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Leda and the Swan by Amethyst
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Leda and the Swan
by Amethyst
When I first met Carla, I was living in Ithaca, New York. Ithaca is a
strange town for upstate New York -- people who hate it say it's
"stuck in the 60's;" people who love it say it has "preserved the
60's." At least they agree on what's special about Ithaca -- they
just disagree about whether it's good or bad. A friend of mine who
moved to Ithaca from Santa Cruz says that Ithaca is "Santa Cruz with
lousy weather." We don't have a boardwalk, either.
Many of the businesses in town are run by ageing hippies who moved to
Ithaca to attend school, then never left. Every second or third
business or institution in town seems to have the word "alternative"
in the title -- there's the Alternatives Credit Union, and the
Alternative Bookstore, the Alternatives Natural Food Store, and the
alternative just about anything you can think of. One enterprising
soul who believed that money is the root of all evil (not a new
attitude, is it?) decided to make an alternative to money. She
instituted a formal barter system in Ithaca, where people trade
skills, goods and services with each other. People who work for
someone who doesn't have something that they want are given chits to
exchange for the services of someone who does have something they
want. Don't ask me how the chits are different from money -- if you
want to join the system, it's an article of faith that they ARE
different.
The people who belonged to the bartering network seemed like gentle,
good-natured souls in a goofy kind of way (all those drugs in the 60's
left them with fewer brain cells, I suppose), and I was an
impoverished student, so it seemed like a good idea to join. I could
meet some interesting "alternative" people and trade my services for a
few things I couldn't acquire otherwise.
Upon joining, they gave me a list of names, addresses, and skills. My
own name (Leah) and skills (housecleaning, vegetarian cooking, and
listening) would be added to the next list. Scanning the list for
goods and services I was interested in, I was intrigued to find "Carla
Pierre, sculptor." I could trade housecleaning for sculpture? Only
in Ithaca! So who needs a boardwalk, anyway?
I made an appointment to talk to Carla. On the day of my appointment,
I walked down Cayuga Street, searching for her studio. It turned out
to be right above a bookstore I frequented. Funny, I'd never before
wondered what the floors above the store were used for. I clambered
up three flights of stairs, then knocked at a door marked "Carla
Pierre, Sculpture."
The woman who opened the door was tall, with black curly hair and
intense blue eyes. I was surprised at how young she was. I had been
expecting an older woman, but the woman before me was probably only
about five years older than I was. That was good; it would make what
I had to say easier. She sat on one end of a futon on the floor and
waved me to the other end. Alternative people are not known for their
formality.
I saw her take in my pink triangle -- she looked from it to my face
and smiled. So, she was a dyke too. Interesting.
"You're interested in sculpture?" she asked.
"Well, not *all* sculpture. I don't go for the
three-basketballs-floating-in-a-fishtank kind of sculpture, but I do
like realistic sculptures of people. I know that's gauche, these
days."
She hooted. "Can you *believe* they put that thing in the Museum of
Modern Art?"
I shook my head, and we both laughed. I liked her laugh -- it seemed
unrestrained.
"The only sculpture I do is the realistic kind, and yeah, it is out of
favor these days. But I comfort myself with the thought that my stuff
is more likely to be enjoyed by somebody in the year 2300 than three
basketballs floating in an aquarium. Of course, it makes it kinda
hard to pay the rent *until* then."
I nodded sympathetically. "I have a request that makes me a little
nervous, since I don't know if True Artists are supposed to turn it
down in disgust or not."
"Hey, that was good -- I could hear the capital letters." She smiled.
"Not to worry -- True Artists probably don't join the Ithaca Barter
Network, either."
"Okay. Well, I'd like you to copy a work for me. Not to pass off as
the original or anything like that -- I just like it and would like to
have it around to look at. It's sort of an unusual work, and they
didn't have any casts of it for sale at the museum shop."
Carla raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing this is the Met, not MoMA."
"Got it in one."
"What piece did you have in mind?"
"The Met has a whole series of `Leda and the Swans,' done by different
artists. Most of them just look like they're of a nice girl and her
pet swan, but there's one that's different. This one shows Leda
actually being penetrated by the Swan. I'm not all that sexually
conservative, but I still found it shocking, especially compared to
the others."
Carla was looking at me with a really strange expression. "Come with
me," she said abruptly.
We exited the studio, and she locked it, then we went down the stairs.
We walked down Cayuga Street, turned right on Clinton Street, then
right again on Fayette Street. All this time Carla hadn't said a
word. I'm not quite sure why I was following her, but it never
occurred to me not to. I'm not usually a docile person, but she
said "Follow me," and I went.
She let us into a little apartment in a house on Fayette Street, then
led me into her bedroom. Sitting on the nightstand was a copy of
"Leda and the Swan." THE "Leda and the Swan." Looking at it, I was
shocked all over again, and not just because a woman was getting
fucked by a swan. I looked at Carla.
"I'm not usually turned on by depictions of heterosexual activity,"
she said, "but I couldn't get this piece out of my mind, so I copied
it."
`Heterosexual activity.' I hadn't really thought of it in those
terms. At least I had been right about what the smile meant.
"May I look at it?" I asked.
"Of course."
I picked the piece up and looked at it. It was only about as big as a
loaf of bread, but it was bronze and heavy. It looked, to my
inexperienced eye, very like the original. Certainly it was just as
beautiful, just as realistic, just as shocking. Leda was on her back,
legs spread wide, head thrown back. The swan was between her legs.
Fucking her. I wouldn't have said that I was at all into bestiality,
but there was something about this piece that got to me.
Carla came up beside me and looked at the piece while I held it in my hands.
Her arm brushed my breast as she reached over to point out Leda's
expression with her forefinger. A accident?
Her voice was soft in my ear. "You said that you weren't sexually
conservative. Did you just mean that you're a dyke, or are you a
loose woman in other ways?"
`A loose woman.' What a quaint expression. Having her so near
certainly made me *feel* loose. I'd always been attracted to women of
her physical type, but it wasn't just that that drew me. There was
something in her manner or her eyes or her aura that held me. "Aura."
Right. I think I've been Ithacaized.
"Oh," I said flirtatiously, "other ways, too."
"Do you ever have sex with somebody you've just met?"
"I never have before, but I think it's time I broadened by horizons,
don't you?"
She took the sculpture out of my hands and set it back on the night
table. Then she unbuttoned my shirt. I have small breasts and never
wear a bra, so she was caressing my breasts all of about twenty
seconds after I said yes.
"Something tells me this isn't the first time *you've* ever had sex
with a stranger."
She moved back slightly without letting go of my breasts and looked me
in the eye. "Do I feel like a stranger to you?"
I'm a shy person; it takes a lot to get past my defenses. Once in a
while I meet someone I feel I've always known, and with that person
the defenses never get raised. Carla was one such person, which was
undoubtedly why I was doing something with her that I'd never done
before. "No," I answered her, "I feel as if I've known you for years."
"And soon you will know me better."
I removed her hands from my breasts long enough to pull her tee-shirt
over her head, then replaced them. "Controlling bitch, aren't you,"
she said.
I giggled. "You don't know the half of it."
She gave me a look that said she knew more than I thought, and I
wondered, for the first of what would be many times, if she were
telepathic. My purple Indian skirt had an elastic waistband, as did
my underwear. One yank, and I was dressed only in sandals. Carla was
wearing ratty jeans, the appropriate attire of the working sculptor,
which took longer to remove.
Once they were off, I dropped to my knees, pressed my face to her
vulva, and inhaled. God, she smelled wonderful.
"Can't wait to get to the good stuff, huh?" she teased.
"I never can." I was completely serious.
"Somebody should teach you some manners." She was still teasing.
"People have tried." I was still serious.
I pushed her over to her bed, onto her back with her legs spread. I
laid on my stomach between her legs, with my face next to her vulva.
I inhaled again. Mmmm -- woman. I took her clit in my mouth and
began to lick it, alternating flicking it lightly back and forth with
flicking it lightly up and down. She got wet almost immediately,
which made licking her all the more fun. Her scent grew stronger and her
juices tasted great. I was surrounded by, immersed in, the sight and
scent and taste and feel of Carla. She started to moan, and sound was
added to my other pleasures.
I licked her slick wet clit, sucked her tasty juices, rubbed my
tongue against the warm wet folds of her vulva. It always amazes me
that women like this. I'd ask them to let me do it to them as a
favor, because I enjoy it so much, and they actually get pleasure out
of it, too. It's days like this that I believe there really is a Goddess.
I supported myself on my left elbow while I put the forefinger of my
right hand into her. I moved it slowly in and out of her, licking her
clit all the while. She felt open enough for more fingers, so I added
another and pumped a little harder. Judging by the sounds she made,
Carla very much liked geting eaten and fingerfucked at the same time.
I was glad she wasn't one of those anti-penetration lesbians.
When I first started making love with women, I fingerfucked them
because I thought they would enjoy it. It only took a few sessions,
though, before my fingers looked forward to it at least as much as
their cunts. I was bemused when this occurred. Fingers are not on
the recognized list of erogenous zones -- how could it be that my
fingers *wanted* my lover. They didn't itch, exactly, or ache, or
tingle -- it was some sensation I didn't have a name for. But they
*wanted* her in a way that felt physical, even though I knew it must
be psychological. I wondered what it must be like to have a penis, if
my fingers could crave cunt so badly. Have to find out in my next life.
Carla seemed to be getting really close to coming, so I speeded
everything up, licking and fucking faster. "Harder," she said. I
didn't know which activity she was talking about, but it didn't seem
the right time to ask for lenghty explanations, so I kept licking
lightly but fucked her as hard as I could. Carla came, screaming,
then collapsed. I love the screamers.
She was sweating and breathing hard as I moved up to hug her, and we
lay intertwined for a while, snuggling.
After a while she raised herself up on one elbow and looked at me.
"Haven't you ever heard of foreplay?"
"You can have all the foreplay you want, right now," I said.
"That makes it AFTERplay."
"Details, details."
She laughed.
"Are you teasing, or are you really disappointed?"
"Oh, I'm always TERRIBLY disappointed when I come my brains loose."
I was relieved.
"I was just a little surprised is all. I don't know many women who
get right down to business like that."
"Business! I forgot all about business. How many chits do I have to
give you to let me lick your cunt?"
She pretended to slap me, then chuckled. "That's a kind of whore I
never heard of."
I ducked the blow. "Stop that, or I'll call the police."
Carla stopped teasing and looked at me seriously for a minute.
"Before you made me incapable of noticing anything, I did happen to
catch sight of those bruises on your ass. They didn't look like you
got them by falling down one of Ithaca's endless hills."
"Oh," I teased, "Are you a connaisseur of bruises?"
"Yes." She was still being serious. "I inflict enough of them on my
lovers to know what hairbrush bruises look like, Leah."
"You're a pervert, too!" She nodded. "Top or switch?"
"Top," she answered. "Bottom or switch?"
"Switch."
"Speaking of which, I'd like to take one to you."
"My body is yours."
She caught my eye. "Someday you will say that to me and mean it
completely."
I shuddered and didn't answer.
"What's your safeword?"
"Vanilla."
She smiled. "I was joking about the switch, but I do have this nice
hairbrush, and since it looks as if your body is already...familiar
with such an implement, I'd like to use it."
"Could you start with your hand and then switch to the hairbrush? It
seems more personal somehow if it's your flesh against mine."
"Certainly wouldn't want to be impersonal with somebody who's spent
the last hour with her face in my cunt. Come lie across my lap."
I'm pretty tall, so lying across someone's knee always leaves me with
a couple of yards of arms and legs left over. Some people get off on
the indignity of the position, but I'm not one of them -- I just like
what happens after I get into it.
She caressed my bottom gently with her palm, then slapped me lightly.
Somehow the first slap always surprises me. She waited a moment, then
slapped me again, just slightly harder. Another pause, another blow.
It was clear that she wasn't in any kind of hurry, and I liked that.
It's always overwhelming when somebody manages to convey that they
don't have anywhere else they need to go or anything else they need to
do besides make love to you.
She spanked me in that same leisurely way for quite a while, each blow
just slightly harder than the last. Eventually, my bottom started to
feel quite warm, and at that point she switched to the hairbrush. Her
first blow with the hairbrush was much harder than the last one with
her hand, and I yelped, as much out of surprise as out of pain.
She gave me an evil grin that I hadn't seen before. "Now that I've
got you sufficiently warmed up, we can get down to some serious
beating."
I gulped, then comforted myself with the thought that she was just
trying to play with my head.
She hit me over and over again, quite hard, but with ample time to
recover between blows. I was yipping a little, but not really crying
or screaming.
She noticed this. "I'd like to make you scream a little. Is that
okay with you, or do you usually stop here?"
"Uh, yes to both."
"Both? Well, I *am* flattered. But not so much that I won't hit you
as hard as I can."
The first blow landed, and I screamed, just as she had desired. My
bottom felt so hot, I could have sworn she had heated the brush on the
stove, even though I knew she had not. Another blow, another scream.
God, she was good. Again. We continued for a while, then I decided I
had had enough. "Vanilla," I said.
She stopped and began to lightly kiss the bottom she had just smacked,
feather light kisses that I wouldn't even have been able to feel if my
bottom weren't so tender. She turned me over and planted the same
feathery kisses on my thighs, then my vulva, then my clit. She began
to treat me as I had treated her, and with the same result.
We snuggled up close, and I played with her hair while she caressed my
cheek. "I knew if I joined the Ithaca Barter Network I'd meet some
interesting people," I said.
She put on a phony English accent. "Well met," she said, "Jolly well
met."
And our relationship continued, and grew, but those are other stories.
****
There really is a "Leda and the Swan" like the one I describe in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art. Check it out the next time you're there.
(There also really is an aquarium in the Museuem of Modern Art with
three basketballs floating in it. I leave checking THAT out to your
own discretion.)
As always, comments on the story are welcome.
Amethyst
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