Amelia's Awakening

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 Bingo walks to see the woman he has been fantasizing about for months and the results are better than expected.

Bingo turned the end of the conversation with Fred over in his mind as he started his walk.

“It’s all about how you take the stage..”

“What?”

“I think I have to go. All this talk about you, and your dating profile, it’s compounding my own… stench of… of desperation. It might not work out but I have to get out there you know?”

“No.”

“Well I’m gone, I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“You do that. Good chat. Thanks for dinner.”

Bingo made his way up Victoria Rd and turned right onto Nicholson. His feet ate up pavement, clomp, clomp, clomping into the night. Relieved to be finally on his way Bingo lengthened his stride. Accustomed to forgettable landscapes rushing past his tram windows, here there was space and effort, each morsel of the journey magnified by his tediously short footfalls; the old Moreton Bay’s in the park, the museum’s off-kilter monolithic slab of a roof and breaks in the heavy traffic made it a bearable hike.

2am by anyone standards isn’t necessarily kosher for a house call. Bingo began to forget about the fresh, cold air on his face and to obsess about his reception, this was the only thing to do, anything else and he’d always wonder at what had never taken place.

Bingo hadn’t been avoiding Amelia but he had certainly failed to let her know how much she might mean to him. A part of Bingo fretted, more anxious than he had ever been. Beers had helped. He blocked out his own disquiet with the slap of his beetle-crushers on the paving slabs, the sound of his own breath.

Passing a petrol station made him feel like a fish in an aquarium with fluro gravel. Out of whack with the serene quiet all around, neon's shone diligently for nobody. He dove gratefully back into the comparative darkness of night. On and on, clomp clomp-ing measuring one deliberate footfall after another.

Bingo paused on a bus bench, ran his hands over his face and felt the last of the warm alcohol buzz leave his body.

He was committed to his feat now, a punishment no less than what he deserved, weeks ago he should have explained to Amelia his social awkwardness, his propensity to procrastinate, his unshakable commitment to stupid mistakes that too often ended up as life choices because he allowed time frames to stretch and then found there was no room for recourse.

Bingo wasn’t wealthy enough to consider taking a cab so he plodded, meticulously using up all of his energy. He tried not to plan. He simply made his way to the door of her studio and when he arrived, he knocked. He sat down on the step and stretched his toes in damp socks, wondering about blisters. In those few moments he sought for poise and as though mocking him, it started to rain. The sensation of stopping sharpened as he cooled, almost paving the way for regret. Almost.

And then the door opened.

Bingo bounced to his burdened feet and turned, smiling willfully with the last of his reserve.

“Wow” Amelia spoke sleepily.

Her hair wild, a light blue snug singlet around her shapely breasts and faded cotton pyjama pants hanging low off her hips. In the evening air her nipples rose to attention.

“My eyes are up here”

When he met them, they were smiling. He cleared his throat.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you”

“Wait, wait. Before you turn this into something out of Love Actually just get inside.”

And just like that, Bingo followed mutely.

Pyjama-ed Amelia led him down narrow corridors, past a common room, he still didn’t say anything as she ushered him into her studio through to the rear of her cosy work filled space, into the small recessed bed chamber hidden by a false wall. There was no door. Even in the dim light it looked wonderfully comfortable. Amelia leant over to turn on a lamp. Bingo caught her arm.

“No it’s alright. You were sleeping, we can talk in this light, it’s early, or late. Or something.”

Amelia nodded, it was dark really, she said in a low voice “I’m nodding” and he laughed.

“Get into bed, take socks off, jeans too if you wish.” Her voice muffled as she tunnelled under a doona to resume her repose so recently abandoned it was still warm. Bingo sat with his back bowed, facing away from her, intent on removing his garments.

“I’m glad you fucking finally came” Amelia spoke to his grateful back. It straightened a little in response.

He turned then, landing his determined lips on hers, leaning in. Kissing her warm face with his cold one, all strength and earnestness. It was everything and nothing all at once. He blocked out reason, made their slow-building kiss dreamlike and a clumsiness borne of their newness to each others bodies, forgivable.

Bingo moved into the bed, closer to her body, so much warmer than his. Her hair pillowed around her face. Her skin, like the darkness, was all around him. When she grinned she was eyes and teeth. Bingo caught his breath. He almost couldn’t look, had never seen anything so beautiful. He wiped a big hand over the side of her face, touching her velvet skin, feeling the bouncy flesh of her bottom lip under his caress and then his lips were on hers again.

“Special” he mouthed very softly into the air between their faces. “I waited, I wanted it to be magic.”

“You almost waited too long. You dick.” Her long fingers curled around the back of his big neck. “Stupid, hesitant, romantic fool.”

Not wanting words, just rough wood-and-salt of his almost-facial hair and rich aniseed-ness of his midnight tongue, Amelia resumed their kissing, touching their mouths together, learning his lips. Her hip came to rest against his, one un-shy brown shin carelessly raised, her heel grasped to his bottom, unaware of what small moves did to him.

There was no humour in their awkwardness, his avid silence exposed a fragility in the big man belied by the strength of his growing erection. She uncurled a hand from around his neck and wove it down so her fingers swept the space between them, searching.

Bingo’s heart raced, the bedcovers suddenly unbearably hot. Amelia didn’t want to move them, only kept her hand moving slowly, intimately pawing his hip while his tongue and hers wove caresses like promises.

Finally her palm settled onto the length of his straining cock. Bingo withdrew his tongue in a rush, sucked her top lip and stopped. First she ran her hand over his meat. In the dim light his eyes were hooded, heavy lids threatening to hide what it was she wanted to see, an admission, a surrender.

“You push and push” she said softly “..and it might seem like you’ll never get what you want” her hand stroked his penis, curling around material and flesh as one, striving to feel more,clasp more in her hand. “And then in a moment you think, what was I waiting for?” 

Amelia could sense her timing was unfathomably good but she wasn’t sure she was bold enough to proceed.

Bingo rolled them both so he was propped on his forearms with Amelia under him. He lowered his head and captured her lips once more in a delicate kiss that was like chilli dark chocolate; full, honest and terrible. Bingo inhaled mightily letting the rushing air bypass them both out through his mouth. 

Fighting, Amelia liked to think, for control.

And then she shucked his boxer shorts and thrust aside her knickers. To hell with the waiting and the anticipation, she wanted a frantic rush-to-the-finish-line; stars, chaos and more than anything she thrummed for the feeling of his flesh wrapped in hers. Amelia pushed at his shoulders, Bingo moved. His broad torso lifted an arms length above her, the head of his cock at her slippery entrance coating himself in her excitement. Biding his beautiful time.

And then he wasn’t anymore. He was thrusting inside, hot breath on her neck, hard cock breaking her open. The pressure of her knickers pulled to one side added to the impression of illicit fullness; caught together in a surprisingly tight space. He withdrew and pushed back in and all sensation flooded her once more, unbearably good.

 As they fucked he was unguarded, his sloppy lips on her delicate face, unthinkingly intense. It was all happening so fast, this possessing her, this driving inside of her. Amelia arched up to meet his meat, Bingo's unfamiliar body underneath her hands; the cords of his arm muscles, a downy chest.

Bingo continued grinding, watching in wonder as she thrashed beneath him with her eyes closed. She was so bound up in the moment, constricted, delicately held in place and effortlessly, hopelessly aroused. His cock ached every time he pulled away from her, building and building the sensations inside him. For Amelia it felt like a fabulous, shapeless, nameless, niggling space, growing and growing, making her groan and writhe until she reached her point-of-no-return.

She opened her eyes, he wanted to stop fucking and kiss her (Amelia’s lips were delightfully red and swollen) but he felt as though he was caught up, racing towards a finish line, taking her with him as best he could, she gasped and wriggled, eyes locked on his.

He exploded before she did, she felt the inevitable release on her insides, rushing out as he thrust deep inside her, his cock twitching and growing at the last second to add to the molten gold of her mounting orgasm. She knew the ending was close, and as she rode him, rocking her hips to take whatever he had left of the magic, it took several rough strokes before the darkness crashed and splintered around her, sending shock waves through her body.

And whilst something was most definitely ending, something was also determined to continue and so Amelia came and came and shook and clutched him and the rumble of pleased laughter caught and died in Bingo’s chest as her fingers really wrenched at his overly-sensitized skin.

Eventually she let go. Eventually they both stopped and moved a little bit apart.

“Next time” Bingo said softly, his voice low and chocolate-toned “Next time I’ll be more about the foreplay. I just wanted to be inside you. I wanted your honey on my cock”

If she wasn’t spent and happy with the small river between her thighs , she might have straddled him right then. Instead her breath came out in a rush.

“Too much” Amelia offered lightly when she could form words. “Stop being amazing” and she slapped his barrel belly.

It wasn’t long before his arm stretched around her, he was big, it was almost too much of an angle for her to rest her head on his arm, nuzzled against the warmth of his chest. She bore it for the sake of not ruining a sated, beautiful end to an otherwise overwrought day.

With her mind roving sleepily over the last half hour, Bingo’s hand reached up and caressed the effervescence of her hair, brushing against one delicate ear.

He wanted to repeat the gesture but found he couldn’t because he slept.

One for the Road...

It’s about the time that you should be leaving, but you don’t. You give me that look that makes my stomach seize and grief catch in my throat, a coal-like lump of regret. I remember being able to love you easily, I remember how swiftly a look like that might have won me over and in that split-second I’m wrong, maybe you’re not such a loser. We’ve broken up, I don’t see things between us as quite so dark and gloomy anymore. The weeks have passed, the long cloud of indecision and lost opportunities that hung over us has all gone. We’ve boiled down to an occasional home visit and the sweet nostalgia that makes my throat ache when you look at me like you’re doing now. I can remember good things; what it feels like to be in your arms, or sweating above you, or lost in your eyes as I orgasm.

It’s not so hard to sweep me into a kiss, a sticky-soft embrace that is loaded with the smell of your breath, and your jacket. Your brown, well-loved leather jacket that drove me to dig you so much in the first place. You smell like hope and promises (as much as a particular cheap cologne, rolling tobacco and leather can smell like those things), you smell like the happiest times of my early twenties. You smell like my Jack Kerouac novel, the dog eared-copy with the inscription I wrote to you about love and our lives and coming into romance like a car crash.

I feel heavy and wet and all confused.

I push your jacket over your shoulders, past your biceps and over your forearms. We both allow it to fall to the floor. I’m only wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, I’m barefoot with my hair unkempt and I’ve never felt sexier. I don’t want us to be together again but I know I want this. I take your hand and put it on my chest. I show you my heart thrashing out its erratic tempo through the fabric. You drop your fingertips until they fondle my nipple through the worn fabric. While we're still kissing your inquisitive digits travel on still further and support the weight of my breast, on and on your hot fingers go, tracing the outline of underwire in my cheap lace bra, giving me goosebumps. I can feel my breath getting lighter.

It feels right, this sloppy I-don’t-want-to-stop-because-I don’t-know-where-this-is-going meeting of our mouths; tongues are old friends, you know exactly how to play in my wet mouth and tease the tiny, breathy moans that sing a siren-call to the juices in my pussy. Your sexy fat lips and magical tongue start an ache that makes me want to climb inside you. I want you lay me down on the floorboards and fuck me like the apocalypse is due in under an hour.

Logic drains from my consciousness and I’m starting to pant. I fumble with your jeans buttons (you used to have zip-fly ones) fingers anxious to clasp what’s beneath. I’m pushing my breasts into your searching hands and appreciatively against the wall of your chest. I can’t hear what you’re attempting to whisper for the roar of blood and desire in my ears. Your mouth is so very close to my face, that’s all that matters. One eager hand hurriedly undoes the top button and pushes it’s way down the front of my jeans. They stretch to accommodate your big fingers and I almost burst when you plunge a deliberate finger into my slickness. With a stroke of that deft finger and a nibble on my lip I’m mewing at you, my knees trembling. I want you inside me. I can’t think how to make it happen more quickly and when I pull away from the meeting of our mouths it’s to wrench your denim down to your ankles. I cast my eager fingers past your boxer shorts and savour the heat of your cock in my hand. It twitches. I hold you firmly in the stillness.

We’re stopped, no longer frenzied but disheveled and eager in my hallway, three-quarters of our way through your exit and so very far from it now. We’re both shaking with need and I have your cherished penis in the palm of one hand. Your blue eyes, framed by dark, full eyelashes, (that I always envied) can see beyond what misty, desirous expression I must be wearing. You look at me as though you can see something I have long forgotten, I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to take the time to examine further. I want the familiar, beautiful cock I can feel in my hand. I want you to take me with our special brand of ferocity, re-kindled here in this limbo-land - sex without consequences, idealistic and temporary (like a lounge-room pillow fort). I don’t like the serious expression you’re wearing. I don’t like the questions in your eyes.

I bring your hand out of my jeans-front and suck on your forefinger with deliberate slowness. You taste like girl-flower and sexy hand-salt. You make a noise like a teenager having his cock sucked for the first time (breathy, unbelieving). I take off your t-shirt. I continue but without looking at your face anymore, I want you to be unreadable but at last glance your expression is confused, dark with lust but not yet lost in the moment. I run an eager finger up your snail-trail, away from your cock past your belly button. Your nipples stand at attention. I lick one, kiss your collarbone and take the heat of my lips up the side of your neck, back to the waiting warmth of your mouth. Home.

With a half-smile you chase my body out of it’s clothing, the t-shirt I had on comes easily up over my head, my bra unhooks hastily, clumsily (you were never very good at this, it’s endearing). You lick my breastbone, lather one nipple, and kiss my mouth in a searing seduction that hints at tenderness. I pull away and you take to my other breast with your tongue. I’m ecstatic, aching, we’re moving too fast and too slowly all at once.

In the bedroom my phone starts to ring. It spurs something in you, a sense of urgency that at last overtakes your actions. You glide my knickers down my legs and I step out of them, with my back to the wall we’re kissing like newly-mets at a house party. I’m murmuring and half-smiling into your mouth as our teeth click awkwardly in our haste. I wrap one leg up around your thigh, stretching my pussy into an inviting smile for you. You hitch up my hips with the help of the wall, sliding inside me in an inevitable stroke that has us both reeling.

No time to stop now, its sad, beautiful and fast. I’m tight from lack of practice and our position is precarious but it feels like heaven the way your cock enters me, diving in and out of my pussy at just the right angle. Sweet, almost-unbearable pressure mounts quickly. Friction from our coupling drives at my g-spot and I’m star-bound; my arms wrapped around your neck, my legs locked around you.

My cunt is an inferno; my mind is as blank as the erotic darkness that surrounds us. I want you to explode, when I do. I lick your lips and pant and I make strange noises I wouldn’t even know how to muster were I sane and in control of my desire, my choices. I feel like I’m lit from within. In this rapid fucking I have forgotten the people we have become and all I can hear past the silence of the house is the moisture between my thighs welcoming you back.

You pick up the pace, slapping your thighs against mine as you drive us both to the brink. I get strands of my long hair caught in my mouth when you pull out completely before jamming your bloated, rigid penis back into my peach. There’s lots of eye contact and I can’t look away, the total honesty in your actions reflected in the impossible blue-ness of your eyes. They glow.

Finally I cum screaming, tortured into a gut-wrenching, mind-blowing orgasm that starts in my little toes and towers over me, washing me in lust and freedom and a beautiful, shameless sense of wonder that is only temporary.

Too soon it’s over. Too soon you’re pulling your flaccid cock out from between us and wiping away mine and your cum on my shirt that you’ve retrieved from the floor. You’re smiling but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You hold me steady and help me to stand. The muscles in my hips are starting to ache. You’re pulling up your jeans and adjusting your hair and finding your far-flung jacket.

In minutes you're standing in the open doorway where the daylight flooding in turns you into a silhouette.

“Bye…” you say. I can’t tell if you’re still smiling; your expression and your body language entirely unreadable.

I’m watching you in the doorway wearing only my jeans and my purple bra. I wipe my hand over my cheek and listen to the strange sound of me breathing.

Alone.   

Her fragile restraint

In a world of her own, Hyacinth carefully dusts around the pretty things each girl has left at their backstage work-station. Some girls keep their gear in Tupperware, others have left it loose. Mascaras, nipple tassels, lube, eyeshadow and deodorant bottles are all piled up lifelessly. She cleans their makeup mirrors and afterwards, it's an extra effort to remove caked make-up stains from the long, black bench top.

The small, narrow room smells of face powder, latex and cheap perfume. Hyacinth is tired now, midway through her shift, having cleaned the performance area and it's low hanging mirror balls and glass-topped stages. (She uses special hypo-allergenic spray for the poles and chairs.) Normally her brother would be helping. Today he is despicable; hungover, lazy, absent. She sighs.

Looking about her, Hyacinth knows the warmly lit little dressing room is something other than a wonderland. Often it's a place of smoke and hot, tired girls no older than herself trying to gather their wits (or further scatter them). She imagines the bustle and noise but it's early morning, no one will be about for another few hours.

Hydie bends over to empty a small bin into a larger plastic sack at her side. It rustles in the quiet, airless room. She props the door open, finding a lavish feather boa, hanging on a hook by the door. It's a fine garment, much longer than any boa she has seen, red, rich, real and scratchy. Hydie wraps it around her neck and winds it around her arms, admiring herself playfully in the mirror. She looks a dream, it hides her skirt and slacks and clusters around her neck in a cloud of feathers.

Hydie takes it off. She looks about the room for other dress ups, eyeing a thin, silk tie with an elastic collar and matching emerald green heels.

Who would see?

Visual Amusements Part #2

My brain is in motion, please stand by. In the interim I give you this retro delight. Every girl should have a good appreciation for the all-in-one. It's funny, I don't recall a range made for Barbie ...

Lost

Its so cold. I'm shivering but I don't think its just the cold. I've got a cold heart, cold because the last time I saw you I shouted at you as you left. I've got a stone where my love for you should be and it's wearing me out.
I'm a balloon, tethered at a knot and every time something I know and trust shifts, a long way away from me, one of the stays snaps and a bit of the air rushes in to pull me from the ground.

The balloon bobs, straining at it's stays. I'm sure I want you, though this isn't a happily ever after. Don't tell me that's not what I want.