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Face Down
by Cherry Black © 2006

Is there a doctor out there? What does it mean when lately everything I eat or drink tastes faintly of licorice?

A few days ago, I received some emails from Karin who has been absent for a while. She does this. One or two days of one week I will get email after email and she is manically desperate to meet with me on line for sex and dirty talk. Then she is gone.

The first email I open begins, 'Darling, I have fingered myself the whole day thinking of you.'

Well, Karin, likewise.

She has sent more photos of her Moese, newly shaved and smooth with two red hearts drawn huddled over the slit; these I have squirelled away into folders already bursting with her pictures and dirty little movies. 'See how wet I am?' demands the usual photo caption.

In the latest pictures she is standing in her work clothes, just arrived home from work. Outside, the late afternoon is shrouded in Winter's gloom. The minute she arrives home inside her front door she has raised her skirt and taken photos of her naked crotch. I have seen enough photos of her that I know when she is aroused, as now, lips darkly full and extant like the chubby mouth of some mauve-colored sea-animal. She calls this condition "meine kleine Sandwich." Maybe it's funny in German. Who knows.

One of my favorite movies, sent by Karin in recent times, is not of herself, but of Hakon, her husband. He is sitting in a deskchair in their office at home where Karin usually chats with me. He is alone. Did Karin hide a camera? I'd believe that.

Hakon's manner is self-absorbed. This, for me, makes it all the more sexy, that he is naked and erect and believes himself alone; that he wanks haphazardly between bouts of tapping at the keyboard, or that he grins or mumbles to himself in private conversation. Now and then he says things out loud in English, like, 'Oh you dirty bitch.' Now and then he cups his balls and swings back and forth in the chair, kicking his feet like an excited child. Maybe the woman (I assume the gender) in the computer is giving him instructions.

The clip is so revealing that I feel I have been granted secret knowledge of men. Hakon likes to play with his own nipples, tickle and tease them. So, they really like that. He likes to squeeze hard the knob of his cock. He juggles his balls, and occasionally with legs up probes around his asshole. As I watch, the Whomever in the computer screen is asking him to do things. He squeezes his cock hard at the base, makes the knob swell violently hard, waves the web cam directly over the top of it. He spits on his hand and screws the knob. Soon after this he gathers a little bead of dew on a fingertip and sucks it.

I had no idea men paid so much attention to these things. One day, it is my fantasy, I will watch a man masturbate for real. Even, I want to direct the performance, make it a dirty little play. I will make him go fast and slow, fast and slow, and wait and wait until allowed by me to come. I want him to come with his cock exactly vertical so the goop goes straight up and lands back down on his cock and hand again.

Now, where was I...

In case you were wondering, I am at home. And it's a night alone, pretty much like any other night in my solitary life of late. It's eight-thirty PM and I am horny. And sooner or later, like tonight, the erotic stories and emails from Karin are not enough to sustain me. I push back from the computer.

If I wished I could try Lena's number. I know already I would get the answering machine, so I refrain, which spares me the cramping heat between my thighs which I get whenever I hear her recorded voice. It saves me the embarrassment of the message I know I would stupidly blurt out: 'Hi Lena, it's me. I really need a fuck.'

I think somewhere along the line here, I must have dialled Rhonda's number. The phone is in my hand. The earpiece is going 'birrrch... birrrch...' On the eleventh ring I hang up convinced that the bitch is not home. She thereby escapes a diatribe that may have become—under these the circumstances of extreme horniness—a begging plea along the lines: 'Well Rhonda, how about we screw while your husband watches, but this time only so long as we both know he's there... huh?'

Actually, I'd love to get a bit rough with her. But that's another story.

So what can a girl do? Nine pm and the happy fucking crickets are chirruping their happy little songs outside in the late summer evening. The scented air calls me for a walk, to burn off some of this energy. I throw on a light floppy shirt, some slacks. Fantasies pursue me in the darkness. The slap of my sandals on the pavement becomes the slap of sweaty bodies. The swish of silky fabric around legs is a lover's breeze. My nipples are alight. I don't dare touch them.

The square at the end of the road is bright enough to be safe, shadowed enough near the benches that I may join there the few other anonymous souls. Are they too, I wonder, orphaned by their desires?

Joggers and walkers and strollers and sitters. Two men idle past, deep in conversation, one with a trembling fluff ball that might be a dog. They are heading for the dark west corner of the square where there are trees and litter and dusty paths leading to dead ends. I follow them with my gaze. My crazy mind has them seeking out somewhere private away from their wives. Satisfied they won't be disturbed, in the dark between the trees and fences, their hearts pound as they take out their cocks. One sighs a tense sigh as the other's hand goes around his shaft. The other groans then chuckles as he feels his foreskin pushed back by the familiar roughness of a familiar palm. They masturbate rapidly and in moments hoist their cocks like cannons. Out of the darkness comes the soft rain-patter of semen on dust. So says my aroused mind.

But no. They take another path. Their conversation continues as they head on home.

I love foreskins. I've had only one to play with in my entire life, and that was for a mere three lovemakings. I have had six male sexual partners, and two female sexual partners not counting Karin who exists electronically, and my older cousin Christine who over a brief series of episodes one summer, lab-ratted me on a bed and performed ritualistic experiments involving mainly my labia and clothespins. I want to blow up a foreskin like a balloon. I want to watch a man with a foreskin masturbate. Anyone got pictures?

Ten-thirty PM and the night is clammy and hot. At my computer, the story I write is about two men with foreskins and one can inflate with his mouth the foreskin of the other into a giant veinous membrane. It is probable in the context of the story. Where does this lead to? It doesn't matter. I write auto-erotically, to give fantasy a form. To delay and thereby enrich solo orgasm by means of the ritual discipline of writing.

Karin is not on line and has left an email. She is away with Hakon on business for a few days. Here are some photos, she says. Tell me how they make you come, she says. They are photos of Karin standing next to the planter box just inside her front door. Her hair is done and she is dressed for church, pale yellow blouse, black slacks. With a candid smile she is pretending to water the plastic philodendron with a yellow plastic jug. I don't get it.

By eleven-thirty-nine PM I am about to ready to call it just another day without sex.

I have a shoe box on the top shelf in my study marked TAXES and inside here are some toys I use with Karin. (And oh my, don't I just love it when she tells me which ones to buy, and how to use them...) I slip on some nipple danglies. I have a little silver bullet-shaped vibrator which usually, as now, handles the preliminaries. Then there's Good Ol' Petrified who does service as a pretend cock. I tease my fiery nipples, read porn on the computer. Good vibrations all round.

So, get this, at eleven-fifty two the phone rings. And get this: I answer it.

He says calmly, 'It's me. Ewen.' 'You're calling at midnight.' 'I called this afternoon. Twice. I called this evening, twice.'

The answering machine is flashing seven new messages.

'And so...?' 'I thought I'd call one more time.' 'Because you're awake at midnight. And I'm probably sound asleep because I have to work tomorrow.' 'Because I was on my bed thinking of you at midnight. And because I know you never sleep.'

Let me think about this.

'And you want to come over?' 'I'm ten minutes away.' 'By pogo stick?' 'I have a hire car.' 'You planned this?' 'Yes.'

Let me think about this some more.

'Ewen. It's almost midnight. I have to work in the morning. And for us, you and me, I need more warning. Sorry.'

I may have said, 'Go and have a nice wank.' Let me catch my breath.

So, who is this Ewen, you may ask, to be introduced so late into a story?

Well, there's an elaborate tale related to Ewen, my Ex-husband's Ex-best friend. I will give you the whole story another time, I promise, with enough detail that you'll be counting the wrinkles on Ewen's scrotum.

Ewen was my sixth male partner. The afternoon of the same evening I fucked Ewen, I had also fucked my lover, the fifth man I'd ever made love to. As well, I'd fucked my husband the evening before, so technically that's three men in around twenty-four hours. But who's counting.

Now, let me spill the beans, on my self. There was a small dinner party at my house one Saturday evening before Ex was Ex. That afternoon I had gone out for groceries, of course taking a detour via my lover's house, something I am capable of because, technically, I'm a cuckolding bitch. That evening I decided I wanted Ewen. You know how it goes: He sat opposite me at the dinner table, and how can you resist a gentle man so liberal with his pleases and thank-yous. Ex was getting drunk and I was getting desperate for Ewen and passing in the kitchen I grabbed his hand and squeezed it and gave him begging eyes and whispered, 'Don't leave when the others leave.'

I then made the whipped cream for the dessert.

A creature who was me, yet not me—someone I still won't recognise—stopped by the medicine cabinet and took out two sleeping pills and crushed them and stirred the powder into the cream that went onto Ex's dessert. He ate the lot. He barely made it through the goodbyes, the poor dear, staggering around moaning like a drunken moron—which everyone still remembers. He didn't notice Ewen hanging back in the shadows. Nothing was said about it between Ewen and I, it was just kind of agreed that we should have our sex in the bedroom. Ex was passed out over on his side of the bed, Ewen and I screwing on mine.

There can be nothing more honest than a cock standing rigidly upright in your presence, can there? What other motive can there be for other than what its master sees is what its master wants. I had led Ewen by the hand upstairs to the bedroom. I had watched him undress. I had watched his cock leap out from his shorts.

He stood there naked and erect.

'I'm not romantic,' I warned him. I shucked my dress, got nude, let my hair out, ran fingers upward through the hair on his chest. 'Do you stick your fingers up ladies?'

How's that for an opening line.

'Shocked?' 'I don't shock easily. But I don't make a nuisance of myself.' 'I wish you had—a little more. I'm one who'll soon let you know if you've gone too far. Or not far enough.' 'Are you always so forward?' 'Ewen. I have screwed you in every conceivable manner.' He shrugs. Then pouts. 'A thousand times, Ewen.'

Kiss me, you idiot.

Perhaps it's too easy for the lonely to construct an imaginary universe where lovers are pornographic. But they are, aren't they? Isn't that what makes them so interesting to imagine, to write, to read. To have.

I showed Ewen my cunt. He did not retreat or cower. Rather he came forward, reduced to a beaming moonface with ears suspended in the gap between my spread-wide legs. An eager audience, chin cupped on hands. A smile. Now he was ready and I reached down and brushed aside the hairs, pressed fingertips into pussy cheeks, pulled them apart. Now the inner lips. Now the hood over sweet-pea and I was open and exposed. Ewen grunted a soft, kindly grunt. Whispered, 'Wow.' Thus given permission, he put a finger in me and felt inside by turning his finger upward and stroking. Deeper. We both watched his finger's joint slip between my lips. And again, softly, he whispered, 'Wow.' What a lovely man.

How strange that my Ex was afraid of this. In a box buried under a pile of junk in our garage, he had hidden a stash of porno magazines, mainly the harder stuff: Balloon-titted lesbians, Japanese "schoolgirls" masturbating, women of all kind and shape and color without exception displaying their cunts in unimaginative poses. Honestly, I didn't mind him having them. I wished he'd shared them with me. I could have told him, 'Get your camera. I can do better.' But when I wanted to show him my cunt, to have him admire it... to have him explore me explicitly with his fingers in open daylight for us both to see, and for me to feel... and to show him how wet I become and how I swell when critically aroused... he was in retreat. I wanted to show him and share with him all the filthy, dirty, disgusting things a grown woman like me can do, and has done, with herself. I wanted a playmate, maybe even a leader to take me further into exploration. I was ready to go anywhere, and he could have had all of me. He was afraid.

So I asked this question of Ewen, instead, with my drugged husband snoring on the bed beside us.

The experience of Ewen, that night, lingered like an intoxication long after he flit down the darkened stairs in his socks. Mind comfortably numb, I slipped on a swimsuit and drifted downstairs and out into the night. I stood for a while in the blackness listening to the flap and flop of pool water in its pipes and channels, arms outstretched, eyes shut, lips parted just enough that my breathing whistled eerily. I listened to it for some time, then the crash of my body falling flat into the water smashed apart this little symphony, replaced it with ocean sounds of seashells hushing, mermaids sighing. At last came the silence, total silence, and with it the beginning of an ache where the gardener's spade had hit me flat across the back of the head.

I was floating face down. I had been fogbound and desperately seeking the one who could lead me to fields and sunshine. Now everything was clear.

With the silence came an erotic tremor, the brief body-memory of Ewen's finger screwing in my pussy. My right hand relived the moment of his cock pulsing with ejaculation, my tongue the warm fluid. I had put his own hand on his cock, curled the fingers around the shaft and encouraged him to pump. He complied, though only for a very few seconds. Losing interest, the fingers stalled and drifted away back to me, to my breasts, searching out my nipples. Back to Safety. That's OK. I believed I could afford to wait for the playmate to emerge.

My lungs were beginning to cry out. But there, floating face down, there were lots of safe, warm sexy feelings going on, through my body and through my mind independently, yet as a one. I listened to the long distant wail of a siren. I saw an orgasm, would you believe that? The best I can describe it to you is as a piece of electric blue brain coral with long, long tentacles, dozens of them, more like filaments trailing from beneath. It had peeled ripe peaches for eyes, raw and naked, spinning randomly and frictionlessly in sockets that had droopy labia-like lids. It was blind and groped. It looked lost.

The siren wasn't the physical orgasm that I could see, nor the real kind of orgasm I almost felt when I imagined Ewen's finger in me. It was my lungs again, at the limit of their capacity to exchange poisonous air.

As it happened, I had waited for Ewen. Waited and waited for him to catch up with me and become my playmate. So much was promised in his first touches, yet so little of that which I craved was actually delivered. Later I found Karin. And where I had learned that Ewen was simply unafraid, it was my delight to discover in Karin the true sexual innovator. Where Ewen was fun, it was, and remains, Karin who thrills me to the core.

There is no more floating face down, waiting for rescue to happen. Not with Karin.

Rescue of the physical kind did come that night. My husband, after thumping me with the spade, salvaged enough commonsense through the drugged haze I had induced, to pull me by the arm to safety away from the water. I didn't mind either way. Except for the pain in the lungs, I was exhilirated by such beautiful, huge, wide, expansive thoughts. Interestingly, I can tell you that if I had taken away the sex/arousal/wisdom part of those sensations, the stuff left over would have been so oddly pure like being in love.

Blessedly, Ex never remembered a solitary thing about that night. He woke up half frozen on the back lawn, that's all he knows. As soon as my concussive migraine had abated to the point where I could breathe without squinting in pain, I did only what any other self-respecting wife would have done under these circumstances: I let Ex have it in a marathon piece-of-my-mind, for getting so drunk in front of our friends and so on. Then he was in the doghouse for a week.

© 2006 Cherry Black.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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