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Learning to Fly
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.
Learning to fly
She stretched out her leg languidly, raised it up, up toward
the ceiling, flexing her toes. Her other leg followed.
Reaching out for her feet with both hands, she took hold of
the tips and stretched taut, enjoying the feeling of her
body seeming to yawn. Carefully, she opened her legs wide,
feeling her inner thigh muscles tense. Lying with her legs
spread in a V, she contemplated her toes.
Ugly, she thought. They were short and squat like a bunch
of misshaped grapes. So unlike his toes, long, elegant,
articulate... She smiled at the thought. He always said her
toes were beautiful; while his were like a bunch of bananas.
But then he did have that way of wiggling them so, like a
concert pianist, and he had played her body in that
oh-so-delicious manner...
That thought combined with the vulnerability of her pose
suddenly made her acutely aware of her body and she snapped
back her legs, knees under her chin, hands clasped under her
bottom. She frowned. Silly, she chided herself. I'm alone.
She stretched out her legs again, spreading them just enough
for her to run her finger gently up her lips and onto her
mound, scratching her curls with her fingernails, then
rubbing them down, then scratching them again. Well, she
thought, almost alone. She looked over to where he was
lying next to her, on his face, resting his head on his arm,
his other arm thrown lazily off the side. She ran a
fingernail gently over his bottom while stroking herself
wondering whether he would awaken. He was incredibly
sensitive to her touch -- except when he was away, like now.
She sighed. Blue balls, she thought. I've got blue balls.
She looked down at her fingers tracing concentric circles
over her mound and ducking down between her lips, stopped,
and lifted her fingers to her tongue, smelling and tasting
her sweetness. She sighed again. Normally, this would not
be a problem. She would have played herself for an hour or
so, playing around with images of him doing wonderful things
with her until when her body could stand it no longer when
she would feel his hardness thrust itself deep into her
while she squeezed her breasts and stroked her glans and
came and came and came except...
Except he was lying there next to her, at once with her
and not, and what was the use of having her fantasy lying
next to her if he wouldn't cooperate? And it was still late
afternoon; he wouldn't be back until the next morning, and
she was as horny as a bitch in heat.
"Astral projection."
He made it sound so easy, looking at her in a way that
sometimes made her think that she should feel really stupid
for not knowing what she was talking about before she
realized again that he didn't mean that -- she knew how he
looked at people he thought were stupid.
"Astral projection. It's really easy. People do it all
the time when they're asleep, only they call it dreaming.
You simply pull your mind out of your body and take it
wherever you want it to be." His voice had deepened and
wheezed into a Rod McKuen caricature: "We'll sail the sun,
we'll ride on the rain, we'll talk to the trees..." And
then snapping back to his normal tone and grinning: "We
could fuck too. Do you wanna?"
It was a few days later that she realized that he had
been serious, when he told her about his flight to Venus,
then to Jupiter a moment later, then through the core of the
Sun, then out to the quasars at the furthest reaches of the
Universe. "What's it like?" she had asked him. "What do
they look like?"
"I don't know," he said, looking somewhat downcast. "I
can tell you what it feels like. When you're outside of your
body, you don't have eyes, or a nose or ears or fingers. You
can only feel inside of of you. When I go to the Sun, I can
put an image to what I'm feeling because my mind has a
picture of what I'm feeling looks like. I can do the same
with the clouds around Venus or the rings around Saturn. But
that's probably not what they really look like. I know what
they feel like. I can feel a quasar, but I can't tell you
what it looks like."
"What does a quasar feel like?"
"Sort of like my grandmother, like 21-year-old Scotch,
like Phil Collins playing the trombone..."
"But lover, Phil Collins doesn't play the trombone."
"That's what I mean..."
As usual, when he discovered something new and
wonderful(and generally bizarre), he tried to show it to
her. But this was not quite as easy as superimposing Ronald
Reagan's head on Tammy Faye Bakker's body on the computer
screen. She got the giggles whenever she thought of trying
it. Crazy. And yet...
And yet there were those hours on end during which he was
gone. Here, but not here. And each time he got back, he was
even more determined to get back out as soon as possible.
"What are you looking for?" she asked him one day. He
gazed blankly at the TV screen while sipping on his coffee.
Five minutes later, when the scene of Nicolae Ceausescu's
execution gave way to a Phillip Morris commercial on the
Bill of Rights, he said: "Life."
She realized that he was answering her question of
several minutes before. "I know it's out there. I can feel
it. But I can't describe it, because I can't see it. I've
got to know what it looks like." He grumpily lit a
cigarette, stubbed it out, lit another, stubbed that out as
well, and relit the first one.
"Do you have any ideas?" she asked.
He exhaled lazily. "You know I once used to be able to
blow smoke rings? When I was a kid? I mean about 16?" She
got up angrily and moved into the kitchen to pour herself a
glass of bottled water. His digressions could be quite
exasperating sometime. His voice followed her in. "You
know, if I can find someone out there who's projecting at
the same time, maybe I could slip into their body for a
while. Can you imagine what that would be like? Entering
the body of an entirely different life form? Feeling a
whole new range of sensations? Seeing through their eyes.?
He paused: "If they have eyes, of course..."
She thought of her own eyes now. He said they changed
colour; flecks of brown when she was mellow, icy blue when
she was angry. And when she was horny? He wouldn't say.
She closed them now, trying to reflect the colour within
herself so that she could see them, picture them. Her
fingernail once more traced a lazy path across his body.
"Just close your eyes," he had said. "Look up to the ceiling
and try to imagine yourself hanging from the ceiling looking
down at your body. If you relax enough, your mind will float
up, out of your body, and you will really be able to see
yourself down on the bed."
"How would I be able to see myself?" she had asked. "I
wouldn't have eyes."
"True," he'd replied. "But you will be able to feel what
the image in front of you is, and since the image in front
of you is one that you already have a picture of in your
mind, you will be able to see. People who are not
congenitally blind can still see light in their dreams even
after their eyes stop working." He had grinned at this. "I
know this for a fact. I don't wear my glasses when I'm
dreaming."
But that eyebrow shape is so strange, she thought, and I
really shouldn't have my mouth open like that. Oh gawd, look
at those zits. Mind you, he's right. I do have nice tits...
Agoraphobia swept through her with hurricane-like
intensity. She shot up, bolt upright, biting her finger and
looking around her, feeling her heart beating between her
earlobes. Shit! she thought. She looked around. Twilight
had fallen and the room was hazy. She felt her pulse rate
gradually dropping back to normal. Closing her eyes, she
took a deep breath, reaching out to scratch the sudden itch
under her...
...beard?
She tugged gingerly at it. This is crazy, this isn't
happening, I'm dreaming, I'll wake up and see everything's
okay I will. Opening her eyes again, she reached out for the
light and switched it on.
Blurred... Everything was blurred... Like looking through
a window with Vaseline smeared all over it. She looked down
next to her, making out the slightly tanned pale shape of
her body next to his now dark brown almost black skin. She
moved her face -- his face -- down next to that on her own
body, seeing the features suddenly coming into focus.
Glasses, she thought, I need glasses. Fumbling next to the
bed, she found them and put them on clumsily. The Vaseline
washed away. Carefully, she stood up, feeling a sudden wave
of nausea as though she had climed onto a very high pair of
stiletto heels. Easy, she thought, you're six inches taller
than normal.
Slowly, she scratched her beard.
"Oh shit," she said philosophically. She startled at the
sound. His voice sounded different from the inside. "Shit
shit shit," she said several times for effect, feeling the
word rolling around her tongue. "Shhhhhiiiiiiiit! Shit.
Shitshitshitshitshitshit. Shit? Shit. Shit!" She stopped,
looking at the cat which had just strolled into the room and
was regarding her balefully as if to say "what's with you,
bitch?" She stuck out her tongue at the cat, thumbs in her
ears and wiggling her fingers, and caught sight of herself
in the mirror. The image of her lover making faces at the
cat was too corny for words and she burst out laughing and
was again startled to hear his voice.
She had a sudden inexplicable craving for coffee...
Her cigarettes tasted vile, she thought, as she took a sip
of the coffee. So did the coffee. Two-and-a-half spoons of
sugar later, the coffee tasted better. The cigarettes
didn't.
Peeved, she wandered into the bedroom and stood in front
of the mirror. Anonyance at the taste of the cigarette gave
way to novelty of the reflection before her, and with total
fascination, she slowly began to run her hands across her...
his... body.
You're gorgeous, she thought. You're quite stunning, and
you're all mine.
A familiar flush spread through her body and she
continued to lazily stroke herself, then looked down between
her legs. The sight of the arrogantly jutting protrusion
startled her, and she had to make a deliberate effort to
force her hand down to grasp it slowly, gingerly at the
base.
She closed her eyes, thinking back to how she had held it
before, with her own hand, the way he said drove him quite
rapidly to the brink. Strange, she thought. It had always
felt huge to her before. In his hand it felt a lot smaller.
But nice, she thought, opening her eyes and watching as she
peeled back her foreskin gently to see the glistening head
underneath. She looked into the mirror.
"Do it, stud," she whispered.
Flexing her fist around the shaft, she began to pump it,
back and forth, up and down, thrilling to the feeling.
Harder and faster she stroked, thrusting her hips arrogantly
towards the mirror and reaching down with the other hand to
squeeze her balls the way she used to. "God, yes, oh you're
beautiful, oh yes, don't stop, don't Stop, don't, Don't
YESSSSSSS!!!!"
The semen churned up deep within her loins and shot out
for the figure on the other side of the mirror, coming to an
abrupt stop at the glass. She jerked back and forth a little
as more welled up from within, spilling over her fingers.
Unclasping her fingers from the now subsiding flood, she
reached out for the mirror, tracing a wet path with her
finger.
I love you, she wrote.
And minutes later when the pounding in her heart had
slowed to normal levels and when her breath returned, she
discovered that his cigarettes tasted a lot better than
hers...
She relaxed in the bath for a long while after that,
exploring her lover's body, rediscovering those muscles,
curves, shapes, those arms, those legs; the newness of the
familiarity was exhilirating. And that bottom... she had
often wished she were a man so that she could fuck it...
She was still discovering her own strength and was
dismayed when she squeezed half a tube of toothpaste onto
her toothbrush. Then the discovery excited her. Running
dripping out of the bathroom, she pounced upon a concrete
block that stood against the wall and lifted it, thrilling
to the ease with which she did so. She tried several sit-ups
-- her body normally gave up on those, but his seemed to
handle them quite effortlessly.
Her eye fell upon the sketch pad. Picking up a pen, she
began to doodle. Minutes later, she triumphantly held up a
picture of a smiling penis waving a finger in the air and
exclaiming "See! You can draw after all!", then chuckled
when she realized that she had signed it with her
handwriting, not his.
She went back into the kitchen to pour herself an iced
tea, but that tasted vile too. On the other hand, the orange
juice tasted great. That thought made her quite nervous for
a while, until she discovered the creative possibilities in
peeing standing up, which sent the cat scurrying for cover.
It was late at night when she finally made her way back into
the bedroom. And there he was, lying there, her body, her
voice, his mannerisms, his look of desire in her eyes.
"Hello lover," he said in a voice full of wonder. "It
seems I found what I was looking for." And he stretched her
body out on the bed, drew her legs up to her chest, slipped
a finger down between her legs into her glistening wet
folds, and gently spread her... his... lips open,
inviting...
"Fuck me," he said.
She felt her shaft stiffen gloriously and her balls draw
tightly up in anticipation and as she moved down onto the
bed and onto him, sinking herself deep into that exquisite
wet warmth, she suddenly knew.
She knew what colour her eyes turned when she was horny.
for Kate, with love
--
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Home: (609) 396-9004 Bitnet: SVPILLAY@PUCC
Fax: (609) 258-1735 uucp: princeton!svpillay
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