by Sasha Pearl
He laughed and drank a little more beer.
“Now, if you want an easy sure thing, there is this twinkie named Julie running around who says that she has never cum and she just can’t cum, and poor her because she just doesn’t know how to unwind. I say get three amaretto sours in her and before you know it she’ll be sucking your dick. Sounds good?”
Instead of answering me with an answer, he asked a question, “Are you married?”
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Is that a yes? Or a no?”
“It’s complicated,” I said, before standing up and waving Julie over. I wasn’t going to tell him more, so again we sat in silence, because clearly the next person who talked would be the loser.
And anyway, if I told him – if I even began with that piece that ended my old future and started where I am now– I am sure this man, who seems actually like not that bad of a man at all, would tell me he was sorry to hear about it.
After that, the tables would be turned between us and the energy would be flipped over like an hourglass, only I would be on the bottom, and sand would be pouring all over me.
Once Julie arrived, I whispered in her ear, “He has the most amazing talent with his tongue. If you’re lucky….”
She pulled back, blue eyes round with shock for only a second, then she turned her face right into his and said, “Hi, I’m Julie, I’d love to sit on your face for awhile.”
I took that as my cue to slip out.
Carman, I trust you to tell me the truth, or at least to distract me enough so I won’t care.
Can’t you somehow from wherever you are please send a signal, a sign and tell me if this dress makes me look like Minnie Mouse?
I know. The deal.
Give happily and freely, ask for nothing.
I still believe in that. I’m not really asking. I know the truth, anyway -- Minnie Mouse wears yellow shoes. And I have a nicer tail. So there.
Good night*
.
23
Carman Fan Club
CHAPTER 3: SHORT-SKIRTED YOGA
Carman.
Carman?
CARMAN!!
Are you reading this? I have to assume you have or you will, or I will lose my mind out of loneliness. There, I said it.
It hit me yesterday while I was sitting through one of the “mundane appointments” that are as expensive as they are painful that that the idea of you reading my stories makes it worth going through another day to find something to write about.
I almost wish I hadn’t tripped across this landmine of truth, because I can see my darker side wielding it as a weapon on a bad day, telling me to give my stories to the universe, give the freely.
Fine, the universe for all eternity can read my stories, but the truth is that I only wrote them for you.
And if you were here, sitting next to me (where, clearly, you must not belong, or you would be --) and I could tell you these stories with words and gestures, there would be nothing left for the universe after our moments of laughter.
You aren’t here and that I have to find the place and the time to write you stories gets me through the days while I’m stuck with characters like Ms. Smug and Dr. Distracted and Nurse Hang On It Could Get Worse who I will tell you about another day.
Back to the sex.
Today I went to a class called “Short Skirted Yoga”
When I go to the beach, if I go to the beach because I generally don’t go to the beach, I wear a one piece bathing suit that has a skirt so that no one can look at my ass.
It is my ass, attached to me, and not for public consumption.
Also, generally on the rare occasions I do go to the beach, I wear a short sundress on top of my bathing suit as extra armor.
So if you knew that about me you also wouldn’t be surprised that I am wearing silky dark blue panties here this morning by the lake to do short-skirted yoga.
And yes, I’m in the back row, right in the middle, separate from the group like a stem on a cherry.
The teacher’s name is Lindsey; she speaks with a soft voice framed with long straight medium brown hair, the color any non-yoga teacher would have highlighted or darkened or something. It is exactly the color of mud and she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all.
I can’t tell you a think about her body because she’s wearing baggy pants and a white embroidered tunic.
Besides the hair, I like her.
Our first set of exercises had us opening our base chakras to the sun, to the lake, and to the breeze that caught my wet pussy with a pleasant surprise. I had no idea sunning my crotch would feel so good.
Julie, up front, spontaneously turned herself around to downward dog with her ass in the air; I couldn’t see her pussy but I did see her white heavy tits swinging a little when she took deep yoga breaths.
For a few minutes I fell back into my own yoga, my legs completely open, stretching open my spine, my ass, using every muscle I could find to pull open my pussy to the heat that was bouncing off the earth and through my panties.
When I looked up, Lindsey was behind Julie, leaning against her, lining their base chakras together.
“If you feel called to, then notice the harmony that is flowing from the two of us right now. Yoga is balance and restraint but it is also about the moving of energy, and that energy can move from me into her.”
The rest of the group shifted their attention to where mine had already been, and together we watched Lindsey push against Julie with a throbbing so slow and deliberate I would swear they had trained together as pole dancers.
Lindsey then stretched over and around Julie, her hands pulling Julie’s shirt off, freeing her tits which bounced happily and appreciatively.
“Does our energy move you? If you are open, then let it pull you and a partner together, see what stretches you might explore. Push, pull, breath, allow.”
I wanted to shout out to Lindsey to please make Julie cum, make her cum hard, please, but I didn’t need to because just as the women in front of me started walking around like cats eyeing each others tits and touching necks, lips, pussies, Lindsey kneeled behind Julie, opened her pussy lips and buried her face.
The sounds that came from Julie about a minute later were like nothing I ever heard before. Not quite breathing, not quiet gratitude; pure joy relief and ecstasy.
So I did it, quietly.
With my panties still on, of course, but still, I did it.
Turned myself toward the lake, letting the sun warm my ass, my pussy and my legs while my tits fell low and happy.
There I stood, throbbing, waiting, until I felt her slide up and against me like puzzle pieces fitting.
Her mound pushed against my crotch blocking the sun, pushing a new kind of heat into it.
I don’t know how long it went on, but on it did go as she went against me and around me and then under me so that I was offering my tits to her as I sat on her lap, legs wrapped around her, moving up and down.
She didn’t ask me if she could remove my panties; I didn’t move my hands anywhere near her pussy, don’t ask me why, and no she didn’t ask me to touch her there because we didn’t talk.
No one said that this exercise was silent, and yet that rule somehow created itself.
While she sucked my left tit, at almost exactly the same time my nipple disappeared deeply into her thirsty soft mouth, she moved my panties over with one hand, then slipped her other hand over my crotch touching me so lightly, so kindly and so softly I almost came right there.
Some force lead me to lean back, pulling her over me, her hand still exploring under my soaking wet panties, her mouth on my tit.
When she pulled off my tit and disappeared lower and lower, pulling my panties off and drinking from me while moving her fingers into and around and around and into until, under the sun and next to the lake, I came on her hand and on her face.
I can’t believe I get to stay here for 5 more weeks.
This camp was the best idea ever.<
br />
There are rumors about a blow out 4th of July party, but you know I don’t believe things until I see them.
So there.
CHAPTER 4:
JUICY & DRIPPING, LIKE FRUIT
I never know when to arrive at these things. The ones who get here early end up playing hostess, testing the coffee, coming back to the kitchen to let them know what’s missing (packets of cream cheese; Splenda; vodka), then stay long as though it was their event to preside over.
The ones who come too late exclaim that they got a better offer, had a better experience, were doing something more compelling than eating, drinking, gossiping, dressing up and strutting smiling checking out and pairing up.
Since I’m only here for the show (right?) , I try to arrive right in the middle, when the line is at its longest, and then befriend other middle-of-the-line folks. No food looks good to me when I have to stand up and parade around publicly to fetch it, so I am a good one to be next to in line as I do not grab for a spoon, do reach for the last piece of turkey, walk around the ripe titted blonde in an aqua tank dress taking her time to make looping swirls of ranch dressing on her spinach salad, everyone behind me moves fast.
I grab a banana, a piece of pound cake that I have no intention of eating, a cup of coffee and head to the back of the room, to table #17, assigned by my iterary and confirmed by a seating chart by the large glass window that faces the mirrorsmooth lake.
Nicole, Marisol and Angie were already there, joined by Danielle (built like a ice skater), Katie (looks like an artist), and Graciella (I can’t tell if she is French or Italian; she is languid and thoughtful and so beautiful I can hardly look at her).
Nicole passes a plate of fruit to me.
I wave it away.
Looks are exchanged, the conversation falls back into pieces of two or three, about dresses, about recipes about threesomes and foursomes and othersomes that grew and throbbed and shrunk back to the first two again, who were so into and on top of and around each other so completely lost in each other that they hardly noticed the noise, much less the quiet.
I drink my coffee first, its all I wanted, all I want, warm and sweet and strong and there is milk in it so that counts for nourishment and really people don’t need nearly as much food as they eat most of the time anyway.
“Why don’t you eat?” She asks in a hushed tone but everyone else is quiet enough, like this question was all of theirs not just hers.
I don’t answer, just sip my coffee again, waiting for someone else to fill the quiet, apologizing for the bluntness, complimenting my dress, offering up that they don’t eat much either especially not in the morning.
No one speaks.
Again, it is her voice, hushed.
“Have some cantaloupe. Some pineapple,” she pushes a second plate towards me filled with brightly colored sweet offerings.
I can’t say no, so I take one piece of each.
“I don’t eat fruit,” I tell them. “I just don’t. I don’t want to, and I don’t.”
“But why,” she asks and I’m annoyed to have to even formulate an answer because it seems so transparent to fast from juicy, dripping sweet fruit.
The real virtue, in my mind, is to continue on this fast, uncomplaining, to find the things that bring great earthly pleasure, and instead of embracing them eating them rolling on top of them and taking satisfaction, instead choosing to allow them to ripen on their vines and be plucked by another.
And that is why I don’t eat fruit, I remind myself, but don’t say in that same way because they haven’t earned that kind of explanation.
But here I am, I can’t say no, so I talk instead, waving a piece of cantaloupe, and I tell them a little, that the fruit is so juicy, so ripe and dripping, it melted in my mouth so perfectly, that if I have some, I should like to have more, and if I have more, I might soon find my face buried in a mango, licking my fingers, sticky and wanting strawberries that blossomed into nipple shaped temptations.
Danielle shifts while listening to me, and I imagine she is getting a little wet, so I look at her when I take my bite – a very small bite, which I rewarded for with a burst of juice dripping down my chin – I wipe my face with the moss colored cloth napkin and put the fork down.
Graciella claps and the table clapped and I lean back laughing relieved.
She stands then, leaving her dishes because this is the kind of camp where we have a “staff” you know, and asks who is going for a swim.
I do not have a bathing suit on, just my red sundress and bra but no panties, but I say yes and follow her, watching her white gauzy dress blow in the wind.
We don’t talk much, or if we did, it wasn’t the kind of talking people remember; autochat, small things, noticing the coolness of the wind, do you have sunscreen, that’s my cabana over there.
While we were walking she took my hand. Maybe she likes me, maybe this is what they do where she is from, which she hasn’t mentioned and I haven’t asked because I’m not doing anything to fuck this up.
I felt claimed, pulled and held by her; I liked it.
Her cabana was the third tiny house in a row of six minature scale beachfront mansions.
In front of it we looked like Godzilla and King Kong, I pointed out, and she said --- in the most perfect accent which still sounds Italian to me unless its French and then I almost think maybe Argentine because they always fool me --- while she put her tiny key in the tiny lock that in fact if we were like that in those movie the men would have risked their lives to race out to the street to look up our dresses to see if we have sensible panties on.
As she opened the door and motioned for me to pass, I looked her right in the eye right before ducking by and said, “and if we weren’t wearing panties?”
She followed me, “then I should like to get a good look at that myself,” and before I could get myself seated on the perfect soft sofa in the middle of the softest room I had ever been in, she was on the sun bleached hardwood floor in front of me, reaching for something under the sofa, directly beneath me.
“My treasure box” she proclaimed, pulling a locked black flat box out, “are you game?”
And as she opened the box full of brightly colored things, some familiar other less so, I shifted my weight, opening my knees enough that if – actually, really, when – she looked up from her treasure box she would know my answer.
“I think you have only received, not given, yes?”
I closed my knees and moved them, waiting for a better question.
“I saw you, yesterday, yoga, receiving and then you just got up and walked away which was not the thank you and how can I serve you too that I think your partner was expecting. I think you are new to this and you do not yet know how to give. So I will teach you. Yes?”
I agreed, knees still closed. “I have never wanted to eat pussy, I just don’t want to” and then I stopped myself before continuing into specifics because at that exact moment I couldn’t think of one.
She snapped her treasure box closed and rolled the numbers. “Later,” she said patting it and sending an air kiss to it like it was a favorite niece dressed up for First Communion.
At that, she stood up and walked away returning with a new red two piece bathing suit, tags still on.
“You need this,” she tossed it at me, I shook it off, because I knew if I left the place with a dress over a 2 piece sooner or later the dress was coming off and forget it. I’m just like that, not for public consumption; private parties only.
She picked it back up, cut the tags off, then pulled the red bikini bottom off the hangar.
With one snip, she cut a hole lengthwise in the crotch, pulled at it gently, tossed it to me. “Now, please. So that you cover yourself, then you are happy, yes?”
And so I stood up – right in front of her, almost against her because that is where she was, keeping eye contact the whole time because at the this point there was no looking away -- I slid them on.
“You show your p
ussy to no one but me, that is my request,” she said leaning closer towards me, one hand lifting my dress the other sliding up the inside of my leg, up to the middle, then down the other side again.
Again she moved her hand over, around, towards then down again, kissing my neck, kissing my chest, moving down to my nipples and then, just as I was expecting her lips on my tit, her fingers found the hole in my panties and pushed in slowly.
I came all over her, juicy and dripping, like fruit.
39
Carman Fan Club
CHAPTER 5
IN & OUT OF THE LAKE
If I had said nothing, and if she had not felt my pussy contract on her exploring and generous hand over and over, she might have guessed that I came when I threw my head back and laughed.
And then the silence came.
She pulled her hand from and out, took it away and smiled.
My face reddened. This must be reciprocation time.
Graciella turned from me, headed to her bedroom then came out in a black bikini that somehow made her amazing ass look even better, her hair pulled into a long ponytail. “Swimming yes?” she asked, walking to the door, her hand extended again. “I have a little spot out there, let’s go…”
And so I went with her, followed her down the winding path out towards the lake where three women already were – two topless, a third completely nude.
“Crazy, yes?” Graciella whispered as we passed them. “Some things, they are private, yes?” and because I nodded, or maybe because this is what she usually does, she lead me into the water, past our knees, past our waists, up to our necks.
“Now, you do what I do, and nobody can see us, yes?” and with that, she pulled me towards her so I straddled her, semi floating in the water, bouncing on my tippy toes.
She put her left arm around me, cupped my breast with her other hand.
I mirrored her, putting my arm around her, reaching up and holding her heavy pear sized breast in my hand.