Heaven – Round 4 : Page 7

June 19th, 2010

When I open my eyes she is before me, a radiant angel in a shimmering pale blue gown, quite literally glowing with K-glare and the background of strobes. Her lips are moving, but, curiously, making no sound; then I remember the fifty decibels of music, to which I had become totally numb. I quickly reduce it to conversation level.

“The doctor said…”

She puts her index finger to my lips. “Let’s not talk about it now. I came to cheer you up. Where’s the kitty-kat?”

I indicate the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

She returns, carrying the mirror and straw, assesses my condition, and portions out a line calculated to match it. The rail disappears as if confronted by vacuum cleaner. She smiles. “Where were we? Oh, yes, cheering you up. When’s the last time you had a good backrub?”

“What kind of therapist are you?” I joke, mostly to conceal my disbelief. It must be the drugs, making me misinterpret. She isn’t actually coming on to me!

She looks me square in the eyes. “The kind you need right now.” She lightly kisses my lips. “The kind who cares.” And she retreats behind the recliner and begins to loosen my hair-trigger neck muscles.


“I can’t do a good job like this,” she complains, walking briskly to the couch and turning the cushions onto the floor. The K doesn’t seem to have fazed her at all. “Lay down,” she orders. “And lose the clothes.”

I obey.

She is a virtuoso, playing sensual tabla on my back, sculpting a masterpiece, dancing a storm. I melt under her fingers, grunting, moaning and squirming under her ministrations. “I love you,” I blurt involuntarily, and instantly regret it. It is sort of a stupid thing for a thirty-year old man to say in response to a simple massage, especially when I’ve been explicitly warned. But, damn it, that’s how I feel!

Llewellyn is neither tickled nor offended. “Love is the language souls speak,” she whispers in my ear, caressing my lobe with her tongue. “Turn over, and I’ll show you love.”

Our open mouths connect, our tongues electrically entwining about each other. I slurp at her, savoring and absconding with the sweet bubbly moisture, whetting my appetite for her more esoteric juices.

I assert control, guiding her gently to her back. I longingly kiss her cheek, her eyes, her brow. I gently seize her fleshy bottom lip in my teeth, stretching it to its limit before reluctantly releasing it. “I never knew you felt this way…” I mumble inanely.

“You never needed me enough before,” she answers.

I taste her neck, her shoulders, her tight firm breasts, lingering on each nipple for as long as seems to give her pleasure; then I slide down and embrace each of her painted toes with my lips, evoking some encouraging moans. I slowly make my way up her legs, lifting each to tease the sensitive spots behind each knee, which also gives me a maddening view of her ass.

I can wait no longer. I prostrate myself before the gate of the Temple and commence to worship.

I gently peel apart the petals of her flower, and sigh at the powerful scent of her, inhaling it deeply. I run my lips and tongue along the edges, teasing, spiraling in toward her stiff little button. When I sense she can take no more, I give her clit a single languorous lick. She gasps. I return to the perimeter with more assertion, boldly opening her further, and insert a probing finger before resuming my attention on her member with gusto.

My bent finger slides along the inner wall, seeking the Spot and finding it readily enough. It’s usually to one side or the other. Her body quakes with preorgasmic ecstasy. I release the pressure and continue to lightly suck and lick, alternating procedures in tune to her rhythm. Love may be the language of souls, but bodies speak it as well.

My face is alive with rapture, every lick and stroke bringing me toward an oral climax of my own, as if the urgent message of joy her nerves are transmitting to her brain are also leaping across the chasm between our skin, infusing me with a renewed desire to make her squirm. The real kick of cunnilingus, and I suppose of the other thing, too, aside from the satisfaction of giving, is this feedback loop, which can turn nearly any body part into a sexual organ.

“Whoever taught you to be such an incredible lover?” she asks, filling my chest with a teenager’s pride.

I pull away from her, a smile on my sticky face. “Well, you know I honor the Goddess, in all her incarnations,” I say innocently. “And I prefer to kneel when I pray.”

“Praise Goddess,” she murmurs as I return to my worship. Before long, she is drowning out the music with her yelps and screams. Her body stiffens, then bucks, her legs kicking out and nearly forcing me away with the violence of her reaction. After a minute of my holding for dear life, she relaxes and pants softly, a silly grin on her sweaty, gorgeous face.

“So, did that do anything for you?” I quip coyly.

“Shut up and let me taste myself,” she demands, pulling my face to hers. We enjoy a prolonged, musky kiss, breaking grudgingly by mutual consent to attend to worldly concerns before returning to our lovemaking.

Llewellyn rolls a joint, as I retrieve my survival kit from the coffee table beside the recliner. I am naked, while she is still wearing her silky minidress, so I replace my trousers to restore equality, though I have no doubt I’ll be removing them again shortly. Parched, I gulp half the bottle of water and light a clove, inhaling deeply before offering her a drag.

She swaps me for the spliff. “I have to say,” she comments, exhaling spicy smoke, “If I’d known you were so good at that, this might have happened a while ago.”

“I’m glad it didn’t,” I say sincerely. She looks hurt, so I explain. “I wouldn’t have fully appreciated it as I do, before today. You may be the last lover I ever have.”

She nods. “I sensed that you’d gotten bad news.”

I laugh. “Yeah, that and the message I left on your voicemail!”

She frowns “You left a message?”

I freeze. “Yes, of course! You said so on the phone.”

She hesitates. “I haven’t checked my mailbox. I was referring,” she says, tapping her temple in the universal gesture for psi, “to your message.”

I don’t know what to say. “You decided to tell me about your crush,” she continues, “and proceeded to contemplate suicide. I tell you, that didn’t make me feel wonderful.”


She shrugs. “I was astral planing, and a node lit up, and I saw fear and courage and anger and love, all exploding, so I floated up to it and it was you. You were so beautiful, so wounded and needy. Then I heard my name, and 101 ways to stop paying social security. I pulled and tugged at you, but you weren’t paying attention. You were too busy staring at your navel. So I went home and rang you up as soon as I was back in my body.

It was too late to stop you from starting the party without me.”

“Want to do another rail?” I ask, starting to surface from my hole.

“How about some E, instead? I brought over a few rolls for us.”

We munch the tabs and rinse with water, gather essential supplies, and retreat to the bedroom, where you can guess what we do. Unless, I suppose, you are virgin, in which case you have my heartfelt sympathies, and it’s probably best not to titillate you any further.

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