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Stamp of the Collector
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Stamp of The Collector
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She, exhausted, dropped the receiver in its cradle. He was
done...terms of endearment, then disconnected. The telephone buzzed
ownerless at her ear. For some time she felt heady, then she felt
like being held. Lonely and very tired.
She lifted her hand to her nose...musk finger smells, her
intimate scents. Her tongue slid...tasting. Her taste, he said,
was wonderful, of pomegranate. She remembered his, the first bitter
extrusion then pulsing...like salted cream of tartar.
It was important to remember the tastes. She now knew her own so
very well.
Echoes...his oiled penis slapping, voice insistent and low and
then breathless. Her fingers wet, then limp in her as her
muscles clenched in small, rythmic reproach. He told her he found
her cries animal and intense. She missed the trickle and spend
of semen and the damp patch on the sheet. She missed his man-smell,
his sweat. She slept, the telephone intact and plastic alongside her.
Later they made love in ASCII. She filled her mind with him.
His fingers moving on the keyboard, face intent...eyes narrowed.
He naked in the California sun...she robed, curtained within the
English dusk. The yearning was intense. Her mind splintered and
she was running...into the kitchen, yanking the refrigerator door.
The screen was oddly white, flushed with intimacy softened by puddling
from the table lamp. She opened her robe...
"Look..." she typed "my robe is open. I have slid forward and
my thighs are spread..."
She confessed...fingers moving swiftly ,
"I went to the kitchen and got a courgette from the 'fridge.
I have pushed it in my cunt."
She observed herself from a height. Breasts small, buttoned and
dark aureoled. Stomach sloped to dark brush and swollen labia.
The courgette, an incongruous...half-submerged, green-veined thrill.
It had seemed icy cold as she plunged it feeling its sharp chill deep
inside. A gasp of something new and foreign...a strange delight of
surprised muscles. Then a numbed peaceful knowledge...accepting.
There was freedom in this small cold vice resting in her and imbued
with intimacy.
She left it...still within her and typed.
"It is cold in me...a vegetable prick. I can see its end,
I muscle it...it moves. I clench my buttocks it pushes
up against my clit...it feels...wonderful."
She dropped her hand and eased it slowly out. It drew wetly
gleaming in the light, and the sight of her juices on the
mottled ridges excited her. She plunged it in hard...met its
cold tip with clenched delight. Watching herself in wonder she
ignored the screen...barely aware of the scrolling of his delighted
words and encouragement. She thrust and drew it, amiable chilled
courgette, until her trembling stilled.
The courgette, lifted to her lips, was still cold. She sucked it,
eyes closed, green chilled penis; her pomegranate and musk. Drew
it...a Havanna cigar, slowly under her nose. Rubbed it across her
cheek and traced it down her neck, over her breasts and stomach and
laid it along now closed thighs.
"I came." She returned her attention to the screen.
She felt very loving and intimate and shy in the afterglow. She
felt a complicity...a slight, delighted shame. This strange
small deviant gift to him.
--
Tawni
Copyright 1993 Pat O'Brien
All permissions reserved except for the right to distribute in
electronic text form across computer networks.
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