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. Photographs
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.
Subject: Photographs (f,mast)
Date: Wed, 14 Jun 1995 14:19:20 UTC
The following is a work of erotic fiction. If you are a minor, or likely to
be offended by graphic descriptions of sex do not read any further.
All comments, suggestions and philosphical musings welcome at :
[email protected]. I would especially like to hear from other writers.
I do not read this newsgroup regularly so if you want me to see your
comments, please be sure to use e-mail.
Two Photographs
(C) "Marlowe" 1995 This story may be copied for your own use, but you may
not make a profit from it
A week into his vacation, John decided things were definitely improving.
The days were balmy rather than hot, with the blue sky crossed by the
occasional cloud. The air had a crisp stillness to it, that seemed to make
colours brighter, and sounds hang for a moment in the silence.
The sea was still too cold to swim in, and his parents, who had cajoled him
into
joining them as soon as university went into recess, spent their time in
long walks on the beach.
John preferred to spend his with the neighbours, who's daughter Julie was
the main reason for his newly found enthusiasm. A year older than him, she
had long hair the colour of straw, and a constant smile that put John at
ease. Their time was mostly spent making small talk with her parents,
sunning in the garden, or on the warmer days, down on the beach.
He was somewhat in awe of her prettiness, and her calm serenity made her
seem to John even more mature than her age.
John was gazing out of the bedroom window. Outside he could see the beach,
the trees and the nearby houses. Nothing moved. Even the waves seemed to be
falling still, lapping the shore without a sound. He had not seen Julie
yet today, and looked forward to her company. He put on his shoes, humming
to himself as he tied the laces.
As he walked the short path that ran past the two houses he smiled,
remembering all their planned hikes, which invariably ended up postponed in
favour of sunbathing.
He walked through the garden to knock on the living room window. He heard
no reply. John peered through the French doors, covering his eyes to shield
the glass from the sun's glare. A mug of tea was resting on the coffee
table, next to an open magazine. He knocked again, and as he did so, the
door swung open.
"Julie ?"
He stepped inside, and headed toward the kitchen. On the table was a plate,
and some freshly made toast was sticking out of the toaster.
He headed back to the living room, and sat down on the sofa.
He glanced distractedly at the magazine. It was open on two large black and
white photographs, printed sideways so each filled up a page.
The first showed a man lying face down in the road, under the chrome fender
of a car, glinting in the streetlights. Beads of sweat stood out on his
black skin, and his glazed eyes stared blankly at the camera. In the right
of the frame, the legs of a policeman's uniform, and his heels standing in
the dead man's blood.
The other was of a man and a woman, lying naked on a bed, hugging each
other, their bodies bathed in soft, diffused light sunlight coming through
an open window. Their legs were twined together, their heads buried in
each others' shoulder, hiding their faces from view. A dog was sleeping at
the foot of the bed.
John gazed at the magazine. He had never seen photographs like that. He had
seen pictures of dead people, and photos of people having sex. But the
corpses were always in the distance, and never had open eyes. And the
couples in the pornographic magazine usually touched at the groin only.
There was something about the gentle way the woman's hand cradled the man's
neck that made John's stomach tighten with emotion.
A door opened somewhere in the house. He put down the magazine and went to
the bottom of the stairs. He was about to call out, then remembered that
Julie's mother often slept at this time of day. He climbed the stairs, and
as he reached the top a movement caught his eye. At the far end of the
corridor, through the open door to her parent's bedroom, he could see Julie
lying on the bed.
Her eyes were closed, and her hand was moving through her hair. At first he
thought she was sleeping, then he saw her face spread in a big smile, as
her fingers traced the outline of her lips. She began to explore her face
with her fingertips, pausing to feel her eyelashes, the width of her nose,
the contours of her ears, giggling to herself every now and then.
Then, letting out a contented sigh, she ran her hand down her body, over
the smooth white dress that covered her breasts, gathering and pushing the
skirt in between her legs.
John stood rooted to the spot, the blood pounding in his ears. He was
embarrassed to be watching, yet curious - and afraid a movement might
betray his presence. Though the bedroom was brightly lit by the sun coming
through the open windows, the corridor was in darkness.
With one deft movement Julie sat up and swept the dress up over her head.
Underneath she was naked, except for a pair of white cotton panties. Her
breasts were whiter than the rest of her body. Blushing, John recognised
the shape left by the bikini top she wore when they tanned together in her
garden.
She lay back with her knees up, her hands hovering a few inches above her
breasts, her golden hair flowing on the pillow.
For a few moments John was puzzled, as her hands circled above her body, as
if gently kneading the air. Then her hand formed a cup just in front of her
face, the same gesture as the woman in the photograph. As Julie stroked the
imaginary neck, she sighed - the corners of her open mouth smiling.
Her hips began to rock back and forth, then circle in time to her breathing.
John's heart was now thumping so hard that he could feel each beat shake
his whole body like a drum. He could feel his arousal growing with each
pulse.
Julie's hands dropped to her breasts, and she let out a low moan. As one
hand stroked her nipple, the other trailed down her body to her mound as
she began to gently rub her palm over the crotch of her white panties.
Her strokes became longer and deeper, until she slipped her fingers
underneath the fabric and probed inside.
John felt a strong urge to let his own hands do the same, drawn to the heat
he now felt in his groin, but stood motionless, afraid the slightest
gesture might startle her. He struggled to control his breathing, that
seemed to him to have grown to a roar in the echoing darkness of the
corridor.
Julie was now rubbing herself with strong, slow strokes, her fingers
stretching the panties till they seemed as if they would break. Then she
raised her legs and tore them off, letting her knees fall wide apart. John
could see the golden hair of her sex sparkling in the sunlight, then the
pinkness of her lips as her fingers parted the folds of skin. Her movements
were slower now, exploring, touching, tracing her contours. With one she
hand teased through her curls while the other spread her lips wider. Then,
holding her lips apart, her fingers began to slowly glide around the darker
redness inside, deep into herself, then drawing the glistening wetness up
towards the small nub at the top of her mound. With each stroke her hips
rocked upwards, thrusting her sex into the air, her breath coming in quick
sighs through her parted lips. Her breasts rose and fell, her body moving
as if carried on a wave which began from her hips, and as each wave got
stronger, her sighs became more urgent, almost pleading, until at last she
pushed herself up on her heels, lifting her hips clear off the bed, gasping
with pleasure as the orgasm shook her.
John's body was engulfed by a hot wave that made his head spin. For a
moment he teetered on the brink of orgasm, every fibre in his body humming,
then the bright glow receded. When he opened his eyes, to his surprise,
Julie had not (as he normally did as such times in his own bed) slumped
back contentedly, but was still rubbing herself with her fingers.
Then with one hand she reached up and pulled the long French pillow down
alongside her. With the other hand still cupping her mound, she reached for
her dress on the floor, and draped it over the pillow, and then twisted the
skirt into a ridge on top of it.
She rolled over to straddle it, and began to grind against it with powerful
turns of her hips, supporting herself with her arms. Her hair danced over
her breasts, trailing on the pillow. John could see the muscles in her back
flow with her movements, her thighs taught. Her body had a kind of grace
John had not seen before. He had always seen her at rest, lying still - and
though terribly, intoxicatingly beautiful - immobile, seductive but not
active. Now seeing her body full of life, rippling with energy he saw her
full beauty for the first time - alive with motion.
Her sighs were turning to moans, and rising in pitch as her grinding
gathered pace, building imperceptibly faster, growing firmer with each
turn. Then John saw her back tremble as she let out a long squeal.
As she sank down on the pillow with a sigh, John's chest filled with the
desire to hold her close, talk to her, kiss her. Slowly he backed down the
stairs, and still blushing, let himself out the front door. His mind was
spinning with images. Julie, the couple on the bed, and the dead man's
eyes.
He spent the rest of the day on the beach, watching the waves.
Marlowe
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