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Vignette [mf, incest]
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.
This story is another from the archives, and is not written by me.
Requests for just about anything concerning these posts will be ignored.
See the FAQ in a.s.s.d for more information. And stop sending talk
requests. Even when I'm logged in to this posting site, I usually
have the window closed, and if I don't, it's because I'm WORKING
Vignette...
She stood on the corner taking pictures of them... she looked like
a twelve-year old boy with skinny legs and arms - a small little
girl, young, her sickly pale white skin stretched over her bony
face beneath a mannishly cut red-brown shock of hair. Dressed all
in black, skin-tight yet thickish lycra-synthetic pants, a short
jacket, her breath showed steamy from below her camera.
I paused on my walk to work to take in the scene, this little girl-
boy dressed like a rebellious artist brazenly taking pictures of
the construction crew, four or five rough-looking large men in
their thick brown coveralls and bright orange and green traffic
vests shovelling dirt into the hole where the new sewer line had
been installed. They told jokes quietly, furtive smiles betraying
the discomfort they felt at being photographed, helpless before her
shameless, guileless eyes. I wondered whether it was this, or their
masculinity she was attempting to capture. A smile crossed my lips
as the question tickled my brain, and I envied her as I hurried my
step to arrive on time.
She arrived at the service desk where I worked at the university;
her business was as routine as any other, handled quickly. I
noticed the large black leather bag where she had apparently stowed
her camera and gear, seeming to pull her to one side to the floor,
her physical frailty incongruous with the burning, almost angry
look in her eyes. I examined her ID, noting her status as a
sophomore student of Architecture, the artistic bunch at our
otherwise vanilla school.
"You were watching me" she said, her business otherwise concluded.
"Let me take you to lunch," I returned directly.
She explained over the strong coffee we sipped that she saw
elements of people in her photographs that otherwise are missed. It
was her form of examination, to see their eyes, their movements in
black and white and gray. She asked if I was interested in seeing
some of her favorite images; I readily agreed, curious as much
about her creative vision as in herself. She was an enigma -
strong, even virile - yet with an undeniable frailty spoken in her
boxy, disjointed frame and emaciated figure.
We made a date to meet at the library that evening - she was to
bring her photographs; I purchased some strong red wine, hiding it
in my own bag.
Her work was as fantastic as was she - people on the street, in
their offices, nudes done with fantastic attention and grace -
sensitive men with tender, questioning eyes. We viewed them
slowly, sipping the wine from my silver flask; she would point to
the features of each that she found most appealing, her words few
but powerful in describing each. Her face was active now - she
seemed as alive as any person I'd ever known.
I asked her if she had ever photographed herself - she smiled for
a moment, but was serious almost immediately. I wondered if I'd
asked an improper question; I found her eyes probing me in a new
way, fearful almost, it seemed - or perhaps with the nearly
clinical elegance with which she seemed to view her other subjects.
"No," she said simply, but her eyes led me to believe that the
question was not a simple one.
I smiled gently. "Let me try?" I asked, knowing that were she to
refuse I might never speak to her again.
But to my surprise, she opened her bag and handed me her camera,
its weight seeming to fill my now trembling hands. She sat back in
her chair, running her hands through her hair, her thin body
straining against her black torn T-shirt. She was beautiful to me
then. I photographed her face, especially her face, her lips
leading to her upturned nose, the veins beneath her eyes visible
through her seemingly transparent skin. I wondered as I
photographed her how she would look when she was old, when her body
filled out to matronly maturity... thinking yet again that some
women never do seem to reach that stage...
And the roll of film was finished, and we packed up her gear,
oblivious to the stares from the others watching our shoot. She
smiled, not at them, not at anything...
"Come in" she said when we arrived at her apartment, which turned
out to be a sparsely furnished but clean little flat in the blue-
collar neighborhood that surrounded the campus. She put her bag
down gently, and set about removing the exposed rolls of film she'd
used that day. I wandered to the kitchen, pouring myself some ice
water, absently offering her some. We drank it together... she
reloading her camera. "Take off your clothes," she said, "I don't
like them."
In a few moments I stood naked before her, the chill in her
apartment causing my muscles to tense, my nipples hardening in the
draft which came from the windows and doors which surrounded the
tiny place... She seemed to ignore me, fiddling expertly with her
camera, and then turned to photograph me. She did not instruct me
to pose - I stood there naturally, looking at her, watching her
movements. She was not graceful nor liquid nor feline... but she
was confident, which is the sexiest a woman can be.
I moved to her chair, a modernish leather thing, and sat down,
casually sipping the shockingly cold water... She walked around the
apartment, the click and whirring of her camera deafening in the
silence of the room. I stood again slowly, walking to her bedroom,
noting the neatly made futon on the floor, and sitting, then
curling up on the cottony sheets... She said nothing, preferring to
reload her camera and continue shooting. I smiled now at her,
inviting wordlessly... but she continued, watching my movements
through the lens, her breathing now evidenced by the rise and fall
of her chest...
And the last roll she wanted was finished... I wondered inwardly
what was to happen next - she seemed in no hurry to move, either
toward or away from me... she set the camera down upon her chest of
drawers, gently, lovingly... and then stared into my eyes, burning
me with her gaze, her hands balled suddenly into fists pressing
hard against her body, running them the length of her as though she
was wiping them dirty clean against her clothes...
She began undressing herself, and for the first time in the cold
room I felt my body respond - that familiar tensing in my belly,
the warmth in my manhood as it lengthened, burning now hot reaching
into the cold air... In moments she was unclothed completely,
strangely androgenous, her breasts feminine yet somehow not
matching her figure, hanging strangely against her chest; her belly
flat, ridged gently down the center leading to her sex; her legs
thin but muscular, soft, feminine nonetheless with small pads of
fat along her inner thighs...
She stepped toward the futon, covering me, on all fours she was
over me, breasts loosely dangling over my ribs... She kissed me,
not on the mouth or the cheek, but along my neck, my shoulder, her
hair soft and fragrant on my cheek. My hands found her back,
stroking the length of it, tracing the curves of her bottom, the
soft downy cleft seperating the smooth globes of her backside.
Her body did not seem to respond... she was in control, her desire
was to devour my body it seemed, her tongue and lips lavishing my
chest with kisses, impervious to my caresses. From deep within her
a low moan came, her hands pushing my shoulders to the floor, her
lips now finding mine, our tongues battling in the warm wetness of
our kiss.
I rolled over above her, now pinning her arms to the futon - her
eyes wild with excitement, not resisting as I kissed her lips, her
eyes, forehead, hair...
She did not resist as I tasted her body, luxuriating in the curves
of her belly, examining her hips, shoulders - now looking far less
boyish as she lay back to enjoy my attention... I placed my cheek
against the soft hairs covering the delicate curve of her sex, my
tongue seeking, then tasting the fragrant flower... My hands were
quick and light over her warm dry skin, then slower, heavier,
holding her firmly as her body pressed against my face... Her
orgasm was strong, as though I had grabbed her and shaken her from
within... and she pulled my face against her sex as it subsided...
not to stimulate her, I think, but to remind her that I was there.
And we made love in her quiet apartment... her body rocking gently,
then firmly over me as her chest heaved, her breath ragged,
punctuating her movements... We collapsed together, her lips again
warm on my lips, my neck, she pulling the quilt over me as the
purple sunset drifted into the blue of night, and sleep overcoming
me... and rising then to develop her day's work.
--
I will ignore all requests for: reposts, e-mailing parts, ftp/gif/archive
sites, and subscription requests. These stories get deleted immediately after
they are posted. For more info on the ARCHIVE postings, read the FAQ posted
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