Erotic Stories by Alicia Night Orchid

Fulfillment

by

Alicia Night Orchid

Copyright 2005 and 2008. All rights reserved.

The sound of the surf on the beach is a slick kiss. The coarse sand blown by the wind, a lover’s slap.

She came here out of duty and a sense of adventure. Her brother, the bond portfolio manager, and his slinky Jamaican wife have abandoned their home on Manhattan Beach for a year in London. Now that she’s graduated college, now that it’s time for her to experience more of the world than cornfields in Iowa, can she come house sit for a year? Maybe she can find her muse here? Maybe she can find fulfillment?

The first month she’s too intimidated to venture onto The Strand and the Beach. These people are bronzed and ripped and swaggering. From the privacy of her balcony, she watches their volleyball, their surfing, their dog walking. She covers up with jeans and a Hawkeye sweatshirt, feels pale and uncertain. Mornings she communes with the dolphins from afar and pecks out unconnected words on her keyboard. Evennings, she indulges the stars and the cries of lovers in the distance. Unanswered E-mails, letters, and voice messages mount. They all think she’s weird anyway.

The second month she turns to cycling, hitting the weights in her brother’s exercise room. She eats only rice and salmon, drinks only water, tans in the sun between workouts. Her sweat and urine smell faintly of the sea and her face glows pink under locks white as corn silk. She shaves, plucks, and waxes every imaginable hair from her armpits, legs and pubis. On all fours, in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, she lifts her buttocks high and uses her brother’s razor to remove even the palest, most innocuous follicle from this most tender of regions.

By the middle of her third month, she’s found work at the Coffee Bean in Hermosa. Her days begin with a five-mile run on The Strand, then continue with vanilla lattes and no-whip, non-fat mochas. After work, she returns to the beach house and her keyboard. Evening after evening, bold words arise, dance with one another, conjure up images and moods and create character and tension, before finally collapsing on their chairs, wallflowers after all. It’s a frustrating pattern that mimics her life and all of her writing so far.

***

In her fourth month, the Bean hires a young man from a place called Ensenada. He is dark, brooding and lean, taller than her with muscular, hairless arms. He works the register and makes change coolly, his eyes never meeting his customers’. They begin with chatter to pass the time during the long afternoons, move quickly to share sunsets on the beach, then on to their first kisses in the storeroom—not real kisses, just his lips on her throat. But, at least, another beginning.

She’s never wanted to be one of those women who must be fucked to be validated. Yet, alone at night, she fantasizes about his flawless skin, longs for his perfect mouth on her breasts, pictures his erect penis on her belly. It’s not that she’s never been fucked. But she’s never had that fuck. The one that leaves her screaming and writhing until she passes out on damp and wrinkled sheets. Always too smart in class, always too into Elliot and Pound, Williams and Thomas to notice or be noticed.

A little strange—that’s what they said about her.

By the time they go on their first dinner date, she is so expectant, she soaks her white cotton panties while Miguel’s fingertips absentmindedly graze the underside of her forearm. She feels slippery down there, oozing nectar like an overripe fruit. Over the salmon taco, she squirms in her chair.

Back at her brother’s place, they are barely in the door before she’s trying to kiss him, pressing one of his hands to her breast, grinding her pelvis against his thigh. Melissa, Melissa, he whispers. She misunderstands at first, mistakes his words for passion and reaches for his belt. She’s surprised and confused when he pushes her away. She can see that he wants her—his cock tents his loose linen trousers and a drop of pre-cum shows where the head strains against the fabric.

“We have to talk,” he says. “There have to be rules.”

“Rules. What rules?”

He takes her hands in his, rubs her knuckles against his cheek. They can touch he says, but they cannot penetrate. He doesn’t know why, but he cannot bear the thought of such a violent intrusion. Maybe some hidden terror from his childhood, maybe a craziness all his own. He can’t explain it. He wants to see her, wants to watch her, wants to hold her, but he cannot kiss her truly, cannot put his cock or his tongue or his fingers inside her. He cannot explain it, but this is the way it is.

She blinks, takes a step away. “So what…?”

“I’ll show you.”

He takes her hand and leads her to the sofa. He positions her on one end, while he reclines on the other. She watches, mesmerized, while in the light of a pale moon reflecting off the ocean, he removes his erect, circumcised cock from his trousers, borrows beads of moisture from the tip and begins to stroke slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. She’s aware that she’s pulled her sundress above her hips and faces him sitting lotus like, the bottoms of her feet pressed together.

She unbuttons her top with one hand, bears a breast, and milks the nipple gently. Her other hand slides between her legs, inside the latex band of her panties. Heaven resides in her slit. He grunts, bites his lip. She slips out of her panties, opens her labia to show him her vulva. He works the shaft of his cock, breathing harder now. She inserts a finger, lubricates her enlarged clitoris. She can feel, see it peeking from beneath its hood. He’s stroking faster now, watching her rub herself, harder and faster, too. Then, that quick, he’s moaning, lifting off of the sofa, continuing to stroke while he shoots one long stream after another into the air. She’s right behind him, crying out his name while finger fucking herself with one hand, pinching her nipple with the other.

***

This sort of thing goes on for a month, the permutations nearly endless. One evening they have phone sex across the room from one another, pretending she is on one coast while he is on the other. Another evening, she reclines between his legs, and while he kisses her neck and ears, fondles her breasts, tells her how beautiful she is, her fingers explore every fold and hollow of her precious pussy. On other occasions, he strokes off on her tits, her ass, into her armpit. His sticky semen adheres to her skin like an exotic paste.

During this time, all she manages is a poem entitled Cock and Cunt, written with only these words until the word count runs to fifteen hundred . While she should be writing, she daydreams of swinging dicks, veined dildos, and smooth vibrators. Miguel will have none of it. How can they be certain that these artificial devices are sanitary?  What if she were to become unclean from one of these things?  How can she even want a foreign object placed inside her?

While he’s working one evening, she absent-mindedly peels a cucumber, carries it onto the balcony, and in a darkened corner on a chaise lounge slides it inside her vagina. She gasps as she feels her inner walls stretching. After a muffled, murmuring orgasm, she’s as angry at Miguel for driving her to this as she is embarrassed. She chops the cucumber into pieces and feeds it to the garbage disposal.

***

The next month, she meets the man. She first notices him on the Manhattan Beach pier. He dries off from an early morning swim, while she stretches. He’s older than her, but it’s hard to say how old. Flecks of gray shine in his unruly hair and his goatee is white against a tanned and weathered face. It’s the wrinkles around his gray-blue eyes that say the most about his age and draw her to him. She’s certain that he watches as her nylon jogging shorts ride high enough for a glimpse of creamy, white buttock.

Later that day, she daydreams about swimming into the depths. She imagines the salt surf lapping at her nipples, swirling between her legs, tugging at her swimsuit. She imagines osmosis with the sea, its briny plankton and her corpuscles exchanging the stuff of life, her skin no barrier to their easy passage. Perhaps she’ll meet someone someday with whom the exchange of ideas and feelings is so easy. When Miguel tries to follow her into the Ladies Room at work, she pushes him away.

The next time she sees the man, he’s in her coffee shop, rap-a-tapping at a laptop keypad. He drinks non-fat lattes, the name he gives is Jules and he is working on a novel of love and love lost. When he tells her this, a wry, self-deprecating smile plays across his lips. He’s a professor on sabbatical from one of those prestigious Eastern schools. Maybe he’s also on sabbatical from a wife and teenage children. Who knows?

Shyly, she shows him some work she began pre-Miguel, a story about a man caught in a corporate scandal. Should he blow the whistle to protect shareholders or keep secrets to protect people who have become his friends, misguided perhaps, greedy no doubt, but friends even so?  Jules’ insights cut to the quick. What’s the point?  Why is this character conflicted?  How does this choice of word influence character and theme?  It’s wonderful, he concludes. Needs work, but it’s a wonderful beginning.

A few days later, they’re on the pier again, basking in the sun. Her heart still pounds from her run, her nipples hard and brown as coffee beans through the sweat-soaked fabric of her jogging bra. He’s telling her about his first trip ever to California twenty-five years earlier in a VW bug, stoned for weeks at a time, dancing naked with strangers on the beach.

He stops talking when he sees that her eyes have dropped from his face to his chest and below. She’s thinking, how beautiful his penis is, there in his Speedos. She doesn’t even look up when he touches her face. She takes an index finger and nibbles at the tip, swirls her tongue around it, sucks on the first joint like a babe at a breast. Her eyes never leave his crotch as he inhales sharply and that lovely cock begins to grow and throb. She hardly hears him when he says, we should go somewhere.

***

Their first fuck is a rush. She offers herself to him standing up in his one room apartment, her face pressed against the wall, back arched, legs wide apart. He doesn’t even bother to remove her jogging shorts, just pushes them aside, slides his cock between her lips once or twice to draw the moisture, then enters her with a groan. She exhales and grinds against him, reaches between her legs for his luscious sack and squeezes gently. His belly slaps against her ass, his unshaven face rubs against hers, his breath scalds her ears. And then, yes oh yes, she’s coming, once, then twice, after just a couple of strokes .

He eases up momentarily, allowing her to extract the pleasure from those first spasms, before resuming his thrusts. One of his hands drops to the crack of her ass, and a saliva-wet finger searches for that orifice. She’s never known how vacuous she felt there, how utterly void. She emits a long, low growl as his finger probes, circles, opens her. She pushes back, wailing, wanting him inside. The finger enters and plays a counter rhythm to his cock. Fuck, fuck, fuck until she feels his balls rise, tighten in her hand and spurt their creamy warmth into her depths.

She can hardly bear how empty she feels when his erection subsides and he falls away panting.

Jules sits back on the carpet with a chuckle.       

“Damn, girl,” he says.

She turns to face him, her eyes fastening again on his sweet, shiny, tumescent cock.

“Damn is right,” she whispers back.

In one dizzying flash, she knows there will be no more Miguel’s, no more vacant, staring computer screens, no more empty-headed people who think her weird or strange. From this moment forward there is only this—Jules, or the next Jules, or the next Jules after that and this feeling of being filled to bursting.

She wants her mouth to be full with his hardness and his seed, wants her puckered little bottom to stretch and absorb him, wants him in her mouth and her pussy and her ass all at once. Wants two or three Jules’ at once, hunkered over her, humping, filling her.

She wants a full bite at life—no more crumbs, no more half-hearted, sanitary starts.

She drops to her knees, crawls the short distance to Jules and begins to lick their commingled fluids from his sensitive shaft. The new Melissa is not above demanding it, when he finally hardens again.