The Fig At the End Of the Palm
He ate her palm like it was a fig till she came with a soft gasping shudder. He’d started by kissing her hand. Then he turned it over and kissed her palm. She smiled and made a little sound of pleasure. He tickled it with the tip of his tongue and began to feel aroused. Kissing it was like kissing a mouth and it suddenly relaxed into something that wasn’t really hand anymore, it was welcoming, like an orifice, he thought.
She evidently felt the same way because she now lay supine in the chair, sprawled across it, with her left arm folded classically over her brow, her face averted, right arm lying limp at her side while he gave her hand head. Both of them were getting off on this newly discovered erogenous zone. Her hand was now connected to, virtually equivalent to her cunt. With each lick, suck, stroke of her palm, she moved steadily towards orgasm exactly the way she did between her legs. For him, he no longer knew whether these lips he was kissing were her palm, her cunt, her mouth. In a kaleidoscopic way, he had experienced them all as his own arousal mounted and her coming orgasm drew him in deeper. Then they were coming, collapsing in a voluptuous ecstasy, she in the chair, he at her feet on the cool marble floor.
From the Shore
To go to town for supplies you take the launch that follows the coast and acts as water taxi for various beaches. Ten or so people per boat. I got high on the pleasure of watching the coast go by, seeing the next village come around the bend, then grow more distinct as we approached its beach. Each place loaded people in for the ride: tourists young old fat, children with their mothers, old women agile like cats.
But when we came around this particular bend, there was a young woman waiting on the beach. What was striking about her figure at a distance was the cleanness of the form, there was nothing wasted in the lines. A slim waist, an hour-glass figure that was enhanced by the fit of her blouse and short charcoal gray skirt. Even her hair was piled carefully on her head. Her legs were beautifully tanned and she seemed to be looking past us, gazing out to sea.
All this I glimpsed at a shrinking distance. What a delight to slowly ride in on the sea towards a beautiful woman on the shore. To gaze at her leisurely and with increasing proximity. There was a sense of timelessness. I flashed on the delights of the sailor’s life, coming like this into beaches and ports. But then of course there was tragic Jason and his Argonauts, hypnotized by the beauty of the Sirens.
She approached the boat with a shy swagger, hiking her short skirt slowly and steadily over full creamy thighs, till she was able to hoist her legs into the boat and roll herself in, giving us a delightful view of her exquisite ass and pink day-glow panties stamped PELIGRO in bold black letters.
She sat in front of me and as we glided back out to sea I gazed at the graceful line of her neck, of her shoulders. Her ears and the side of her face when she turned her head were so tempting I leaned towards her before I even realized it. It was all I could do to not slide my tongue slowly across her ear lobe like a soft current washing by. I could imagine the smell of her hair, the saltiness of her skin, the curve of her hip. Just then the boat hit a swell and a sharp little shower of cold water slapped me out of my reverie with a saltiness that was all too ironic. I was wet as a dog, and ready to howl like one too.
In the clearing stands a boxer – that’s me. But you know what? When I cried out it was with pleasure and when she cried out it was in ecstasy. You see, together, we practiced tantric boxing and no one could lay a glove on me.
Besides the normal course of training an athlete must endure, Divinity and I made love at minimum four hours a day and with each day our energies seemed to increase exponentially. After the running, after the pool, after the jump rope, I would lie inside her motionless while she moved her hips almost imperceptibly and we would both begin to buzz, raising our energy together till we couldn’t be sure that we weren’t actually floating and we couldn’t feel any borders between our bodies. It was a meditation, and I never came.
By the time of a fight, my control, my speed, my reflexes, my intuition were so highly tuned that no opponent could stay with me. The channeled and unreleased sexual energy I’d built up allowed me to unleash a kind of gentle fury that overwhelmed all those who stood before me. My reputation grew and the sight of the bulge in my shorts intimidated my competition for I was so hyped that I always had a hard-on when I stepped into the ring. The rags tried to pin the moniker Viagra King on me but I made no secret of my tantric techniques. I thought my example could be of benefit to people in all walks of life and in fact, I did receive a lot of fan mail that described me as an inspiration.
While I fought, Divinity waited in the dressing room, perched in a full lotus, breathing deeply, her long blonde hair shining under the naked bulbs, her lithe body a gorgeous contrast to the drab room. When she was really frisky, she’d amuse herself by sliding one leg, then the other, behind her head. I loved to come in from the fight, charged and burning, and find her, eyes closed, limbs locked behind her head, om-ing through her ruby lips.
But last week, I was so amped that after I took apart my challenger, a Southerner calling himself the Blossoming Turd, and left him kneeling on the canvas in a position of prayer, I temporarily lost my senses and started to mount him right there in the ring! The crowd loved it! Before I came to there was a chant throughout the stadium demanding that I “Take him, Take him!” Well, I probably would have but I suddenly flashed on Divinity meditating like a candle in the locker room, and like Frankenstein hearing some far away inner voice – his master’s voice, should I say? – I rolled off of the Blossoming Turd and made my way back to my luscious flower. We’ll have to work against overcharging because obviously there’s the danger of blackout, and we both agree that for us boxing is simply the particular means to higher consciousness. We’re not wrestlers, after all.