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Message-ID: <35456asstr$1014880212@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sam Cornell" <cornell525@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} An Aphrodite Rising Part 1
Date: Thu, 28 Feb 2002 02:10:12 -0500
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An Aphrodite Rising (FF) by Sam Cornell

Part 1

The broken back of a schooner rests on the reef. Waves splash onto the 
sparkle of the sand. All that glitters isn't. I lie and I wait. There is a 
soft breeze, offshore, but I am hot. Maybe it is the wind, maybe.

The surface of the lagoon is disturbed. Is it you? Although all I have is 
you, nothing of you, I want you back.

There it is again. You or a shark, equally dangerous. After all this time, 
these weeks or months, however long it is, I am uncertain which threatens me 
more. At least a shark stays in the water.

A head shape, not a fin. You are coming back. I shift myself a little. Sweat 
is running down my back. My temples. Underneath my arms. Between my breasts. 
My legs. I am wet. You make me wet. The sun too, but I know where the 
greater risk of dehydration comes from. I want you back.

I know you like the water. You find it perfect clothing. Everything is 
visible, but none of it is real, you are distorted, a prism, a 
representation, but never you.

I feel hotter. The breeze has dropped. Or you are close to shore? Perhaps 
your presence stifles the elements. You are almost an element yourself.

Again your head breaks the surface, water runs down your hair, blonde turned 
dark by the wet. I'm wet too remember. You smile. Don't smile, it isn't 
funny remember?

"I didn't catch anything." So why smile? I shrug. There's food anyway.

Still, only your head is visible. Go on, stand up. Let the water run down 
your body. We got over that barrier weeks months years ago. Show me your 
tits. Cut my view off at the waterline, just below your belly button.

Still only your head.

"It's lovely," you say. You flick your head, droplets splash down, come into 
the water, join me. You don't mean it. Not to join you.

I shake my head. It is easier to stay here, shaded by the fronds of a palm, 
the sand shifting comfortably underneath me, absorbing my discomfort.

You shrug, of course you don't care. Go on, stand up, go on, you know I want 
you to. Grant me that at least. It's the only way you can get from sea to 
sand.

I've seen this scene before. Aphrodite started it, forgotten gods watching. 
(Who are they compared to Aphrodite?) Then Ursula Andress, then Uma Thurman, 
but she was playing at Aphrodite.

Temperature rising. You rising. Water cascading of your skinny shoulders. My 
throat catches. You give me this at least.

Small tits. Should I care? My beating heart says small is beautiful. Anyway 
your nipples are dark, brown almost black, and wide, wider than seems normal 
for such underdeveloped titties, and sexier for that. Bite me bite me.

You walk towards me, the gentle slope of the lagoon revealing more and more, 
underwater topography creating your teasing show. You smile again, only this 
time it says to me look at my tits they're only small but you want them 
don't you.

Waves enfeebled by your presence splash softly over the sharp contours of 
your ankles. You are free of the water passing from one element to another, 
Ariel but I'm no Prospero.

Those fucking panties. Who the fuck gives a fuck except me but you didn't 
know that the first time you wore them did you? Bikini bottoms maybe but not 
white cotton see-through-when-wet panties. Are you fooling yourself? Is this 
modesty? Not when the damp material reveals the dark V of your thatch, a 
secret carelessly revealed and accentuated by the way it clings damply to 
the raised slopes of your mons. Are you fooling yourself? Do you look at 
your cunt?

Your nipples are erect. Bite me bite me. Do you ache as you walk almost 
naked towards me? Or was the water cold? I know I'll never know.

I'm tired pretending. I linger on you. Slim thin skinny but still, still, a 
woman, curves, contours on a landscape calling to be explored.

You flop onto the golden grains next to me, and my nerve fails me, I fail to 
gaze at your barely hidden cunt as I want to. I look at your face, we're 
friends, companions at least.

"You should have come in," you say. Yeah right.

"What's the point?" It's hard not to sulk when your whole body aches with 
pointless bloody minded why-the-fuck-won't-you rejection.

"It's fun. It feels good." You state everything so simply.

Shall we talk about swimming? "Other things are fun. Feel gooood." It seems 
I'm more bored than ever by pleasantry, the thought of solitude less scary 
than another night of wet frigging.

You smile. Why not turn away, hide the inviting hang of your breasts, your 
chewy bloody nipples, if it wouldn't be fun, wouldn't be gooood? But no, you 
lie there, resting sideways on the sand, your head on your hand, every inch 
of your frontside inches from me. "Because..."

. "Please..." Spare me the lecture. Before we arrived I felt like you. 
Solitude (duotude?) does these things to you. Should I say that? Again? 
Tempt seduce it's hot isn't it? I'm lonely and I'm sweating and I can't 
relax and I'm throbbing. Too much information? When there's only two how can 
anything be too much?

"I'd rather just frig on my own," you say, as if the thought of splayed 
tanned legs displaying your wet pinkness is some kind of disincentive.

Someway somehow the blase nature of your reply inflames me with anger not 
lust.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" That's not much, is it, in the circumstances?

"What do you want?" You're not wide-eyed, but you're lying there still, 
bare, revealed. Your panties are dried now but that doesn't count. I've seen 
the promised land.

"I want..." What do I want? Everything... Something... "Anything..."

Of course you don't smile. Barely react. Only a blink accepts my surrender. 
"Anything?" You think briefly. Not for the first time I realize these things 
don't take you long, nothing takes you long. "You know I couldn't do that."

Well we've never defined "that" in any worthwhile way but I'm too busy 
considering what anything that isn't "that" might be. What am I being 
offered?

"You know," I say, weariness and desperation making my voice tremble. "Even 
show me..."

"Show you?" As if it's the first time I've asked.

"Please show me." My need dulls my voice to flatness.

You wink at me, you're not good at it, but I'm not in much of a position to 
criticize. "Look but don't touch."

***
{Continued in Part 2} - Sam.




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