwoofer crapola just doesn't
    sound as good, don't care how many truckloads of
    physicists you got telling me there's no difference.
    Look, they don't have my ears, especially the
    earrings. You know, it's been scientifically shown
    that a person can't hear correctly until at least one
    body part has been pierced?

    So where was I? Oh right. A friend of mine needed
    someone to sub while he was on vacation, which is how
    I got this gig, and I get to drive around this spiffy
    van with "Muzak is emotion -- creating experiences
    with audio architecture" in neat sans-serif letters
    along the side. See? And the cute little
    m-inside-a-circle logo. I been doing this now for,
    what, going on five years? See once they realized I
    can wire anything, they figured they had to keep me.

    So I'm sitting inside the Muzak van smoking, drinking
    coffee, eating one of those heavenly cream-filled
    doughnuts with chocolate on top, letting the nicotine
    disperse through my bloodstream, talking to myself
    (with a vengeance). Sitting in the Muzak van with the
    tunes cranked, I'm noticing this place seems to be a
    veritable hangout for, like, kids on their break from
    school or something. Guess those school lunches don't
    stretch so far anymore.

    When who comes skipping by, but that pale brunette
    girl I saw in the dentist office. Pale blue dress and
    all. I guess first thing when you get your braces
    off, you gotta go scarf something loaded with sugar.
    Anyway, she sees me and, like, stops, and walks over
    to the van and smiles at me real wide, so I can see
    her beautiful, straight, blindingly white teeth.
    Nothing like my crooked yellow ones.

    I roll down the window to talk to her. "Looks very
    nice," I reply. I don't suppose "bitchin'" would be
    quite the right thing to say.

    "Thank you," she says. And then, I cannot believe she
    did this, but she reaches over where I'm holding the
    cigarette between my fingers kind of out the window,
    and she grabs it and throws it on the ground and
    stubs it out on the parking-lot asphalt with her
    foot..

    "Kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray," she
    says.

    Mouth agape, I stare at the smoldering ash on the
    ground.

    "What are you listening to?" she asks.

    "Sex Pistils," I reply without thinking.

    "Mmmm. Sex," her eyes widen, she smiles and winks at
    me, switching the tiny crescent moon of her cute
    little butt, swishing her dress.

    "Oh good," I say. This is all I need, some
    12-year-old with a crush on me ... "How old are you,
    anyway?" I ask.

    "Eleven. Did you ever listen to `Alice in Chains?'"

    "Who?"

    "You know. Only the best band in the world. `Alice in
    Chains.'"

    She whips out a CD from her little school backpack
    and hands it to me. It's got a picture of a 3-legged
    dog, and a 3-legged man. OK bitch, I think, you're
    on. So I put on the CD, and yeah, it's pretty nice.
    Got some kick-ass bass, sure enough puts the JBLs to
    good use. She's leaning with her elbows against my
    drivers-side door staring at me, fingering the quartz
    crystal she has around her neck, twirling her feet
    and her tiny cute little tush in time with the music
    in a way that makes me horny as all hell.

    I notice the gaggles of kids all finishing their
    doughnuts and straggling off in different directions.
    "Don't you gotta be in school or something?" I ask.

    She tilts her head. "Nah. It's a half-day, so we're
    done. And my mom is at work, so I'm bored as a loon,
    with nothing to do."

    "So," I say. "You want to hear some real music?"

    She looks miffed. "Maybe."

    I unlock the passenger door. "Hop in."

    She hesitates. "Are you one of those men that gives
    girls candy? Because my mom told me not to get in a
    car with a man that offers candy."

    I sighed. "Love, I can pretty much guarantee your mom
    would completely forbid you to get in this van."

    Next thing I know she's run around to the other side
    of the car and yanked open the passenger door, and I
    shuffle aside the papers I have laying there. As she
    slams the door shut, and I think how nice it feels to
    have someone in the seat next to me. A female
    someone.

    "You've got to be in the middle of the speakers for
    the premium quality sound. It just isn't the same
    otherwise."

    She smiles. "OK." She's all checkin' out the junk I
    have in the back, coils of wire, speakers, wire
    strippers and cutters, various components,
    skateboard, crescent wrenches, and so on strewn in a
    godawful mess (by the way, would you remind me to
    straighten it up? I keep forgetting).

    At the end of the song, I pop out `Alice in Chains,'
    and the radio momentarily comes on with the voice of
    our loathsome embarrassment of a president, lying
    about something or other. Immediately I cut the
    volume and make a face.

    "What?"

    "You know who that was."

    "The president."

    "Yup."

    "My mom hates Bush," she says. "Mom's a lesbian, and
    she thinks she should be able to get married if she
    wants."

    "But George White-trash Bush doesn't."

    "I always wondered what the W. stood for," she says.
    "What's Whitetrash?"

    Solemnly I instruct: "White trash means a white
    person who lies, steals and cheats. So, does our
    president qualify? He told shameless bald-faced lies
    to convince the American public to fight a senseless
    war. He's lied about everything from his failure to
    serve in the military to the harmful effects of his
    buddy's oil refineries on the citizens of Texas."

    "He lied about Saddam being friends with Osama," she
    offered.

    I smiled with pleasant surprise. "Clever girl. Does
    he steal? Well, a tax-cut that funnels money from the
    poor to the ultra-wealthy, of which he is one, counts
    as stealing in my book. Reverse Robin-Hood. And as
    for cheating, when someone loses the election and
    then takes power anyway, which our president did in
    fact do, that's called cheating."

    "Because Gore got more votes. A guy at my school has
    a T-shirt with the numbers on it."

    "You are a very smart young lady," I said with
    genuine respect. "Which doesn't answer the question
    of why you are sitting here with me. Nonetheless,"
    taking the `Alice in Chains' CD, I gently hand it
    back to her. "Very nice," I say...

    As we make the exchange, our hands connect briefly,
    and I feel the warmth of the living pulse in the
    touch of her soft gentle delicate fingers.
    Electricity. She feels it too, I can see it in the
    flush of her face, but she says nothing.

    I shake my head. "OK, where was I? Right. Your music
    has some delectable bass vibrations, my lady. But
    stand aside and make way for the veritable King of
    Rock."

    Dramatically, I slid into the CD player "Are You
    Experienced?" by Jimi Hendrix.

    I observed her reaction as the opening chords of
    "Purple Haze" tore through the air, in living
    hi-fidelity stereo. I guess she liked it, at least
    she seemed to. She kicked her feet in time and rocked
    with her ever-so-famous national hazard of a rhythm.
    I finished my doughnut, and sipped the battery-acid
    coffee.

    During the third song (which would be "Manic
    Depression"), she reached over and placed her smooth
    dainty little white left hand on my hairy,
    dark-tanned and weather-worn right hand, resting
    face-down on the armrest. I turned my hand over and
    gently grasped hers, delicate and soft inside of
    mine. She gently, lovingly, grasped mine back,
    sitting upright in her seat, eyes wide and smiling
    moist lips.

    My ears rang from the sound of hard rock with the
    volume turned to eleven

    We sat and listened for a few moments, in the
    delicate silence of clashing distorted power-chords.
    Sheer angelic bliss, the moonstruck madness of
    holding hands with Gianna.

    Before I knew it, she had some how wriggled onto my
    lap, sitting with her back to the steering wheel, and
    was staring up at me intently in anticipation,
    holding now both of my hands.

    "Ahem," I cleared my throat. "So, you got your braces
    off today."

    "Uh-huh."

    "And you're looking for someone to kiss."

    "Yup," she nodded.

    "You know," I said, "It would be the sort of thing
    that can only be done in private,"

    "Uh huh."

    "And you can't tell anyone about it, ever."

    "Except my friend Britney."

    "Unh-uh. Suppose Britney starts telling one other
    person, and then soon the whole school knows about
    it."

    "OK. But Britney gets together with a bunch of her
    girlfriends and has sex with this older guy all the
    time."

    Hmm....

    "OK, look. I know a perfect place, if you feel like
    coming with me. Any time you feel uncomfortable, just
    let me know and we can stop."

    She grinned up at me. "You really want to kiss me,
    don't you?" She bounced up and down on my lap,
    treacherously treading a path of perilous
    enchantment, yielding the predictable stiffening of
    my lap below her soft tiny little buns. Noticing, she
    glances down. "Whoa," she says quietly, grinning even
    more widely, continuing to bounce, pinching my rod in
    her crack.

    "OK look."

    She straightens up and plants her lips on mine, and
    for a glorious instant I taste the precious sweetness
    of her delicate little mouth.

    The sound of hard rock. Volume at eleven.

    She hops back into the passenger seat. "Drive," she
    says.

    Incredulous, I start the van.
      ________________________________________________

    On the way over, I call up my buddy co-worker on the
    cel, and this is what Gianna heard as we were driving
    down the road : "Yo, what's up? Yeah, well I had a
    rough morning. Got a screamer. Yeah. Said the
    old-school wasn't mellow enough. Surreal. So I'm
    gonna take the afternoon off to chill. Anything
    urgent out there? What? Again? Rammed through with
    somebody's cane? Why on earth would the residents of
    Sunny Pastures vandalize the speakers in the
    elevator? Baby-boomers getting older. Go figure it.
    Anyway, catch you later, bye."

    Funny thing as we are cruising out there, I notice
    every dog that we drive by seems to set into howling
    wildly. At her. She doesn't seem to notice.

    Or was I just imagining? She sits calmly beside me,
    twiddling with the rough-cut crystal she has hanging
    on a silver chain around her neck, inscribed with
    bizarre symbols.
      ________________________________________________

    There's this great park, a little out-of-the-way and
    hard to get to, so it's always deserted. Ours is the
    only car in the lot. We both disbark, and she stands
    there as I hand stuff to her.

    "Here, take this." A red-and-white checkered cloth; a
    picnic basket with a bottle of wine and a baguette,
    which just happened to be in the back. And, my
    skateboard. I pull out the long board, big enough for
    both of us to ride on.

    I drop the board loudly onto the pavement, rolling it
    back and forth a half-inch or so. "Get on," I say,
    taking back the basket and the cloth, slamming the
    van door shut.

    She looks up at me timidly, the first I have seen her
    look timid.

    "It's OK," I say. "I'll do all the work. You just
    relax and hold on." She sets one tiny foot on the
    board, holding out her little hand for my support. I
    reach out and take her hand, feeling the softness and
    warmth.

    Soon we are gliding down the smoothly paved walkway,
    my two huge feet in clomping work boots, her dainty
    little feet between mine in pretty little-girl shoes.
    I feel the warmth of her back as she leans against
    me, my hands brush the softness of her hair. I sense
    the faint aroma of turned-on little girl.

    The great thing about this park is there are all
    these big old long paved trails through the woods,
    perfect for skateboarding, with lots of secret
    side-paths to cool hiding-spots for engaging in, uh,
    various activities. And the amazing thing is that
    nobody is ever here.

    And it's a beautiful, sunny day, a glorious day, as
    we breeze easily through the lush green trees of the
    forest, occasionally brushed by huge green leaves
    hanging softly over the trail. All around us, giant
    trees stand as gnarled sentinels of time, gentle
    guardians of the gateways of the secret rites and
    passages of ancient days gone by.

    Finally, she smiles up at me. "This is fun," she
    says.

    A few more eternities of sailing over clear blue
    skies with the virgin of Atlantis standing beside me,
    on our way to submerge continents into the ocean of
    madness and passion.

    Choosing an arbitrary stopping point from the list of
    hideaways I was well familiar with, we hopped off the
    board and I carried it along with us across the
    bright green grassy meadow, through a place in the
    bushes that looked impassible, into another green
    meadow surrounded by friendly foliage, where I lay
    down the red-and-white checkered blanket and beckoned
    my companion to recline beside me in the beautiful
    afternoon shade.

    I pop open the picnic basket, and offer her the
    baguette, from which to tear a hunk of bread. She
    looks at me quizzically. "It's white bread," she
    says.

    "So?" I reply. "Would you like some?"

    She shakes her head. "I only eat whole wheat
    organic."

    "Right." Led Zeppelin. "Then may I offer the lady
    some wine?"

    I extract the bottle of white wine, uncork and pour
    into a sparkling crystal-clear wineglass. She looks
    at it dubiously, takes the glass, tries a sip, and
    immediately runs over and spits it out behind a tree.

    "Yuck," she says. "What was that for?" returning to
    sit next to me on the blanket.

    "I was simply making an effort to be romantic. Look,
    I think there's a bottle of Evian water in here."

    Now she hardly trusts me, but I open the bottle of
    spring water, and Polly Purebred tastes a sip, then
    contentedly gulps half the bottle.

    "Better?" I ask.

    "Better," she replies. She caps it and rolls over to
    where I am lying on my side, spooning her cute little
    butt into my crotch and sighing, leaning back on me.
    I feel her warmth, and gently stroke her silky soft
    brown hair, as my tip rises to meet her bottom
    through the bluejeans and Alice-blue dress that
    separate us.

    I feel her gently breathing beside me, and sense the
    erotic aroma of her body smell, surprisingly sweet
    for her age. The sexual trigger of a much bigger
    girl. I feel a tremendous affection, a longing to
    hold her with the simple tenderness of all the
    mythical lovers of yore, to entwine our bodies like
    graceful flowering vines around the sensuous lust of
    perfect romance.

    "Gianna, you are the most beautiful girl I have ever
    met," I whisper in her ear.

    She half turns, soft cheek one bright shining eye
    regarding me. "Now that, is romantic," she says.

    "I'm glad you approve," I reply, feeling an
    incredible yearning for her.

    Gently, I moisten my lips and place a soft kiss on
    the her delicate cheek.

    Savagely, she turns over and pushes me onto my back,
    so she is sitting, legs spread on top of me, her hot
    little crotch pushing rhythmically against my organ,
    and forces her wet lips against mine, pushing her
    tongue into my mouth, doing battle with my tongue as
    my hands lovingly caress every square centimetre of
    her slender body, her back, her dainty little
    shoulders, her erotically flat little chest, her
    slender arms and buttocks and ankles.

    Then she stops, staring down at me, grinning.

    "That was intense," I say. "Are you happy you got
    your braces off?"

    "Yes."

    We continue at a slower pace, and she loses her shoes
    and socks, now barefoot on top of me, kissing me. I
    feel her soft warm moistness on my cheeks and
    forehead. Giggling, she gently tugs at my eyebrow
    ring.

    "So now," she continues, "You kissed my mouth that
    had braces in it. Would you like to kiss the mouth
    that didn't have braces?"

    "What on earth could you mean?" I ask.

    In reply, as she towers diminutively over me, she
    walks her knees up towards my head, and places one
    knee on either of my shoulders. Looking up under her
    Alice-blue dress, I find myself face to face with her
    lacy little panties. I hear her gently petite quietly
    lustful breathing.

    Swiftly raising my head, I pounce with my lips
    towards the fateful spot between her legs, pinching a
    corner of the fabric between my teeth and tugging
    playfully.

    She gasps, and giggles knowingly. I can almost see
    the drops of moisture surging on the other side of
    the fabric. I adjust my hotwired rod for comfort as
    it screeches its tires at the starting gate, behind
    the zippered jeans.

    With tantalizing laziness, she reaches under the
    skirt and slowly releases the elastic from around her
    slender waist, gradually, teasingly revealing the
    tiny bodaciously blooming red dripping flower.
    Overwhelming aroma.

    Perfectly smooth pink folds of skin surround the
    beautiful blossom. Not even peach fuzz adorns it,
    simply pure milky-white tender flesh.

    The tip of my tongue reaches out and contacts her
    sweetness, she gasps again, and then begins moaning
    with pleasure as I find the secret spots, touching
    each one with gentle the loving tip of my eager
    tongue.

    She holds my head with her hands, and I caress up and
    down her legs, around her tiny buttocks. My hotrod,
    wired with aching tosses and turns in its cloth cage.

    She pulls away and stands above me. "Your madness
    pleases me greatly," she declares, removing the
    necklace she has been wearing, seizing the crystal
    and holding it high above her head, declaring in a
    loud voice:

    "Chandrika Luna Hecate Heirogamus Reina Maximus
    Cielus Altimo!"

    From the heart of the crystal, a faint light flashes
    into blinding brilliance, a million pinpoints of
    stars, and instantly following the world is plunged
    into darkness.

    Underneath me I felt a slab of stone, once rough but
    smoothed with the footsteps of a thousand ancestors.
    The scent of the ocean filled the warm tropical night
    air, along with the fragrance of exotic blooming
    flowers, and in the quiet distance I heard the faint
    crashing of waves... and drums in the distance.

    As my eyes adjusted, I saw Gianna before me in the
    dark, but now she wore a long white robe with an
    Egyptian-styled curvy crown. At the center was a
    white stone laced with subtle rainbow veins that
    glittered in the torchlight. Moonstone.

    As I rise to stand up, several pale tiny hands reach
    out to assist me. I find myself surrounded by young
    girls, some clad in long robes, others scantily clad
    in translucent scarves with glittering jewelry,
    others completely naked aside from a bracelet or
    anklet.

    When I am on my feet, the hands begin unfastening,
    unzipping, and untying every article of my clothing.
    As I feel the bonds loosening around me, I yield to
    the gentle tugging, and soon find myself completely
    naked, my mercilessly hardened horn protruding before
    me. The girls exchange smiling glances, an occasional
    hand reaches out to stroke or touch it.

    "What the hell is this all about?" I demand, in a
    hushed voice.

    With serene tranquility, Gianna replies. "I am one of
    the ninety-nine daughters of the Moon Goddess, the
    princess of the evening star, and your madness has
    pleased me greatly. You have been chosen to take away
    my virginity in a sacred ceremony attended by the
    divine court of the mood-maidens and nymphets."

    "I never dreamed being crazy had such benefits," I
    mutter. Gianna smiles, eyes glittering with
    starlight.

    One of the young girls, about Gianna's age, with
    slender thin child's body, kneels before me. Her
    blond hair flows elegantly across her shoulders, and
    as her lips part I see that she is wearing braces.
    She begins to run the tip of her tongue up and down
    my shaft, occasionally immersing my head between her
    teeth.

    The other girls are busy tying soft, smooth silken
    cords around the base of my penis, sometimes looping
    around the balls, a dozen or so silken cords, each
    held by a different girl. Each holds a lit candle in
    the other hand.

    "Follow me," says Gianna, turning and walking slowly
    away. The blonde girl with braces who was attending
    to me takes up one of the cords and steps back with
    the others as they lead me down a stone walkway. We
    seem to be on the top of a giant castle or other such
    ancient edifice, and with slow solemnity they guide
    my stiffened, lit "candle" on the end of their
    leashes through the tropical night air.

    As we are strolling along, the girls softly chant
    rustic melodies in a strange foreign tongue. It
    sounds like a frickin' Enya album, but for once I
    forgive them. It does set the mood, OK?

    We pass the doorway of a candle-lit room, and inside
    I glimpse an old woman seated on a regal throne,
    decorated with the same sort of strange symbols I had
    seen earlier on Gianna's crystal setting. She is
    surrounded by young girls sitting, standing, in
    various states of undress or wearing suggestively
    erotic garments. The old woman's silver hair glows
    with the ancient wisdom of the millions of months of
    the millenia since the dawning of the universe, and
    in her eyes dances the playful sparkle of gentle
    madness, and she silently greets me with a knowing
    smile. In the distance, a dog howls briefly.

    After we have passed by the doorway, I call out ahead
    to Gianna, "I take it that was your mom?"

    She half-turns back, smiling, "yes."

    We walk under an arched trellis heavily laden with
    sweet-scented flowers, and reach a small amphitheatre
    at the center of which is a round dias, large enough
    to accommodate our entourage a dozen girls or so;
    including me, that would be thirteen, a pleasant
    coven.

    As we enter the circle, the girls each place their
    candles in iron-wrought candle-holders encircling the
    dias, and we are bathed the warm glow of
    candle-light.

    "Lie beside me first," Gianna directs, as she
    reclines on the dias (which turns out to be soft,
    like a giant pillow) and opens the bottom of her gown
    for several of the girls to begin probing her
    sensitive lower mouths, with their tongues and
    fingers, causing her to commence once more her gentle
    moaning.

    I lie beside her, and a few girls attend to me in the
    same manner, as the others hold tight their leashes,
    and I notice some attaching to the end cleverly
    constructed belts that act as a fulcrum, so that when
    I pull on the leash it will push a long smooth object
    into the girl's vagina. Five or six are wearing
    similar apparatus.

    Gianna reaches over next to me and takes my hand. I
    squeeze her tiny fingers gently in mine, feel the
    heat of her sexual pulsing in tempo with her pelvic
    gyrations as we share the joint pleasure of erotic
    stimulation.

    "Isn't this romantic?" she asks.

    "There is absolutely no doubt that I should be taking
    lessons from you on what is romantic," I reply.

    The rhythm intensifies, not in speed, but in
    sensuality, until I feel I cannot take any more.

    "Now," says Gianna, "come over here."

    "OK, love," I reply, gently pushing aside the girls
    who have been tonguing and fingering my sensitive
    parts.

    A pale light gradually has begun to dawn in the sky
    over a nearby mountaintop.

    I kneel before Gianna, throbbing organ standing as a
    wizard's staff before us, a maypole trailing off with
    a dozen silken leashes connected with young feminine
    hands and vaginas, my hotrod filled with fiery aching
    of yearning to be quenched by her ocean of passionate
    desire.

    She simply reaches up with her dainty hand, and pulls
    my staff towards her gaping, dripping red blossom.

    As I push towards her, I feel the tug on a dozen
    cords, and the moans around me of a dozen young
    girls.

    The point of my spear pierces the searing cavity of
    slime between her legs, and I gently shove myself
    through the ring of her virginity.

    Under her moonstone crown, her expression turns to
    intense feeling, the purple backdrop of blood-red
    stars of sensation.

    Slowly pushing, I feel the gentle tearing of tissue.
    She yelps, gasping, and grabs my buttocks with both
    hands, pulling me frantically towards her.

    Unable to hold back any longer, I shove with all my
    might, finally possessing the deep beauty of her
    scarlet innocence. Around me I hear repeated moans
    and sighs of a dozen girls as our erotic rhythm
    establishes a musical cadence.

    I feel her muscles pulsing gently around me, as she
    loses control and convulses wildly.

    Hard rock, volume at eleven.

    She gazes up at me with her starry eyes, seeing that
    I cannot take this much longer, and with a wry grin
    she gently writhes her open legs with a kung-fu that
    triggers the long-overdue cascade of release. I shoot
    into her again and again, deep into the center of her
    beautiful little slender flat-chested body.

    Over the nearby mountaintop, the Moon rises, and a
    blinding rainbow-white light engulfs my being. I feel
    myself falling once more into daylight. I turn to
    find myself lying naked on the red-checkered blanket
    atop Gianna, also naked, but obviously no longer a
    virgin (given that we are still fucking).

    She is clad solely in a silver necklace, with a
    quartz crystal set with mystic glyphs and runes. And
    -- an Egyptian-styled crown with a moonstone set in
    the middle.

    I look down to see my still-stiff organ stuck in her
    vagina, floating in sweet white sticky semen.

    Seeing my astonished expression, she gives me an
    incredulous look. "Whoa, what kind of lunatic fantasy
    were you having?"

    Then she winks at me, giggling.

    It was the beginning of a long, torrid, and
    celestially fulfilling relationship.




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


   For more stories, visit our site on asstr-mirror.org
   http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/

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