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From: "celia batau" <halina@pob.cc>
Subject: {ASSM} Succulents [Mf cons bd]
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Date: Tue, 7 Dec 1999 02:10:01 -0500
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Hi Everyone!
This is the first story we've posted. It's very short, and not too erotic,
but we wanted to share it.
We especially thank Crimson Dragon for saving this story from near oblivion.
Yay!
Please feel free to copy and share this story as long as long as you don't
charge for it, and we (Celia Batau) get the credit.
This is an adult story, so unless you're an adult and it's legal where you
live, please don't read it.
We love suggestions and opinions about our stories. Please send them to
halina@pob.cc
Enjoy!
-cb
Succulents
Gently, Paul lifts me up. Like a hanging plant. I could be a fern, a
Rhododendron, something green and temperate with fleshy leaves and long
delicate stems, like golden impatiens maybe, or even an exotic.
I can hear Paul's labored breathing as he checks the ropes. He is always
very careful, inspecting every knot and making sure that every intricate
loop of rope is just right and that my weight is evenly distributed across
my shoulders and knees.
My position isn't comfortable. My ankles are crossed and tied behind me and
pulled up and tied to the ropes around my waist. My arms are also crossed
and tied high on my back. The rest of my body is criss-crossed in a lace of
ropes hugging me from head to foot and balancing the constant tug of the
ropes tied to my knees and shoulders. This is Paul's favorite position,
practiced over a hundred afternoons. Everything is so snug that I can only
wiggle my fingers.
Satisfied, he lets me go and happily watches as I lazily turn in front of
him. He's smiling. I can tell even though I can't see him. I know him that
well.
We had been dating less than three months by the time we drove to Carlsbad
to see the bats. We were deep in the cavern, standing by Giant Dome the when
he grabbed me for the first time, really grabbed me. He pressed me back into
an alcove and held me between himself and the railing. There was such a need
in his eyes that I couldn't complain no matter how cold and hard the railing
was, couldn't do anything except stare back in the dim light. There was such
a fierceness in his eyes, and such a strength and urgency that was so much
more than the wildness that first drew me to him, and at that moment I knew
that I could never deny him anything.
Afterwards, in the giftshops he bought me everything I wanted; shot glasses,
post cards, specialized keychains with a picture of the caverns on one side
and names of our friends and family on the other, and the handmade Hopi doll
that swung lazily from the rearview mirror as we drove back home, he
watching the horizon and me sleeping on his shoulder and dreaming of
nopales.
I can feel the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the dirty panes in
the greenhouse ceiling. It clings to my skin. It feels wonderful. Somewhere
below me is the little cactus I bought this morning. I wonder of he can feel
it too. And I wonder what he thinks from the safety of his little plastic
cup on the shelf beside the window of these two funny creatures playing
above him.
Suddenly I feel his lips brush lightly against my own and I open my mouth to
accept him but he's already gone. Then I feel his fingers running across my
tummy, teasing me in the bare spots between the ropes. And once again I feel
his lips, kissing me where his fingers left off. I squirm helplessly, loving
every second of it, wanting it to stop and wanting it to never stop. I want
to touch him so bad, to grab him, feel him, hold him, and getting so
frustrated that I can't give back.
And then he bites me.
Oh, I have more than one cactus in my garden, I think. I smile but don't
dare say anything.
Gently, he brushes the hair from my face and ties it to a rope behind my
head, though a few damp strands escape to cling to my face. The greenhouse
is hot. I'm hot. Paul's taken off his shirt and I catch glimpses of his
tanned skin as he moves under me.
"Te quiero," he says to me between kisses, "Mi muneca."
"Si otra vez qualquier cosa si," I want to say to him, but I can't make my
tongue move straight.
I just can't seem to focus on anything. My heart's beating so fast. All I'm
aware of is the gentle force of life flowing through his fingertips, burning
like stars bound in an ever-changing constellation. It beats to its own
internal rhythm, unaware or unconcerned by my own excitement.
Again his fingers trace the outline of the ropes against my skin. All over
my skin he maps me with his lips, his tongue and his hands. He is my
personal cartographer. I am his macrame girl. His hanging flower. He is my
boy scout, my gardener, my "Koibito."
Koibito, that's the private name I've given him, a name he'll never know,
because I can keep a secret. But he tries. Almost as if he could read my
mind, or see the laughter in my eyes that I try so cleverly to hide whenever
I think of his name.
No matter where we go from this moment, I'll always be rooted here, to his
heart. But my Koibito refuses to stay rooted, preferring the endless desert
roads to a more leisurely spot in the garden. Instead, I'm the one who is
held down and arranged in whichever way pleases him. And I could not live
without it. And just now I realize that we really are one and the same. He
possesses my body, but I possess his heart. Or rather, his heart has become
mine, and mine his. Our roots have grown and tangled in our time, sharing
the same sunshine and drawing into ourselves whatever we can glean from a
poor and ungiving landscape.
Though I know that I am only a transplant, like my little cactus in the
greenhouse, I have made his soil my own. We could have sprouted from the
same seed or spawned off the palm of a common mother. We're both desert
creatures. It's made us what we are. He a cactus, all sharp thorns and
defensive and beautiful in his fierceness, and me a succulent, the same
without the thorns, far more giving of the precious moisture within.
Then he appears before me. He's got that wonderful wild grin on his face
again. His face is quiet and still, but his hands never stop moving. He
watches me as gradually I feel it, the tight pressure of the lone rare
flower waiting to bloom.
I close my eyes. I can't bear it any longer. Tenderly he kisses my mouth, my
nose, and my forehead before blowing his sweet breath into my ear, making me
shiver as he whispers, "Koibito."
the end
1999 celia batau
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