It was Summer
story codes: MF


It Was Summer
by Portmanteau


   It was summer, and Lauren sat beside me with a few friends (my friends in fact.  She was
there for me alone, to taunt and tease).  She would remain for another month and a half,
after which she flew back to her natural state, finishing up her last year of college down
south while cooing softly beneath her boyfriend's lips.  Her left side leaned lightly against
me; her legs were pulled up onto the couch, leaving one foot hidden beneath her right
thigh, while the other, a miraculously smooth and soft terminus to her lightly tanned leg
wheeled softly, her big toe tracing minute circles in the air.  Her legs (the part of her that
most aroused my desire, not due to any defect in the trim lines of her entire form, but rather
due to their close approach to perfection.  She once stood up upon her toes while wearing
a miniskirt, and the taught calves and firm muscles appealed to even the most chaste of my
aesthetic impulses) were still hidden beneath the beautiful, airy lilac-blue and cruelly
opaque drift of her skirt.

    For two weeks she had pursued me, or perhaps pursued my pursuit, flirting effortlessly
with my desire, but always denying any move I made beyond certain "arbitrary lines" (a
phrase I borrow from my erratic Clio).  These arbitrary lines did not prevent my finger tips
tracing the full length of her thighs, or my tongue gently joining in the kisses I laid in spirals
around her belly-button, but they denied me that thing I most desired, which was (and this
surprised me most of all, who always believed his own bravado) the simple chance to kiss
her lips.  So many times I played little games that ended in the barest brushing together or
our still speaking mouths, and when I felt her begin to kiss back, even lightly, the excitement
I felt embarrasses me!

    I knew she would spend the night (she often did) and that she would sleep, spooned
beside me, with her tall, thin form pressed hard against mine.  It was that sort of intimacy
upon which her little game was founded.  I suggested to my friends in the most transparent
euphemism I could manage that they should leave.  My arm was wrapped around Lauren's
shoulder, holding her closer against me, exciting me until I held her closer still, looping into
the kind of positive feedback that always ended in a rebuff as my hand drifted above her
thigh.  They left, and the moment the door closed I grabbed her shoulders and pressed her
down to the couch.  For a moment she wriggled around, trying more to move her legs to a
comfortable position than to escape my grasp.  I kissed her collarbone.  Her clavicle, I
should say.  I never said collarbone to her, the little glimpses of the technical life I lived all
around her, but never with her, delighted her too much.  I moved along its gently sweeping
length until I grazed her throat, my lips edging slowly upwards until I reached her jaw line.  
My kisses moved on towards her chin, my tongue barely reaching her skin before scurrying
back inside.  It was simply my desire to taste her that drove it out at all.  My cheek brushed
against her lips and she gently kissed it, making a feeble little sound that for some reason
has stuck in my memory.  I try now to recreate it, but perhaps only the geometry of her lips
could produce that bare little smacking that affected me so disproportionately to its intent.

    I placed my hand behind her thigh and lifted her leg until it was wrapped behind me.  
She squeezed me to her with her calf, and I thrust back against her, my hardness already
apparent.  I moved my left leg outside of her right so she could press herself against my
thigh, the movements of her body as she let herself twist into me aroused me perhaps more
than it did her.  I dragged my teeth along her shoulder to which she responded with a little
gasp that demanded more discipline than I could ever hope for.  I crushed my lips against
hers, my hand came behind her neck and forced her to kiss me, which she did for the
barest instant before forcing me away.  She began to mouth the usual bit about boundaries
that never meant for me to stop, but simply for me to help convince her of a technical fidelity
to some distant boy.  She delighted too much in my obvious desire for her to even feign the
anger she so clearly did not feel.  I pulled back, made a sound of exasperation I did not
have to fake, and stood.  She followed me to her feet, draping her arms around my neck
and looking into my eyes with the confounding knowledge of her power over me, and the
multifaceted pleasure of self-denial, novelty and lust.

    I walked to my bedroom, trailing her behind me, her wrist gently bound by my hand.  I
laid her prone on the bed, and began working my hands over her back, kneading her flesh
in the manner I had learned over the past several weeks, looking down upon her contented
face.  It enraged me to see the smile on her proscribed lips, happily victorious over this boy
who would do whatever she signaled she wanted.  Who would struggle to kiss her, accept
her rejection, only to embrace her again.  The superiority and condescension of her lightly
closed eyes, secure in the knowledge that I would go precisely as far as she wanted, and
no further.  I grabbed her without pretence of gentleness, and laid her on her back, her
supine form toying with the eroticism of submission.  She opened her eyes and looked back
at me, a little smirk showing she knew she still had power, knew this gesture to be as empty
as the others.  I kissed her hard on the lips again, and pressing her against the bed, did not
let her pull away.

    "Stop," she managed, her voice muffled by my kiss.  I pressed my lips harder against
her.  I squeezed her wrists as hard as I could, hoping to hear a little squeal of pain.  "Stop,"
she said to me, "we can't do this."

    "Lauren," the fierceness of my own voice surprised me into a pause she likely took as
dramatic.  "I know how badly you want to be taken.  How desperately you want to feel me
against you without these", I pinched her skirt, "between us.  I want to feel your body give
way to me, to feel you wrapped around me and listen to your breath rush over my ear as I
enter you.  I want you to look into my eyes when you come, and I want you to not look away,
never look away."  This last was a command, and one she seemed to do her best to obey.  
"You don't get to fool with me forever, and expect me never to act.  I want you as my
possession, as something completely mine, and I know…"  Here, aroused beyond control by
my own demanding soliloquy, I kissed her again, breathily, my desire usurping both my
words and my movements.  "And I know that you crave it, you ache for it.  I know when you
press your body against me you want nothing more than for me to have you.  To take you
however I want.  You want to be possessed Lauren, you want to be owned like Mike couldn't
do."

This last swipe at her boyfriend was founded on nothing, for I knew little more than his name
and his girlfriend, but at the end she lifted her head and kissed me, hard and deep, my
tongue finally meeting hers, my hand grabbing the firm swell of her butt and forcing her
against me.  She writhed against my hip bone as I pulled her shirt over her head, my lips
rushing down her ribs, counting each one, circling back up along her breasts before
returning again to her lips that now made no secret of their desire.

I began to undo my pants, and Lauren's hands, fumbling but fervent, pressed against mine
in an effort to speed their removal.  Once I had undone the button she pulled them down,
taking my boxers with them to my ankles, then off completely.  I bunched her skirt about her
waist, not willing to spend the time that removing it would have required.  I pulled her white
underwear, suggestive for all their innocent simplicity, to the side, and slid my fingers inside
her.

She was incredibly wet, and the feeling of finally being within her, of feeling her body
surround even this part of me, overwhelmed me.  I wanted nothing more than to control her,
to use her to satisfy the myriad urges she had spent weeks cultivating.  She gasped and
pressed against the heel of my hand as I began to move my fingers in her, using the "come
here" motion with my index and middle that had worked so well on that other girl, long ago.  
She felt incredible, alive and young and desperate for my touch.  My lips traveled again
downwards, barely making contact with her clit as she lifted her hips off the bed to force me
against her.  I began tonguing her wetness, her taste and her texture making me ever
harder as her hand, intertwined with my hair, pressed me closer.  She pressed hard,
gasping as my fingers quickened to the tempo of my tongue.  Her sigh, her arching back,
the small discrete pressures of each of her fingertips: they all became too much.  I climbed
up several feet on the bed and held myself on my elbows over her ready, supine (another
favorite word of hers, one whose sound and saying is almost as sexy as its sense) form.  
She wrapped her slender fingers around me, and guided me inside of her.

I cannot hope to describe the feeling of finally satisfying my lust for Lauren as I slowly slid
into her, the gentle flesh giving way just as I had fantasized.  A crude but ecstatic part of my
brain rejoiced in how tight she felt around me, the smooth warm pressure of her body
surrounding mine.  The reader will surely recognize that I took a great deal of pleasure from
the idea of her, from the abstract lust she planted in me and fed upon.  It is this, perhaps,
that words can capture.  The only sense that can render the actual feeling of her body, so
young and wanting, so overcome with the desire I too felt, is touch.  Tired superlatives,
used so freely and with so little substance, can no longer do justice to the sensation of
sliding skin and tensing muscles that consumed my entire consciousness then.  All my
attention, all my thought, focused on those signals finding origin in my stomach pressed
against hers, my hand on her thigh, my lips' short kisses rushed between inhalations of
surprise at the pleasure managing to exceed expectations which were certain of their own
hopeless and unattainable excess.

There had been other girls, one even whom I had loved (of that I am still certain), but all
had managed to disappoint the idealized predictions of my precoital youth.  As I wrapped
my arms around Lauren's thighs and lifted her, standing up off my bed while she clung to
me ever more tightly, moving against me ever more intensely, all were exceeded.  She
whispered to me that she was coming, and I squeezed her still tighter, using all the strength
I could to help her press into me, moving her against me as she came.  I dug my finger tips
into her firm flesh, feeling myself come as soon as I felt her finish.  The prostatic pulsing
was made powerfully immediate by the pressure of her fingers, which found their way there
just in time.  I came as deeply inside of her as I could, hearing the barest gasp as I filled
her, pressing against the hidden flesh that marked the end of what she could take.  My
teeth bit hard against her shoulder, and she replied with the high-pitched sound of prurient
pain.  Her fingernails clawed my back, drawing pinpricks of blood I found the next morning,
and it was exactly the feeling I craved.

© 2008 Portmanteau


Portmanteau is a graduate student living in Boston, whose composition of erotica
began with an ill-fated (as is so often the case) long-distance relationship in college,
in which arousing words were the most effective proxy for physical proximity.  He
may be reached at prtmnteau@gmail.com.