Message-ID: <15290eli$9809140632@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Yosha Bourgea Subject: STORY: How I Lost My Hair, Part II ( MF, cons, rom ) feedback requested * Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6thd4p$538$1@ultra.sonic.net> This is the second installment of a story; if you can't find Part I and would like to read it, e-mail me at raindog@sonic.net. This part of the story includes descriptions of consensual sex; if that offends you, don't read it. As before, I'm looking for constructive feedback, as well as suggestions for further erotica. Name your kink and I'll try to write it. This story is under copyright; ask me before you archive or repost it. Thanks. I stopped. Behind me, I could hear the sound of shoes on the tile floor, approaching slowly. A streetlight shone dimly from outside; I could see a thin band of light over the glossy covers of magazines on the foyer table. I heard her coming, close behind me, and then I felt her hand on mine. It was soft and cold. The hair on my neck shifted under her breath. ÒCome with me,Ó she whispered. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ÒI donÕt know how--Ó I began, but a finger fell over my lips. ÒItÕs all right,Ó she whispered. ÒStop thinking.Ó I raised my hand to my mouth, found her hand, and clasped it. ÒI did,Ó I said. ÒAnd I made an ass of myself.Ó ÒStop thinking,Ó she said, close to my ear. ÒStop talking. Come with me.Ó _I donÕt care I donÕt care I donÕt care_ I turned to face her, but she was already starting back through the salon. She held my hand. I followed her. I knew when we entered the back room; I could smell the relaxant. She stopped and held my hand out to touch the arm of the chair. ÒPlease, sit down,Ó she said. I felt my way into the seat. Outside, the rain was still falling. There was no light in this room. I was blind again. Hope touched my shoulder. ÒOkay,Ó she said. ÒWhat are you looking for?Ó We looked into the mirror. ÒI donÕt know,Ó I said. I didnÕt. I felt as if I were lighter than air, held down only by the gentle pressure of her hand on my shoulder. I couldnÕt identify what I felt; that would take time, days or maybe weeks. I knew I felt desire--that was the clearest--but it came in a shroud of other, murkier emotions. I wanted to be careful. I was afraid I couldnÕt be. _I donÕt care I donÕt care_ ÒI donÕt know,Ó I said again. ÒTrim the jungle or something. Subdue the beast. IÕll leave it up to you.Ó ÒIÕm flattered,Ó she said. ÒIÕll see what I can do.Ó I felt her hands on the back of my neck rubbing up against the grain, up into now-compliant fur, stretching and climbing with limber, feline grace. Fingers moved down behind my ears and around my neck to trace my jaw, cup my head. I let myself be held. My mouth opened to breathe. ÒSo. How are you doing this evening?Ó The words were spoken into my hair. Breath flowed warm over my scalp. ÒThatÕs a good question,Ó I said. ÒNo,Ó she said. ÒNot particularly.Ó Fingers moving down my neck, across my shoulders. ÒItÕs actually a pretty boring question. I ask it about a million times a day.Ó ÒDo you ever get any answers worth hearing?Ó I asked. She paused for a moment. ÒNo,Ó she said finally. ÒPeople lead boring lives. They have relationships, they have jobs. They make and lose money. All theyÕre willing to talk about is the surface.Ó I felt her breasts on the back of my head as she leaned in, working her fingers down under my shirt, down across my chest. ÒThe really interesting stuff,Ó she murmured, Òis what people donÕt say.Ó I had a bizarre flash then, a sudden image of the two of us on a computer screen somewhere, but displayed in a heat-sensitive readout or infrared light or something: the outlines of our bodies in a dark room, skeletal but moving smoothly, glowing and pulsing red inside our shells. I wondered how people move in the darkness, when thereÕs nothing to see and no one to see them. I swiveled slowly around in the chair. ÒWell, to answer a pretty boring question,Ó I said, Òmy day was fine.Ó I reached out with my hand, but touched nothing. ÒI had to open at the cafŽ this morning, which meant I had to get up early, which sucked, but I also got to clock out in the afternoon instead of at night.Ó I felt her breath along the side of my face, across the back of my neck. She was behind me again. I could feel her excitement at this. ÒSo I ran some errands in town that IÕve been needing to do for a while,Ó I said. ÒI rescheduled my appointment at the dentist. Bought a new pair of jeans.Ó ÒTilt your head back,Ó she said. ÒAll the way back, as far as you can. Now stay like that.Ó There was a pause, and I heard her moving. ÒGo ahead,Ó she said. ÒYou were saying?Ó ÒI was saying.Ó I blanked for a second. ÒI was saying--oh, about my day. Right. So I got home from running errands and I made myself lunch, and then--Ó Her tongue, her tongue running a fiery slick from the base of my throat all the way up to my chin. It licked against the stubble and was gone. I was hard, all the way up and all the way on, carrying a staff between my legs. The crazy vision came again, the heat images of our bodies on a field of monitor black. ÒAnd then--Ó I couldnÕt remember what IÕd been saying. CouldnÕt remember-- ÒThen I sat down and did some writing.Ó ÒWhat were you writing?Ó Her voice came from farther away than IÕd expected. She was somewhere across the room. ÒErotica,Ó I said. ÒIÕve been working on this story for a week now. ItÕs almost finished.Ó ÒErotica,Ó she repeated. ÒStories about sex, is that it?Ó ÒSexuality,Ó I said. ÒYou can write a story without sex in it and it can still be erotic. If youÕre a good writer.Ó ÒIs there any sex in the story youÕre writing now?Ó she asked. I heard her moving and I heard a small snapping noise. ÒYes,Ó I said. For a minute or two we said nothing. Darkness and the sound of rain. ÒDo people ever get on your case for writing about things like that?Ó she asked from across the room. ÒI mean, does anybody freak out?Ó ÒNot really,Ó I said. ÒA lot of people donÕt understand it and a lot of people donÕt like it, or pretend they donÕt like it, but most of them just ignore me.Ó ÒWhen I was an art model,Ó she said, ÒI had one guy tell me flat out that it was sick for me to do what I did. He wasnÕt even in the class. He came by with this student alliance for morality thing, and he just laid into me about whores of Babylon and all this crap.Ó ÒWhat a dick,Ó I said. ÒYeah, well, hazards of the job,Ó she said. Her voice was nearer now. ÒI got a few of the students trying to pick me up, but I didnÕt really mind that. I told them no thanks, and that was the end of it.Ó ÒHow long did you model?Ó I asked. ÒMm. Off and on, three years. I had other jobs, too. It was a moonlighting thing, you know, pick up twenty or thirty bucks for sitting on my butt. Not a bad deal.Ó ÒSo it was the money, then,Ó I said. ÒWell, yeah,Ó she said. Then: ÒBut not completely. I mean, I also liked the attention. I liked the daring of taking off my clothes in front of strangers. It was not a sexual thing, that was very well established; it was just about being able to see a real human body and draw it. But there was still this undercurrent of tension, and everybody knew it, and nobody said anything. ThatÕs the part I liked.Ó ÒThe unspoken,Ó I said. She touched me on the shoulder. I felt her standing next to me. _A real human body._ ÒThe unspoken,Ó she said. I turned in my chair until I could feel her heat in front of me. I stood. I felt the current of her breath flow over my face and knew that we stood facing each other in the darkness, poised. _On the monitor, one body eclipses the other and heat flares from the edges of the eclipse._ I raised a hand, reached forward and touched something. It was her forehead. I brought my palm forward and now my hand was over her face. Her lips breathed at the base of my palm. I lowered my hand until my fingers touched her eyelids. She was still, but poised, offering no clues except for stillness itself. Again the wonder surged in me: that this woman whoÕd known me for less than an hour now stood in the dark while my hand moved over her face and over her throat--and I felt a surge of hunger when my hand moved lower and touched a bare breast and I knew that she was naked and letting me touch her. _There are so many ways for this to go wrong._ I took away my hand. _Be careful._ Carefully, with the tips of my fingers, I reached out and touched her hips. I traced her legs down and lowered myself until I knelt, my fingers leaving her feet, and breathed, my mouth near to a place that was darker than darkness. I heard a catch in her breath, knew sheÕd felt me there. I stood. There was a hand on my chest. It moved across, fingers spread wide. I laid a hand on her belly, then moved upward slowly to cup a breast. Another hand was in my hair, snaking between the curls. I reached around with my other hand and touched the small of her back. And now, with all hands accounted for, we moved in. I felt points of fire on my chest where her nipples touched. I couldnÕt remember having taken off my shirt, but it was gone now. She breathed closer, and our lips touched gently. A featherkiss, almost not real: every moment IÕve brushed against a woman by accident, or she against me, and of course itÕs nothing, and of course I say and do nothing--only wonder, for the briefest of moments, if it might have been something after all. Until this moment, here in the dark room, when she came back again with a kiss that was unmistakable, sweetly deliberate, and real as my tortuous hair. A kiss of certainty, given freedom because we had not given ourselves permission. A limitless kiss with no name. She began unbuckling my belt. Her breath was faster now, and so, I suppose, was mine. It was difficult to be careful. I felt mad with touching her; I wanted to do nothing but touch, keep my hands moving over her body and touch every curve and crevice, keep touching for as long as this beautiful madness would last. I kissed her neck fiercely and she gave a small cry. I stopped. ÒDid I--Ó I whispered. ÒNo,Ó she whispered back, and kissed my cheek. I bent my head and kissed her neck again. ÒYes,Ó she breathed. So I dared. I put my hand on her stomach--that word, _yes_--and lowered it slowly over the warm plain into a thicket of tight curls like a primitive fist, holding within it a sudden and astonishing light, a sweet tongue pronouncing over and over yes, yielding completely and in doing so overwhelming me. My thumbprint laid upon the anonymous waters. My fingers articulate inside her. Inside her. Her lips grasping at mine, beautiful in hunger, my hand on the small of her back holding her close and her hand caressing me, her hand touching and stroking and pulling gently, pulling: and so it all came to this: the pull of the moment and the momentum: all that came before: I entered her as easily and totally as _yes_, spoken or unspoken, although I seemed to hear our voices roaring together when it happened. And there are a thousand million ways to touch, but that is the purest and most raw of all. We speak the name of it and the manner of it, we shout and grunt about it for ridiculous reasons, we make it a thing of ridicule and abuse, but such is its power that none of that can destroy it or make it less than what it always has been. We are still drawn to it. And when it is attended by praise--even the silent praise of Hope and me--it rises and shines like the moon or a god and everything in us vibrates with the power of it. I couldnÕt think or speak or do anything but what I was doing. I heard Hope cry out in a voice IÕd never heard before, from her or any other woman. It was a ragged, soaring note that tore exquisitely down my spine and I felt myself gasping with the force of it. Everything splitting, coming apart, coming apart and a silver pulse through my brain blossomed in an instant and I rode it down through darkness until I could feel my body again, and hers. And then came utter disbelief. The return of reason. The reasons for things. She laid a hand on my cheek--it was damp and warm--and left it there. She said nothing, only continued to breathe. My hands were around her waist and I had no idea where to put them next, so I waited for her to move first. She sighed. It was raining still. ÒExcuse me,Ó she said, and I let my hands fall, as if on cue. She turned and moved away from me. ÒIÕm going to turn on the light,Ó she said. _No._ ÒNo--please,Ó I said. ÒDonÕt.Ó I heard her turn back to me. ÒI do need to pick up back here,Ó she said. I swallowed. ÒIf you turn on the light IÕm going to feel like an idiot. Please--just let me grab my things. IÕll get out of the way and you can clean up. Please donÕt turn the light on.Ó There was a pause. ÒOkay,Ó she said then. ÒOkay.Ó I bent and felt on the cold tile for my clothes. My pants had come off with the underwear inside them. I had to search for a few seconds to find my shirt. I put them on in silence. There was an arching hollow inside me and a numbness, but I wasnÕt going to think about it. I wasnÕt going to think about anything. My jacket was hanging on the back of the chair. Then I had to stand there, stupidly, no more clothes to put on, not knowing what to do next. ÒYou should go,Ó Hope said: a disembodied voice. ÒHope...Ó I said. ÒYes?Ó The voice was calm and so balanced I didnÕt know where it was coming from. ÒWhy do I feel like this?Ó I asked. My throat tightened. I wanted to swallow but I knew it would be too difficult. ÒI donÕt understand,Ó I said. ÒI donÕt.Ó I waited, concentrating on forcing back the knot in my throat. ÒLeave it alone,Ó she said, not unkindly. ÒThatÕs all I can tell you. And you should go.Ó I knew she was right. But I needed to say something before I went. I couldnÕt just leave as if leaving were second nature to me. It wasnÕt; none of this was. I had to say something. ÒIÕll be by to see you again,Ó I said. She didnÕt say anything. ÒGood night,Ó I said, and turned, and walked out through the store, amazed by the numbness pouring over me like wax, and turned the lock and stepped outside into the chilly night. I looked back even though I had told myself I wouldnÕt, but it didnÕt matter. It was too dark to see anything. I walked out from under the awning, into the rain, and I went home. Three days later, I came back to Revelations. It was late morning. Maggie was there, sweeping up. ÒHey there,Ó she said, cheerily. ÒHow are you?Ó ÒAll right,Ó I lied. I fingered the corner of the envelope I carried. ÒDonÕt tell me you need a haircut,Ó Maggie said. ÒLooks like you just got one. WhereÕd you go for it?Ó ÒI got it here, actually,Ó I said. ÒFrom Hope. ThatÕs actually why IÕm here--I wanted to leave something for her.Ó ÒOh, her,Ó Maggie said. ÒYeah. Cute girl. She quit, though, day I came back.Ó ÒShe did?Ó My heart sank. ÒYep.Ó Maggie bent over with the dustpan. ÒReally sorry to lose her, too. She didnÕt have formal training, but she was good at what she did.Ó ÒDid she...leave any kind of forwarding address, anything like that?Ó I asked, already knowing the answer. ÒNo, IÕm afraid not,Ó Maggie said. ÒShe just said she had to leave, didnÕt say why or anything--I asked--just had to go. I said, all right, when you gotta go...Ó She waved her hand dismissively. Then she jerked upright. ÒOh, jeez, IÕm losing my mind,Ó she said. I canÕt believe I forgot this. See, IÕm so bad with names. I know you, I just forgot your name was Paul. She left something, said to give it to Paul if he came by. I wasnÕt real thrilled about being a mail service, but I said OK. Of course, if IÕda known it was you--Ó She got up and opened a drawer next to one of the mirrors. ÒHere it is.Ó She handed it over to me. It was a small square of paper with my name on the front of it. It unfolded into a piece of ordinary blue-lined notebook paper, with one sentence scrawled across it: _It was enough._ ÒYou OK?Ó Maggie asked. ÒWhat did she write?Ó I crumpled the paper in my hand. ÒNothing,Ó I said. ÒNothing.Ó ÒYou OK?Ó she asked again. ÒYou donÕt look so good.Ó I guess I probably didnÕt. I was staring into space, and when I spoke, I didnÕt know what I was going to say until I said it. ÒMaggie, would you shave my head?Ó She started to laugh, and then saw that I was serious. ÒAre you sure?Ó I nodded. ÒOK, but no refund,Ó she said, and patted the seat beside her. ÒHop on up.Ó I made my way mechanically over to the chair and sat. I was looking into the mirror at my own face, at the invisibility of myself. _It was enough._ The feeling was suddenly fierce, physical, everywhere in my blood: I wanted to be able to see myself. I didnÕt want to be numb. I wanted to see and to keep seeing, and not to go blind with fear. Nothing in the way. It was a good feeling. _Enough._ I sat there, staring at the mirror like a blank sheet of paper, as Maggie sheared away the hair. I saw myself emerging, like an elephant rising from a block of wood. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----