A Living Canvas

It's Masturbation Monday...but rather than self-manipulation this fine evening, I've opted for a little help in this story. Even though THEY aren't masturbating...perhaps the characters will inspire YOU to?

A Living Canvas

Jenna became highly aware of her own skin, as the warm breeze hit places usually covered in public. She and Michael had the backyard to themselves. The kids were gone for the weekend, and, generously, Mother Nature had graced them with a sunny afternoon. Michael took the opportunity to pull Jenna, by the hand, away from her chores and responsibilities. Sometimes he had no choice but to make it a directive. She had a tendency to wind herself up and lose focus on what mattered. And Michael had to cook up something out of the ordinary to really reset her. This afternoon, he had just such a plan in store.

Standing on the soft green grass, Michael spread a blanket. He walked behind her, surprising her by picking her clean up off her feet. She giggled and squealed a bit with the shift of balance from her own feet to his arms. The shift in power was more than symbolic. It was obvious the role she was being asked to assume. And gladly, she began to leave her To Do list behind.

"Close your eyes, Jen. No talking. No moving. I'll move you as necessary."

Jenna nodded and sank down into the blanket and the softness of the earth below it, eyes closed, a smile relaxing her features. She could hear Michael moving around her, setting things down, and preparing, for whatever it was he was planning to do.

And then he was above her, unbuttoning her well-loved plaid, cotton shirt, which was rolled up at the sleeves as to keep them out of the dish-water...and then her jeans: unbuttoned and unzipped, slowly being pulled off of her body. He turned her just enough to each side to remove her arms from the sleeves of her shirt and then undid her front-clasped bra, peeling it back like wrapping paper, revealing her breasts, nipples already signaling her growing dedication to the moment. Slipping the bra out from under her back, he left her in the sun with the directive to keep her eyes closed.

Within minutes, he returned, setting more things down around her. Jenna could feel him kneel beside her, could feel his warm breath above her left nipple...her right...and then her neck. In her ear, he whispered, "You're a perfect canvas...that porcelain skin, crying out for the images in my head. These ideas...they'll find a home here...and here....and here..."

With each "here", he kissed her, on the side of her breast, on her stomach, and just below the edge of her white cotton panties, which he'd left on her.

And then she felt the cold touch of the paint-dipped brush on her collar bone, as it made a trail between her breasts, to her naval. She sucked in her breath when the brush moved softly back up to circle each of her breasts.

She sighed, and released every other last thought, letting her brain be submerged in the smell (one of her favorites) of freshly cut grass and the sound of the erotic musical strains of Enigma's MCMXC a.D. The swirls and dips of the brush, into and out of the valleys of her torso, took the rest of her bodily concentration, and everything else was pushed outward, into the space around her, and set free. 

Jenna had no idea how much time had passed, as she drifted in and out of a light sleep. The warmth of the sun on her skin lulled her back and forth along the edge of a dream that vaguely resembled the scent of a distant memory. But when the brush stopped moving, Jenna was softly roused from herself by Michael's voice.

"Imagine what he could have done with a canvas such as this..."

She began to open her eyes, but Michael told her to stop.

"I'm not done, Jen. It has to dry. And while it does..."

Michael began to slide Jenna's panties over her sun-kissed hips and down her thighs. He spread her legs, just a bit, his hands, on either side of her, steadying him as he lowered his face to kiss her softest, sweetest parts. He licked the creases where her inner thighs met her outer labia...and then grazed his tongue from the base of her inner labia, all the way to her clitoris, where he stayed for a moment, collecting himself, as she slowly began to lose herself.

"Jenna, you have to hold still...to let the paint dry. You can't touch it. You can't move...unless I move you."

"Okay, Michael. I promise not to move." But she wasn't so sure she could keep her promise.

He licked her, and tasted her, and slipped first one and then two fingers inside of her, knowing just where to touch, with just the right pressure, to bring her complete release. He worked his fingers and tongue in tandem, bringing her just to the edge, every muscle in her lower body taut and her breath held. That is when he stopped. He pulled away, and he watched the swirls of paint move across her flesh, the yellow and blue patterns turning from static to rhythm, like animation...the wind - alive and dancing, just as the artist had intended.

The Last of Its Kind

(This is a Wicked Wednesday post...based on the prompt: Write from the point of view of the last tree standing in a forest. I have to admit, this stumped me, and I was ready to throw in the towel before I even started, but I ran the prompt past Mr. LL, and he came up with a cute idea - so I'm running with it.)

The Last of Its Kind

It's hot today. Humid as hell, in fact. Seems that during the growing season, we all tend to crowd, to the point of touching...even braiding ourselves together in places, or growing back into the ground beneath us to escape the heat and the suffocating closeness. 

And there's the darkness. Intermittent brightness blinds us, like being bathed in neon, but with it comes the blessed breeze, and we can breathe. For a moment, until we are covered again, kept from the light, left to stagnate. 

In this condition, we sweat. Like prisoners in a pit, we talk to each other, sometimes never knowing what the other looks like. It's just voices. 

Until night. Even though it's still dark, the cover is taken away, like low clouds that rise and let the moon gaze down upon the forest below. We rest and dry out, the cool air freeing us. And sometimes, the hands of the gods above literally brush through us, bending us gently, petting us like a cat. If they could only hear us purr.

Occasionally, there is a storm...a heavy darkness beats down upon us, crashing and mashing us to the ground, bending us, breaking us. There are casualties...losses...and we pull together and prepare ourselves for the post-tornado downpour, that washes us clean, separating us, leaving us breathless, tired, and weak. We curl into ourselves, shrinking and exhausted.

And then there is the inevitable disaster. We all know it will come. We are told from the moment we are born...warned that we may not even have the chance to fully develop...grow to our potential. And we live with the possibility. 

I've been lucky. I was born during the growing season...a time when the forest is let loose to become what it may. We don't know why it happens. But from time to time, it does. So, I knew it was only a matter of time.

Right now, I'm in the eye of the storm. I can hear the vibration, the rumbling beneath me. I can hear the screams in the distance, the tortured screams of those cut down in their prime. And I know it is coming for me. I try to be calm, to prepare myself. 

The vibration becomes a deafening growl, pounding and gnawing at the world around me. Dozens, hundreds of my friends and family...and those that were never close enough to know...are cut away and disappear, sucked up into the bright void.

And suddenly, I am alone, hidden in a crevice. Maybe I will be spared? Maybe the storm will pass and I will be left to tell those who are still waiting to be born?

Stuck to the ground where I stand, I hold on. I stand proud. I am willing to be sacrificed if it must be that way. But, I hope I am left to tell the tale. The last curling hair on a rolling hill between two giant mountains that grown downward. 

I can hear the voices from above...the voices of the gods. They have planned this execution. This "cleansing" as it were. This clear cut. 

They say it is for the best. And they run their hands across the naked landscape, barely grazing me. If they notice, they do not let on. Instead. a clean warm rain comes down and washes away what is left of the broken bodies around me, leaving smooth ground, ripe for regrowth. 

A large pink tidal wave brushes past me, barely missing me. It returns...again and again...digging deep into the widening crevice in front of me...a cavernous, hungry crater that invites the destruction.

I turn away. I can no longer bare to look upon the horror...the end of days. I will curl up...attempt to bury myself, hide beneath the ground. I can only hope they won't find me...the single hair left behind.

Let Freedom Ring (FFF)

Ahhh...the 50s. The epitome of "America" at a time when things were just so damned...well...American. The fashion, the technology, the language, the "proper niceness". A perfect facade for reality.

Yesterday, I rewatched Revolutionary Road, and so today, for Flash Fiction Friday, the era of the 50s was fresh in my mind. Picture a perfectly groomed lawn, a perfectly straight fence, a perfectly laid quilt, and a perfectly dressed couple with perfect hair. The Jensens. Imagine them lying under the stars having a perfectly proper conversation...about the children, about the future, about the day and their wonderful BBQ party.

Imagine they've thrown back a few too many perfect martinis. And imagine their conversation becomes, well...more "real."

This week's requirements:

Key Phrase: "Let Freedom Ring"
Word Limit:  294
Forbidden Words: Independence, Revolution

"Let Freedom Ring"

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“Do you think if I fucked you with a firecracker fast enough it would spark?”

Mrs. Jensen giggled and raised her eyebrows at her husband’s ridiculous question, “You could imagine your dick is a firecracker, exploding its sparks into my cunt.”

“I love it when you talk dirty., Mrs. Jensen...How about I just fuck you, plain and simple?”

Mr. Jensen rolled his wife over, flipped up her voluminous skirt, pulled down her lacey panties, and marveled at the soft glow of her ass so white in the darkness of their back yard. The neighborhood was ablaze with the sounds and lights of the 4th. No one was the wiser that the lovely and proper Jensens were celebrating in their own traditional way.

With his pleated pants pooled around his knees, Mr. Jensen pounded the missus from behind and grunted out in time to his thrusts, “Get... your... flag... ready... mama..., the... bomb’s... about... to... blow...”

And as Mrs. Jensen came, she whispered, “Oh, fuck yes....” then loudly pronounced, “LET FREEDOM RING!” Of course...she was being silly. And Mr. Jensen laughed as she pulsed and tightened around his cock. Every year it was a new patriotic phrase, yelled at the top of her lungs to screw with the neighbors.

From across the fence, the responses “Hallelujah!” from one side and from the other side “God bless America!” made them both laugh, as they lay spent on the rumpled quilt.

“America...land of the wonderfully oblivious. I’m just grateful for the freedom to fuck my wife in the wide open.”

They lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, colored lights streaming down at the same rate that Mr. Jensen’s come streamed down his wife’s inner thigh.


Happy 4th!

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Just for fun...here's a little down home "real" Americana...I love vintage porn...

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This one is especially for you, Mr. LL...I figured you'd like those voluptuous tits and round hips...