This is a fiction piece, a short story, I wrote some months ago. I’ll post it here and also in my fiction tab. It’s a bit slow to develop, but stay with it.
“Long ago there lived a King and Queen who said every day, “If only we had a child!” But for a long time they had none.”
It is Saturday morning, and I am in the Mayhurst Public Library reading Sleeping Beauty to the children. Eleven precious souls form a semi-circle before me in the reading room. I sit on a stool in my June Cleaver shirt dress and high heels, a retro look I just have fun with (perhaps my little wink at our small town), and a touch of dress-up to make the reading hour special for the children.
“‘Nay, your daughter shall not die, but instead shall fall into a deep sleep that will last one hundred years’ . . . “
I also work at the library during the week as head librarian. Some wonder why I volunteer on my day off, but I love the library, being around books any day of the week, and this simple joy of reading to children. They call me “Miss Becca.” Most are regulars and I know them by name and character, as well as their parents, who are endlessly grateful for the opportunity to leave their kids with me while they run errands downtown.
The children are sometimes fidgety, depending on the story, but I summon all my college theater experience to bear on the dramatic reading. Usually I have their rapt attention. The kids seem to love my readings and get excitedly involved in the stories, often shrieking and gasping and laughing. It makes me happy. This morning they’re hanging on my every word:
“At that moment she fell upon the bed which was standing near and lay still in a deep sleep.”
So here’s the thing: I may be a devoted librarian, but once reading time is done and the children are reunited with their parents, the rest of my day is me time — self-servingly, gloriously, all about me.
And so it is that at 11:30 Saturday morning I exit the library and stroll downtown, my shirt dress swishing breezily and my heels clicking smartly. Time now for my Saturday afternoon ritual, and then my weekly trek to my special place.
I have a standing appointment at noon with my hair stylist, Stacy. Doing this every week is a luxury, but one of my little indulgences. Stacy knows my chestnut hair better than I do, and she always brings out the depth of my natural color brilliantly. She also scolds me about my love life — or lack of it — and apparently I need that kind of therapy on a regular basis.
“I’m thirty-five,” I say, as if that explains everything.
“Perfect age,” Stacy says. “A lot of young bucks are rutting for their Mrs. Robinson. And some sugar daddy stallions out there are certainly in heat for a woman like you.”
I wince. “Sounds like I should admit myself to a zoo.”
“Funny. But I’m serious,” she says. ”You have opportunities.”
“To the contrary, I think twenty-somethings are intimidated by my age and older men actually want someone younger. Besides, Mayhurst is a small town. It’s not like there are a lot of young bucks and stallions anyway. It’s a limited universe.”
Just then a line from Sleeping Beauty floats up in my mind: “From time to time Princes came and tried to force their way through the hedge and into the castle. But they found it impossible for the thorns, as though they were alive, grabbed at them and would not let them through.”
“You’re beautiful, Rebecca,” Stacy says, “all this gorgeous hair. And a great body. But you hide it too much.”
“You don’t like this dress?”
“I love it. Fun. The red heels set if off nicely. Very Judy Garland. And you fill it out on top nicely.”
“And I’m wearing stockings, garter belt.”
“Get out. Show me.”
I lift my dress up to my upper thighs, revealing the tops of my taupe stockings and the white rubber clasps of my vintage garter belt holding them up.
“Aren’t you a bundle of surprises.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“Maybe, but you’re making my point. This is a sexy outfit, Rebecca, but sexy to you. No one else knows you underneath. You dress in a you-can’t-ever-have-me sort of way. Sexy stockings and garter belt, girl, but no one would ever know. You need to sell yourself more.”
“Stacy, keep in mind we’re in Mayhurst, not Vegas. Besides this outfit is for me. It becomes my private pleasure. This day is for me. It too is for my pleasure. I think if I am happy with myself, everything else will work out.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” Stacy says. “Just sayin’, you could show more skin.”
An hour later, I pay Stacy and give her a sizable tip for making me beautiful and for all the counseling. I walk out of the salon with full curls of golden-brown and reddish waves cascading over my shoulders. I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. It is a very fine day.
It’s mid-afternoon, and, as usual, I stop at Simm’s for a light salad and white wine on their outside patio. Ashley Morris walks by. She’s Joseph’s mom and brings him to the library every Saturday morning.
Today she’s frazzled.
“I need a day off,” she says. “No, make that a year. I need something else. I need an adventure. Everything’s just ordinary.”
“If you need me to take Joseph…” I start to say, “but for a full year, Josh might object.”
“Well, he wouldn’t object to you, that’s for sure. These days, he’d love to swap me out. And I wouldn’t mind either, as long as I got a year in the Caribbean out of it. You’d be good for him.”
I smile. “We’ll we’re not going there. Probably wouldn’t settle well with the townsfolk. The thing is you guys are just so busy. Hey, you want to sit, chat, order a Chardonnay?”
“Can’t, church choir rehearsal. Why does it have to be Saturday afternoons?”
She takes Joseph’s hand and strolls on.
“Bye, Joseph,” I say.
He turns to me with the cutest smile. “Bye, Miss Becca.
One more stop on my way out of town to my special place. The third entry in my trilogy of pampering.
Mayhurst is a small town, but we share a shopping mall with Daviston ten miles west. I drive there and spend a couple hours at the Dillards makeup counter, where I sit across from Kristen, my twenty-two-year-old makeup consultant-slash-cashier. She does my concealer and foundation and blush and eyeshadow and lipstick for free, although I always buy something to make it legit.
“Hair is beautiful today, Rebecca.” Kristen says.
“Thank you. Stacy just did it.”
“She does a fabulous job. So, we don’t have anything new at the counter this week. Nothing new to try. What will it be?”
Most every week I say the same thing: understated, natural blush and shadow, paired with a bright lipstick. “Nothing too out there.” She suggests a burgundy shade which matches the reddish tones in my hair. I suggest we go a little brighter, to match my ruby red high heels. I think we always land on this same lipstick, but we go through the process nonetheless.
“Going up to the mountains again?” Kristen asks.
“Yes. It’s beautiful up there. Peaceful.”
I paint my lips with the L’Oreal, then press them together. I nod my approval.
“Where exactly is this place?”
Kristen has started asking me this question each time, and I have gotten creative in misleading her without lying. I don’t want her and her friends finding my special place and hanging out there. “An hour beyond Daviston. Off of 56, then the directions get complicated.”
“Sounds like a nice getaway. You know, I’d do anything to leave Mayhurst.”
“It’s a little confining, isn’t it.”
“A lot.” Kristen sighs.
“Mayhurst has its charms, though. I like it. But I know what you mean. You probably feel the need to flex your wings.”
Kristen nods, then moves on: “So, lingerie has a new line of bras for in-between sizes. Sort of custom fitting but off the rack.” She’s giving me an option to purchase something for her time and free makeup. “What size are you?”
“Well, we never really know, right? I’m a 34DD in a Warner bra. Yes, I’m kind of in-between.”
“You might check that out.”
“You know, Kristen, I’m running a little late. Why don’t you ring me up for this lipstick this time. I’ll buy it.”
Actually, my special place is a full two hours away from Mayhurst and a circuitous drive into the mountains. I love the drive, as the woods are so beautiful, especially in summer, and the distance makes for a separation from my daily life into the silence and quiet of the wilderness.
Driving is a transition for me mentally and emotionally. And in other ways too. My happiness all day turns into a deeper satisfaction in anticipation of my evening to come. And my body starts to tingle and flush. What I feel isn’t nervousness but desire.
I have timed it right, hitting the turnoff onto the mountain road a half hour before dusk. There would be another twenty minutes of the hardened, waterboarded backwoods lane, landing me at my special place right before dark. Tonight there’s a full moon which will aid my final walk.
It was originally a small community theater run by an aging stage director who brought in amateur theater troupes to put on plays and simple musical reviews. Even when it was active, the attendance was meager. It was just too out of the way. Still, the old man kept the theater alive for a number of years.
He died five years ago. The place fell into disuse and ill-repair. My library research revealed it was foreclosed on by the bank, and that’s where it remained. It had no worth, and the old theater just sat there.
My car comes to the fork, and I steer onto the left path, even narrower and more overgrown than the right. This will lead me toward the back of the old theater. One more mile.
I discovered it by accident three years ago. I had been driving, exploring some mountain roads, then got lost. I meandered, somehow, toward the area, and stumbled onto the old theater. Doors were open and I was able to walk inside. It was very small with a semi-circular stage and a narrow apron jutting forward.
That summer I returned to the old theater often, then most every week. It became a place where I could think, read, talk to myself. Clear my mind. Pretend I was still doing theater. I borrowed a pickup truck and dragged an easy chair into the place. I found an old chaise lounge at a garage sale, and trucked that up there as well. I brought clean sheets to drape over the old furniture when I came. The place had no running water, but it did still somehow have electricity. I brought an old garage-sale floor lamp, and later some other lights.
This is my special place. It is spiritual for me. Good for my soul. It is where I can think through the stories in my head, what has become my writing. And my life.
I park my car at my usual place, still a half mile from the back side of the old theater. It’s the last point on the overgrown path where I can turn around. Dusk has settled in, but the moon is nearly full and bright. I climb out of the car and stretch, sighing deeply in the clear air, now cooler after the day’s heat.
My body is different now, buzzing and alive. It’s been contained all day, slowly teasing me about the evening ahead. I open the door to the back seat, where two empty hangers dangle from the clothes hook.
There in the country lane I begin to unbutton my shirt dress. Despite my excitement, I take my time. This is for me.
Button by button, the top of my dress separates in front. I feel the mountain air rush in against my skin. I unfasten the fabric belt of the dress, then continue unbuttoning down, down to the hem, until my entire dress is open in front. I pull it off of my shoulders, then it comes free. I hang it on a hanger and hook the hanger on the clothes hook in the car.
It is as if I can feel the moonlight on my body, filtered through the trees, and caressing my bra and midriff and thighs like fingers from heaven. The cooling summer air flows across my bared back, under my arms, and between my legs, accentuating my feeling of nakedness before the audience of nature. These are moments I love.
I reach in back and unclasp my bra. I am always taken with how at times a soft and perfect bra is just the best thing, holding me, containing me, like arms stretching around me and hands cupping me safely. And then there are times when my sex needs to be freed, released, and allowed to roam wild. I need both. I love Mayhurst. But I need my special place.
My bra comes off and my breasts fall out, jutting forward and hanging slightly from their own weight, dappled by the light of the moon. My nipples swell and harden and point. My chest flushes, proud to be free. It’s not that I can take credit for them: I was born with the right DNA. But more to the point, in Mayhurst I need to keep them buttoned up. I know that as chaste as I dress, my ampleness is nonetheless apparent, but in a stuffed way, like a gift box crammed and bulging with two sweaters instead of one. Even so, I know some men notice. Ashley’s husband Josh notices. But even apart from any sexual intention, it seems unfortunate that my breasts can never be seen and appreciated. Tonight they breathe again.
I will leave my garter belt and stockings and heels on. It is perhaps my way of distinguishing this time from some other summer night in which I’d run naked down to the pond for a skinny-dip. This isn’t a teenage dare. This is about me feeling my own sensuality and sexuality in my own special place. It is what I do.
The white fabric of my garter belt, framing my waist and hips, also presents my other secret of the day. From the time I walked out of the house this morning, I haven’t worn panties. Reading to the children Sleeping Beauty, my legs together and covered across my knees by my shirt dress, I had been careful to sit with the back of my dress not under me but draping the back of the stool. I felt the seat against my bare ass and the tufted fabric of the stool gracing my pussy. At the salon when Stacy asked to see my stockings, I daringly raised my dress to the very top of my thighs, inches from my bare vulva. And talking with Ashley at Simm’s, while I sat at the bistro table on the patio and she talked distantly about her husband Josh and me, I could feel my desire oozing and wetting the upper inches of my thighs. The social network of Mayhurst might keep my breasts packed away, but they can’t stop me from enjoying my sex down below.
And now a wisp of cool mountain air swirls and kisses my open, bared pussy.
I begin my walk along this overgrown country path to the old theater, perfectly nude in the wooded night. It’s flat territory, so no climb, although the path is rough and I have to be slow and careful in my heels. My breasts bounce slightly as I walk. I feel my labia grow moist from my hot anticipation, then cool in the breeze as my wetness evaporates.
This is my ritual. My worship. And my being worshiped. Nature making love to me.
The old theater, dark and squatting and old, looms before me. But it isn’t scary or fearful. It has become my friend, my savior. I enter the open doorway, its actual door long gone. I flip the light switch and a single light bulb casts a dim glow along the back walk behind the stage. I click-clack my heels along the wooden floor, remembering the place where a floorboard is missing.
My body is thrumming. Just walking through the old theater’s mustiness feels like foreplay, stroking me. My breasts are heavy in their gentle sway. My nipples are already engorged, the air flowing around them like hot breath. I am wet between my legs, my thighs now slick from my creaming pussy.
I make my way to what used to be a dressing room, actually an open area with curtains. There I sit in a wooden chair before an old dressing table. But there are no lights, just shadows from the solitary bulb hanging over the back walk. At the edge of the dressing table are a stack of bedsheets I bought a time ago. I take the top one.
With a deep breath, I stand and make my way through the wing. I step onto the stage. I make out the shadows of the floor lamp beside the chaise lounge — they are right where I’d left them. I shake out the bedsheet and float it, letting it drape the chaise. I prefer the dark, so I don’t turn on the lamp as I sit. Swiveling, I lean back onto the chair bed, and stretch my legs. Then I take another breath, my moment, and pull my left foot, still high-heeled, forward onto the chaise so my knee is bent. My right leg I plant squarely on the floor.
This opens me, opens my crevice, my sex.
I let my hands go to my breasts, cupping them, fondling them. My head falls back as I start to make love to myself. I sigh. My thumb nudges each of my nipples, full and turgid. I moan, a whispered ohh. And gradually my hands slide down from my breasts, along my midriff and tummy, and close to the shaven soft skin above my pubis.
My finger reaches slowly for my clitoris.
In that moment, a bank of stage lights turns on, bright Kluge spots bathing me in hot arrays.
I never stop, my fingers tracing my labia thick with my goo, now warming under the Kluges, which I knew would be switched on.
Although the spots are pointed at me, my eyes gradually adjust, and I begin to make out the rows of audience members in front and on both sides. They remained hushed, watching, awaiting me.
My sex is open and spread for all of them to see. It is humiliating and exhilarating at the same time, the alchemy of both feelings combining into a smolten wantonness that now oozes inside me. My finger creases my vulva, prompting the flow of my juice over my labia and onto the sheet beneath. I am wetting the bed with my desire. Several dozen viewers watch it glisten in the spotlights.
My finger drives into my vagina, which sucks it greedily. I arch my back at my self-fucking, wanting more. And when my second finger pushes into my cunt as well, I shriek with pleasure. Now with two fingers I pump myself like a piston, my breathing becoming quick and loud and halting as it grabs for short gasps.
My public humiliation fuels my body’s response like a booster rocket. And my launched sexual arousal fuels the audience’s experience of me — which I feel palpably even while drunk in my own lustful stupor. Round and round, my public exposure spins me to higher and higher heights.
I intend to last longer, for myself not the crowd, but on one of my fingers’ pumpings, I catch my swollen clit straight on. I simply explode. My whole body jerks up from the chaise. I scream and shudder, my breasts jiggling in short tremors and my pussy sex climaxing in spasms.
My orgasm lasts and lasts. I’ve lost track of time. Smaller convulsions continue for minutes after. I rest back on the chaise, close my eyes, and let my body spasm again. I can hear the audience start to breath again. People again feel free to shift in their seats, cough, clear throats, whisper — the activities of a crowd after, well, a climax.
I turn my head against the seat back of the chaise, closing my eyes. I drift then, my exhaustion sending me to sleep. It would be short, as always. No worries. The audience isn’t going anywhere.
My sleep lasts maybe four, five minutes. I remain where I’ve been — on the chaise lounge, now curled up into myself. I am distantly aware of the room, the audience, but my body is deep in slumber.
Minutes later, I smell some sort of cologne cutting through the old theater’s musk. I feel movement near me, a movement that has some weight and mass.
The Prince finally reached the room where the beautiful Princess lay fast asleep.
I feel warm lips at my breast and a kiss of my nipple.
At that kiss, the princess quickly opened her eyes, and wakening from her long long sleep, seeing the Prince beside her, murmured: “Oh, you have come at last!”
My eyes open. A man is kneeling beside me. He has a scar on his cheek, not unsightly, actually appealing in a strange way, emblematic of a man who has experienced something dangerous in the world.
He is completely nude, his physique trim and strong but not excessively muscular. He has short dark hair and brown eyes.
I have never seen this man before in my life.
He stands and his cock unfolds semi-erect, inches before my face. I hear a woman in the audience sigh. Seats creak as people lean forward. The old theater now feels hot. Probably the lights, or maybe it’s just me. A man with a scar and his meaty cock have me warm and salivating, both my mouth and my cunt.
The man pushes in toward me until his cock, visibly growing, is touching my cheek. I turn my head so that his tip is against my lips. I kiss it. And kiss it again, as if the cock itself were my Prince Charming. I take it past my lips, up to its ridge, letting my tongue feel its soft velvet. It’s soon enveloped by my thirsty saliva.
There is a breeze from somewhere, and I feel it sweep across my breasts, past my nipples, now hard again and sensitive, and through my legs and over my shaven pussy.
It is overwhelming, the sexual intensity and arousal and sheer lust I experience in every possible way: being naked and laid open in my special place, being watched by an audience, and now being touched and had by a man with a scarface whose heavy cock lies inches away. I am on the edge again, and I feel I can climax without even being touched — but this man winds up in my mouth, and that’s always distracting. In the best possible way.
He is across my tongue, and I close my lips around his shaft and suck him. There is something about the weight and fullness of a man in my mouth that feels so extraordinary, especially like this moment when I can feel the man’s cock palpably lengthening and hardening and growing inside me. I begin to slide up and down on his shaft, pulling back to its head then pushing back over its veined ridges to the base. He isn’t extreme in length, thank god, so I can take him in that far, but he is thick, making him a delightful mouthful.
The man continues to stand next to the chaise at the height of my face. I am lying on my side. The audience can see everything.
He makes his home in my mouth. I make him feel welcome, like a wife receiving her husband at the front door after a long day. I close my eyes, simply enjoying his presence and how, in this particular way, he is filling my life. At one point he slips out, and I grab his shaft with my hand and hungrily feed him back inside. I am wanton, selfish to fill my own appetite. And now I suddenly feel an urgency to have his balls in my mouth, and I crane my face over and lower and suck each of his testicles between my lips, bathing them with my thirst. But soon enough his cock is bedded across my tongue once again. Whether minutes or the better part of an hour, I don’t know, but I continue to fellate him on and on.
He pulls back and out, and I sigh regretfully. He kneels down to me, coming close, kissing me on my lips. It is a surprisingly sweet, even romantic thing, as it seems to truly be for me not for the audience. My hand comes to the side of his face, I trace his scar with my finger, then hold him there in our kiss for a moment. My thank you.
He stands. Swinging his leg over and around, he straddles the chaise, and me. He now towers above. I pull my knees up and place my feet on the floor on either side, spreading myself and opening my pussy wide for him and the audience. My prince positions himself lower, then lower again, his erect cock now reaching for my cunt. Its head slowly pushes between my labia, and I moan. Feeling how wet and ready I am, he doesn’t wait but pushes his shaft deep into my vagina.
I become light-headed, swooning and coming at the same time. My whole body shudders. My scar-faced prince keeps pumping me, his cock thrusting in and out of my dripping cunt. The audience can see me lost in my orgasm and helplessly impaled by my public intercourse.
He adjusts his height just slightly, and he can not have known, can not have calculated it, but this shift of just millimeters aligns the bulging vein along the top of his shaft to scrape against my clitoris. It is like his bow is drawing repeatedly across my violin string, making me vibrate. Playing me softly, he sends me soaring. I feel myself rising again, yet again, higher and higher, till I am right at the edge, once again.
Another thrust, and I scream. I clench, my hands slapping the sides of the chaise, my breathing frantic and short and gasping. My breath catches, and I shudder, my flesh shaking and jiggling in waves.
He never stops. I grow numb everywhere in my body except in my precious place where every nerve ending feels electrified. And now he quickens his pace. As fast as his thrusts are, each time he pulls back feels like an enormous emptiness both sexually and emotionally. Each cycle fills me with a sense of loss followed quickly by a giddy feeling of being utterly, satisfyingly filled.
He takes to thrusting hard, now leaving himself in me for extra seconds, and it feels like heaven. I realize he is trying to prolong himself, but maybe losing the battle. I put my hands on his hips, look up into his eyes, and say, “It’s OK.”
He slows way, way down, and manages to hold himself back. I am now in a different space, soft, mellow, and filled with emotion. I have tears in my eyes.
And then he simply explodes in me. I feel his cum spurt deep inside, warming and slicking the walls of my vagina. His body grows rigid and tense, and he ejaculates a second time. Finally a third contraction finishes him.
He stays inside me for a wonderful time afterward. Maybe it is just seconds or maybe a minute, but he allows us to be joined in the after. I hold him close to me. He kisses me again.
In time, he pushes himself away from me and pulls himself out, getting his feet under him. Then he kneels beside me and gives me one more kiss before walking out of the spotlights into the dark recess of backstage.
There is applause. Movement of chairs.
I close my eyes. His cum pushes out of my cunt into a puddle on the sheet. I fall into a half-coma of semi-sleep, exhausted and spent.
Just then, the spell was broken… Everybody rose to their feet and they all stared round in amazement, wondering what had happened.
The lights on the stage fade and the single house light goes on, dimly illuminating the audience seats. The spectators stand, leaving quietly, as if walking out of a church sanctuary, though I can hear them talking as they reach the outer lobby.
I fall asleep, later awakening in the lonely dark, still stretched out on the chaise. Later I gradually retrace my steps backstage, turning out the last light in the old theater, walking out the back door. I do not wipe off the man’s cum, but allow it to drip out of me and slick my thighs. I walk naked back to my car in the full moonlight and slowly, reluctantly put on my clothes once again.
As is true every time, I wonder who the man was, where he came from, and how he was found and selected.
I drive back home in the middle of the night, leaving my special world where no one knows me, where I can explore and express the woman I truly am. Two hours later, I re-enter the proper world of Mayhurst, and re-assume my respectability and my important duties as the town librarian.
Thursday that next week, I am enjoying lunch at Simm’s with Ashley Morris. They have a spinach salad to die for, and I make it a point once a week to have it. Ashley orders the same, along with glasses of Viognier for the two of us.
She is talking about Josh and how they had a wonderful talk and things were good between them again. Apparently my would-be affair with her husband that never was going to happen is actually, really never going to happen. I smile, say I am happy for her, and I truly am.
Ashley leans over to me and says in a low voice, “I’ve never seen him here before.”
I look up and over to the table she is indicating. Sitting there is a man in a T-shirt and jeans.
He has a very familiar scar on his cheek.