'The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...'

by Sandrine Lopez


-

The view from the stage is always frightening, awe-inspiring, but you grow to live with it. Maybe a hundred expectant faces, full house again, waiting for you to entertain and enchant them.

To rapturous, colourful applause I take my place in the loud spotlight, mike in hand, thank the staring unknowns and begin my song. There's a buzz as their eyes falls on me, like a swarm of lazy bees.

'The colour of your words,
The sound of your gaze,
Whispers become tinctured.
This, my song, conveys...'

One gaze on me has the sound of a pitch-perfect tuning fork, lone note among the swarm. My eyes search among black murmurs and scarlet whispers an unvoiced sound. Dark urgent scratches on paper. Nearby to left.

I swirl a little dance, scanning the audience, and catch him in the periphery of rainbow vision. An artist sketching, his intense study whines up and down as his eyes bounce between the stage, me, and his pad.

Found out, deep blue eyes moan into disappointment. He closes his pad and, at the end of my song, as the cacophony of clapping builds up into mixed spectral encores, my artist ups and heads for the door.

The scrape of his chair, the sound of his footfalls, black with sadness.

One chance. I sing and make up the words, the tune, a cappella, as the musicians glance pingily at each other for a cue that will never come.

'Mr Artist, please don't go,
Your sketches enthrall me so.
Show me your etchings,
And I'll sing for you please.
Quiet drawings, loud paintings,
My days are filled with these...'

The crowd are surprised, follow my own silently pleading stare at his back. He turns, aware the crackling spotlight of over two hundred eyes, as well my own, now hold him as unwitting star of my song.

I don't even know his name. But mine is picked out in red posters all over.

Chantal.

A stage name but I know no other now.

I applaud for him, and let him return, resigned to meeting me, as the audience clap too. But I want a private viewing of his work, and introduce the next act before the manager's angry screaming glare kills me, so I can led my artist to my dressing room and see.

"What's your name?" I ask, as the applause fades to grey, and we dodge the dancers waiting in the wings.

Lucas.

A single deep name, blue as his eyes, tinged with passionate purple.

I bite my lip as he tentatively, shyly, shows me his sketches. Only in grey pencil but they are alive with song, not necessarily mine, capturing what I do best. Even if I alone hear it. Maybe his talent will make others think of the music his art inspires.

He has waited in silence, as I scan the few pages he had time for before I outed him. I flip up the next but his hand slaps angry red over mine.

"Please... don't look at that." Frightened, pink shy urgency.

But I already have.

Fully detailed drawings of two lovers entwined in different positions. They are beautiful, well observed and crafted. Then the likeness of them strikes me with a noise like thunder.

The woman is me. And the man him.

My excitement at being the focus of his art had already swelled and wet my appetite.

I'm flattered and scared at the same time. He is handsome, slightly wild, a dream I can never have. And here he is, right next to me. Tears fall from my eyes not because I'm hurt at the pencil premonition, but because it can never be.

"I'm sorry." Lucas apologises, "You shouldn't have seen that... until... "

He can no longer stop my hands as I flick through his pad. More indecent yet astonishingly vivid depictions of us. My face one of bliss, his of untold need and rapture at his cock, hidden inside me and undrawn, only hinted at in blurs of implied sketchiness.

"I want you, Chantal."

I shake my head because, oh my dear God, I want him too. "I can't."

Lucas closes his pad greenly, naively getting the wrong impression.

"Because," I explain simply, greyly, "You might kill me."


*

His place, later. Not a date but the dropping of delusion.

"I have synaesthesia." His confused stare whines like an anxious puppy.

"It means my senses are mixed. Sounds have colours. Sight has noises. I thought you might have realised from my signature song... "

The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...

"Oh." Lucas replies, his penny not only dropping but rolling around the floor in dizzying, bemused circles. "So you weren't just being lyrical?"

"That's how it is for me." Explanatory azure.

"So why would that kill you?" Puzzled purple.

I sigh a deep yellow sigh. "My synaesthesia is so intense, anything beyond simple experiences could drive me mad. Or my heart just stop beating with shock. Or open up more synaesthesic pathways. Could you handle scents that feel like touches, a field of flowers groping you? The heady bouquet of wine throtting your neck? Tastes that are so strong they deafen or blind you while eating? A sensory overload... It's bad enough now, coping with small audiences, even with therapy to stay focussed at so many distractions. Singing is one discipline for the sound."

"Are you sure?" Queerly coloured question, its meaning multi-hued.

"I'm not a virgin." I sigh, this time sepiaed with history. "I learnt the hard way... "

*

His name was Vic.

I was 17, he 18.

I thought it would be wonderful, his sweet nothings painting vivid, beautiful colours around us, as he held me, made love to me.

And at first it was.

His cooing, caring whispers were subtle hues and shades in our bed, the like of which I'd never heard before. The soft sound of him in me was warm reddy-orange. The gentle slappy-slap pummelling of his stomach on mine peachy.

His gasps were colourful butterflies dancing in air, my moans and sighs rainbows for them to circle.

All is love. All is hue and light. Fluorescents and pastels.

We did it over and over, new young love wrapped in every colour known. I was too inexperienced to know what 'plateaus' were but each time he satisfied and fulfilled me, I needed him more until my whole body trembled audibly. Then I screamed a long kaleidoscopic cry of absolute ecstasy as he filled me with his heat. Warm hues bled like mixing dyes and crackled together like flames.

I felt his eyes on me, concern he had hurt me. It was the most lifting, pleasurable experience ever. Every part of my soul burned with his love. I felt I would die if he ever left my side.

I very nearly did.

The noise started.

His deep meaningful, caring gaze seemed to hum in my ears. It grew louder, more intense. I must have looked in pain.

"What's wrong?" His look one of traffic loud intenseness.

Make the noise stop, please...

"Tell me what's wrong!" The questioning stare roars like a crowd cheering a sport.

Hands clapped over ears. Stop it, please... !

His eyes terrifyingly penetrated mine. A cacophony of angels singing, bells ringing, the whole noisy world in my head...

Sight became noise became colour became sound.

Over and over.


*

"It must have been like going insane." Lucas murmured almost inaudibly, neutrally. Understanding.

"It took me months to just acknowledge being alive." Brown statement. "Years before I could even begin to be among people again. Each synaesthesic state set off the other. Singing helped. I could control notes and tones, not let them control me. But that's why I can't be with anyone. Losing that control could..."

Colourless, unfinished. Another sketchy implication.

Lucas spins round on his feet, his swinging gaze dopplering loud then quiet like a resonant lighthouse. He finally stares at the open pad, its most intimate sketch bared to us both. "Then that drawing is as far as we go, together."

"Unless you get me some earplugs. Blindfold and gag yourself so you don't look at me or speak to me." It's intended as a humourless joke. More browniness.

Lucas may be creative but it's not a kinkiness, even as necessity, he can accept. He wants to see the full blossom of my womanhood under him, on him. More inspiration for his sketches. And if I could, I'd be a willing model. He has inspired me to sing once, and I'd like to again.

But for now we have to part on those terms. He is always welcome to my performances, just don't sketch me again.

Please.


*

Strangely I dream in black and white, like old movies of fragments of my life now and then, distorted in that cracked mirror of the subconscious. The only time sound isn't coloured.

I awake with a start, in total darkness, the weird silence only 2a.m. can bring.
Nothing to see, or see me. No sound to be heard, or coloured.

Revelation is black.


*

Over the phone, Lucas' filtered words have scratchy, child-like scribbly colourings.

Life had dealt me a hand that could have been a gift but had become a gilded cage. I'm working on an escape. Taking back control so I may lose it with him.

A gamble, admittedly.


*

I wear the dress Lucas sketched me in on stage. I feel like a teenager again, the one who lost her virginity and sanity as one.

Only this time I want it to be different. The sanity part at least.

That nervous tingling anticipation, senses dangerously heightened as my thighs tremble, knees knock a unusual shade of green, until the doorbell rings gold.

It's nearly midnight, black and quiet in the deserted cul-de-sac where home is. Lucas is in shadow but his "Hi!" is brilliant red.

The lighting is low throughout. His gaze a muted murmur of indecision. He knows the stakes too.

I explain quickly, simply, whitely, and can only wish you accept. Together in darkness and silence. Our bodies as one, but never seeing or hearing.

A clutched straw. Sanguine in colour and hope.


*

We strip by bedlight and lie beside each other before switching it off.

In the near soundless dark, Lucas could be anyone. We daren't even say each other's name yet. But I set about memorising the unique contours of his body with my fingers and lips, that take the place of sight. His artist's eyes sightlessly, noiselessly, paint passion on me with muted kisses and caresses.

It's been over ten years since I last did this. I've read books and magazines, seen films, and tentatively played with myself in place of having no other. Delicately, carefully making sure I still had control where desperately I needed to lose it to enjoy fully. Frustration redefined.

Ten years of wanting, needing. As crammed into these moments as the noise had been in my head, way back. A decade of control fighting to be lost. I think the musical scales to keep me focussed as Lucas' fingers slip their way inside, so big and long compared to mine, yet gentle.

I want to do this, never having the chance before. Take his cock in my palm, cradle it like a microphone, and sing my silent song. Mime to the unheard music with my tongue and lips. A performance to die for.

When he cums, I give a slight pinky hum of surprise as I savor his taste. Hoping to God my pleasure, as well as his, doesn't trigger another unexpected, unwelcome sense. Fuck, his flavour is amazing. Swallow loudly, an off-white gulp.

Lucas lays me back and I let his body cover mine, my thighs wide and welcoming. Our breathing has become all, memories of butterflies and rainbows now vividly re-enacted. Fluttering blindly in the dark, strobe flashes of faint colour.

I want to say his name and can feel he aches to say mine, only once if not over and over, as his damp recovering hardness strokes against my soft yielding pussy. Finds its way in.

"Lucas!" I gasp. His name glows like orange fire in the night. His lips find mine, smooching me into silence again. I'd like to think he's being passionate and lustful but have doubts it's simply to keep me sanely quiet.

Any movement causes sound, and our bed creaks lightning blue flashes. Liquid splashes as he fucks me swirl aquamarine, like sunlight underwater. The scales in my head grow discordant, undisciplined.

With Lucas spent once already, I'm ahead in this race now. I tear his lips from mine.

Fuck sanity.

"Fuck me, Lucas, fuck me... " Blood red, electric blue, vivid violet.

His terror is tension within. My nails claw his back. Insanity's rainbow.

"Chantel..." My name picked out in horrified hues, exploding like a firework. Then he lets go with every fibre of his body. As he fills me he gags me with his tongue again. This time its my other lips singing against the mike of his cock. Sensations and sounds ripple back and forth. His feedback is awesome.

Encore.


*

Insanity possesses me, but it is the madness of desire and need, pent up over more years than I care to count. I roll Lucas off and straddle him.

By now, our eyes have grown accustomed to the dimness, and while we don't, shouldn't, see each other properly, we are silhouettes in the dark bluey grey, hints of reflected highlights from the moon through the curtains on our glistening skin.

The bed continues its electric spark creaking, as Lucas bumps his hips up into me. The pleasured pain as he grips my thighs, spreading them wider as I grind myself all over him, is a mix of tastes, all sweet. I squeeze on his shaft as I bounce like a young girl on the trampoline of his groin.

Lucas rests one hand inside my thigh, his thumb rubbing on my clit, his other hand cups a shivering breast and caresses a nipple. Drives me wild.

Being crazy has never been better.


*

Finally, best of three, he dogs me. Slams my face with a whooshy, feathery lilac thump into pillow, which I bite to stifle my growing need to cry out.

His noise behind me, slappy, thumpy, grindy, is like purple and pink heartbeats. I'm no artist but draw and colour my own version of Lucas' sketch of us doing this in my mind's eye. Detail with psychic pencil every contour and vein of his cock inside me, which the delicate, sensitive folds of my cunt magnify and map out. Try to capture the wetness and vitality on paper. Watercolour would be better, perhaps.

I'd do it better in song. Let the pillow fall from my teeth...

'Mr Artist, fuck me please,
Grind into me, let me squeeze,
Against you, inside me, more.
Pound me Lucas, be real dirty.
Want you to fuck me, for sure.
Cum now, cum sweet, satisfy me... '

And he does.

Where I expected painful spasms in my head I get delicious ones everywhere else.

His hands, one slapping my bum, the other steadying my shoulder. Sour and sweet.

The shuddering thrusts as Lucas's cock gushes into me flavour my tongue with sparkling wine. As intoxicatingly heady. The sensations as I cum too, vibrant ripples between my thighs and stomach, splash like crystal clear spring water in my mouth. Jumbled clutchings at my waist, as he lets me milk every last drop from him, taste like different coloured jelly beans, one after the other, then mixed together.

Finally, like honey, he sticks to my back. Sweetmeat of his skin on mine.

Touch has become flavour. Acquired tastes.

Perhaps with Lucas, I don't mind.


*

Satisfying himself I am still sane, still his, Lucas cuddles me to sleep. His arms round me, our legs entwined, recall every flavour I've ever enjoyed, each first new satisfying, fulfilling texture on my tongue.

When we wake, still in curtain-pulled semi-darkness, I tell him of my new taste in him. He worries. So do I. But that's life.

I make him promise to teach me how to paint, control colour. If song works with sound, we may cope.


*

My song gets new last verses.

'The bright hue of your cries,
The taste of your touch,
Sweet flavour 'tween my thighs.
Want you, need you, so much.'

'The quiet song of your look,
I once said never, but then,
Under you my body shook.
Lucas, please fuck me again...'

But they are one-off performances, only for you.



*end*



Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

'By The Burning Of His Skin...'

by Sandrine Lopez


-


It was a gorgeous orgasm of a sunset.

The glowing orb plunged into the horizon, splashing red blush over the sky. The seagulls sang at the joining, a sympathetic climax in urgent bird cries.

Louise stood in aroused awe, at the consummation in scarlet light and fire.

Self-admittedly, she had a fetish for red. Guys wearing red tight-fitting, sport tops. Driving racy bright-red cars, guaranteed to get her red-bloodedness flowing. Ginger tops... deeper the hue, longer and thicker the strands, much the better. She could run her fingers through that forever, revelling in the beauty of its flaming colour.

Now the very air itself was pure red. Louise's pulse raced, as she considered how hot it made everything, everyone, on the beach look.

As the red sun penetrated, disappeared, into the sea, she saw him.

His hair was bright, almost unnaturally red. A blazing shock of waves from under his cap. Even with the fading crimson sunset illuminating him, she could tell he was burnt, almost lobster-red. Louise was mesmerised by the sore reddening of his skin.

She had to find out more.

Shimmying through the crowd, Louise made her way to his side. As if formed from her innate desires, he also wore a faded reddish tee, separating dark shorts and shades.

Perfection.

Her heart pounded, matching the beats of the drumming beach party anthems. The day's heat had already made Louise glow with perspiration. She was aware of the dampness in her kini pants. How perky she was through her top. If that wasn't a red rag to any bull of a guy, she didn't know what was.

Stuff silly intros, she thought, go for the kill.

Louise took his raw jaw firmly in her fingers, turned his face to hers, inhaling the strong coconutty scent of sunblock, and kissed his lips before he could react. It quickly became a snog, as her arms draped round his neck. His surprise softened into returned enjoyment. Her tongue swirled into his mouth. Pleasure as he tasted back. She forgot his soreness, her body closing in around him. One bare leg rising to wrap round his thigh.

"Woooo, Roy!" One of his mates called, "Who's your friend?"

Through Louise's embrace, a shrug.

His mates applauded. Louise didn't relent. Only the need to breath again tore them apart.

"Hi!" Roy finally found his voice.

Louise gasped back, "Hey."

"What was that for?"

Aware of the attention - very aroused attention, if the unsubtle stretching of Roy and his mate's shorts were indication - Louise whispered in his ear and led him away, to the fanfare of more clapping, whistles and cheers.

*

Louise couldn't stop smoothing Roy's immaculate ruddy skin. Covering his muscular arm, the toned redness of his legs and, as he shed his tee, the burning firmness of his body above his shorts. He must have been topless most of the day.

"Wow, you weren't kidding." Roy murmured, "You really are into red."

"Is it sore?" she asked, hypnotised by the colour. It fired her like no other guy had.

He smiled as her hands explored. "In a nice way, when you do that."

The sky now graduated from dying flame through ultramarine overhead, to a spreading deep purple. Under it, they lay on a towel spread over still warm sand, in a private niche of a cove. Far enough from party voyeurs, yet near enough to hear the music. The not-so-subtle pounding soundtrack to their love-making.

Or would be. After considerable time making out, Roy wasn't exactly pouncing like Louise wanted. He hadn't been so coy when being snogged in front of his mates.

"Tell me?" she asked.

Roy had kept his shades on until now.

"I'm just not used to... this kinda attention. Usually girls are a bit freaked."

"You mean the hairdye?" Louise giggled. "Shit no, I've used that colour myself!" She looked him in the eyes. Caught the flutter as his gaze darted, as if nervously, from one eye to the other, as if searching for meaning. Only it didn't stop. He had a twitch. Looking closer, the ghost rim of contacts.

Reflecting the sunset behind her, his eyes had a hint of wine red. She could get quite intoxicated on those.

"The contacts don't put me off, either." Louise cooed, tenderly.

Hardly freaky. Self-conscious softie.

She didn't want to be tender. Urges to be vigorous. In the moment. Her blood was boiling, red-lining beyond unvirtuous appetite.

Reassured, Roy put his arm around her. It was difficult for Louise to just cuddle. Just lie there taking in hussshhhh-ssshhhh of the waves lapping on sand, as if nature were telling her to take it easy.

With measured intent, Louise curled round him. Hand on chest, counting the thumpity-thumps of his heart, wondering if he could feel hers, drumming away in rapid time to the party anthems. Pressing against that delicious scarlet skin. Keeping her inner animal leashed, for now. Each move a calming, coaxing massage, not the hot rough ride yearned.

"Are you cold?" Roy asked.

As if! Louise squirmed closer. Becoming as one with him as possible without... actually...

"You're shaking." He added.

Yeah, the DTs... delicious titillation... dirty trembles... denied tongue...

Denied no more. She went for the win again, gagging him with her lips. Tasting the inside of his mouth. Her thigh had long edged up over his shorts. Super-sensitive skin feeling how blissfully hard his cock was through them.

She was surprised when, while still snogging, Roy gently pushed her thigh down again. Instead of showing annoyance, Louise slid her hand down his stomach, lower still, easing into his shorts for an exquisite massage of...

More frustratingly, Roy delicately took her wrist and stopped her fanciful fishing trip. Only letting go when her fingers were safely outside his shorts.

Fuck this! Louise thought. If he's not in the mood, I am. I'll have my own fun, and if he wants to join in...

Her finger delved down again. Into her indelicately dampened kini pants. Their lips still locked, she gave an almost inaudible sigh as her nails teased the bare sensitive mound. Let the tips part herself until the tender bud of her clit trembled under her touch. With no desire to hide her urges, the massages quickly became vigourous rubs. Louise moved her thighs apart as far as their embrace allowed, so she could manoeuvre a finger into the slippery eagerness of her cunt.

As the tingles intensified, spreading through her body, Louise pressed home her killer snog. Her hand pushed and rocked deeper, quickening until...

Just as she was about to get off, smooching Roy mercilessly as she shamelessly fucked herself with two fingers, he drew back for air, asking, "Are you doing what I think..?"

Shit! Louise cried inwardly, on orgasm's edge. Not now...

She gnawed her lip, eyes struggling from closing so she could relish his burnt face.

"Just... keep..." Her words, gasping. Her body began to tense and let go in climax. She couldn't stop the tumbling avalanche of arousal as a nail found her g-spot. Then no force in nature could prevent her from coming.

"Kiss..." Louise's mouth jumped his, tongue flung between his lips, penetrating his yelp as she came. Half-sprawled, half-collapsed, her body twitched with pleasure, splashing out in tidal waves as her own skin flushed almost as red as Roy's.

She sucked in breaths as tiny sobs of ecstasy, embarrassed at the show she had given. Roy had pushed his tongue into her mouth, another delightful trigger for her orgasm. She let her mouth drop from his, her head nuzzling down his neck until it rested on his chest. All she could hear was his pounding heart, drumming faster than the distant club beats. She was pleasingly surprised when he stroked her head softly, sympathetically. Brushing her hair from the clinging veneer of perspiration coating her trembling shoulders.

They lay like that for several long silent minutes, as the glow of Louise's orgasm flowed through her, warming them against the cooling summer night.

"That was... awesome." Roy finally whispered. "I've never seen... had a girl... well, do that for me."

Louise still felt she couldn't look him in the face quite yet. Her eyes focussed down his red body to his shorts... the hard cock pulling them taut. Tentatively, her fingers crept down to it again, until her hand was intercepted once more.

"Why the frights?" she asked, too directly. "Am I coming on too strong? Are you a virgin?"

"'Course not!"

"Then what!?"

Roy gnawed his lip. Let Louise put her hand on his shorts this time. She edged the waistband down to reveal unburnt skin. Even in twilight she could tell it was unnaturally pale, almost white. She pulled more away until she could, at last, see his erect cock. That was pasty also, contrasting against reddish-mauve veins and engorged blood stiffening it. After a moment, he pulled the shorts back up.

"You see?"

Louise wasn't quite sure what she had seen. The ruby-like veins were quite a turn-on. Never before had they seemed so vivid, so etched out of a guy's skin, like raspberry ripple. It just made her hornier, if possible.

Their eyes met, "So you burn well and don't tan."

"You've seen my lens? Prepare yourself for a shock." He dabbed each eyeball with a finger and took them out. His irises were deep pinky-red.

Louise sucked in a low breath.

Roy began to put one lens in again quickly, "I knew it was a mistake..."

"No, no!" Louise caught his wrist. Let him put them away before staring into the gorgeously red eyes. Not quite red but close. Forget blues, greens and browns, here were a couple of gazes she could quite fall into.

"Wow..."

"So you're not freaked?" Roy asked.

"Fuck no!" Louise muttered, mesmerised. "You're an albino?"

Roy nodded. "I prefer 'has albinism'. It's a condition. Not what I am."

"You know much I love red..."

"Yeah but... it's still a shock for some. Especially up close."

Louise couldn't stop looking with full-on attraction. "They're beautiful."

Even burnt, Roy was obviously glowing with embarrassment. "Really?"

"Oh fuck yes!" She leaned forward. "Smooch?"

Roy closed his eyes and puckered.

"No... eyes open."

Roy smiled and did as he was told, looking into each other across the tiny gulf of a deep, lingering snog.

Surfacing, minutes later, Louise asked, "So, now I don't mind, do you still wanna... y'know?"

It was late, edging into morning. The town lights were dimming, the club sounds muted. Even the whoosing tide had slipped down the beach to give them some privacy.

Roy had an idea and, whispering in her ear, took Louise's hand and gathered up their stuff.


*

It took some while to reach his small room. A converted attic, with low ceilings and a dormer window, in a back-end of town B&B without even a seaview.

"So what was it you wanted to show me?" Louise asked.

"Patience, hon."

"Been too fucking patient all evening so far."

Roy fumbled in a bag and produced some condoms.

"Can we use mine?" Louise likewise dug in her bag and pulled out some square sachets. Tore one open to reveal...

"Red condoms?"

"Naturally." Louise giggled.

"They look like kiddies balloons!"

"So let's party!" Louise said, pushing him on the bed playfully and tugging his shorts off. In the dim lamplight, his chalky unburnt skin didn't seem so stark. Highlights for the skin, she thought. Why fucking not?

She straddled his knees, soothing the coloured latex softly over his nicely-sized cock.

"Well it doesn't quite match your complexion." Louise joked, kneeling up to consider her handiwork, "But I'll make do..." Then she started giving him the gate-crasher of all blowjobs.

"Jeez Looooouise!" Roy hissed through gritted teeth as her energentic sucking and palming sent his mind sizzling through the top of his skull. Louise chuckled, or as close as with a mouth full of condom-flavoured cock, as his jac heated her tongue and squished pleasantly in the latex bubble. She flicked it around, making Roy give out moans of indelicate ecstasy.

"My turn!" Louise said, stroking the limp limb playfully with her nails.

"Fuck! You're insatiable..." Roy's voice was a hoarse whisper as he gathered his shattered senses.

"If you weren't the colour of boiled lobster, I might be able to resist you... just."

She let him tissue away and bin the used condom before assailing him with another red rubber, as her horniness fingered him to rock readiness again.

"Do you have a favourite position?" Roy asked. Louise got on all fours and hunched her face on the pillow. With her still on it, Roy tugged the bed round until she faced the dormer.

"Hey!" Louise protested. She eyed the horizon, contrasting with backlit sky, through the window suspiciously. Almost morning already? "You haven't got a mate with a cam out there, have you?"

Roy pointed out, grinning, "Smile for 'You've Been Framed'! Course not!" He slapped her bum playfully. "This is what I wanted to show you. Ready?"

"Like you need to ask, redskin?"

He was kneeling behind her, pushing inside slowly. Louise gnawed her smirk with a satisfied sigh. Imagined his burning skin, the red hair, the glowing fulfilment. Blood-hardened skin surging through blood-swollen, horny sensitivities. She had been on simmer for way too long.

Roy gyrated his hips, wriggling and plunging, pulling and stirring. One hand edged up her back, steadied her shoulder, the other caressing, guiding her hips back to his with indulgent rhythm. Louise saw his game, and raised it briskly, complementing his flow and ebb, until they rocked as one.

She remembered the Sun, searing into the sea. His heat was solar, blazing through her cunt, changing its nature forever. Her breathing had been irregular, aroused and erratic, ever since she saw him. Now it came in staggered little eeks and low staccato moans as he filled her, pumped her. And she pumped right back.

There was a flash of red light in her half-closed, rolling eyes.

A hard slap to her buttock, and Roy's hand on her shoulder pointed. The room was filled with scarlet fire as the Sun's first red rays camera-flashed through the window. Dawn. A big, beautiful red-sky-at-morning, more fiery than the sunset. Louise became one with it, wild fantasies as light squinted into her thoughts, charged through her excited nerves to meet the pending climax of Roy coming hard into her. Of the roaring, the bell-ringing, in her ears, and the completely-off-her-face sensation squelching and pulsing round him. Her eeks not so little now, her moans high and loud.

The Sun warmed the room but Louise was already outshining it. She collapsed on the sheets with Roy tumbling nicely on her scorched bare back. His weight wonderful on her body, his cock still twitching inside, making her quiver, as the aftershocks of sex subsided through them.

"Good morning, red-hot lover." Roy whispered in Louise's ear.


*end*


Sandrine's notes:

This was my submission for Filament magazine's 'Red' issue way back... whenever. But it didn't even get a response, let alone feedback. Perhaps it wasn't that good, or pushed the 'red' a bit too much...


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

'Lonely As A Cloud'

by Sandrine Lopez




"I wondered as lonely as a cloud..."

Celine wished she could. Her soft, fine-as-mist body, high above the world. Over and away from the messy muddle of people, their noise and annoyance.

This was why she watched clouds, as a weather station monitor. She had her own cloud in tow, like a guardian angel. Even as a girl, there was always one over her. Some called it mood. She named it 'joie', the French for happiness.

She was happy in her top-of-the-hill world, more home than home itself, reporting for a nearby airport. It was reflected in the summer downpour. The unrelenting wetness made her smile.

Until Eddie arrived.

The first Celine knew of him was the crunch of tyres on gravel outside. A car door slam intrusion. Then his silhouette in the station door. Sunlight began to filter through her clouds, lending him a halo of iridescent rainbow wings.

To Celine, sunlight was unhappiness. Blue sky grew above them, scattering her tempestuous clouds away.

No!

She ran to the window, as sickening pus-yellow sunlight illuminated the country below. Sensed the messy people cheering as their Saturday weather turned.

No longer any clouds, not even hers, above. Only the lifeless, desert-like emptiness of azure light. The single pimple of the sun on it. Blistering painful heat.

"Turned out nice, I see." Eddie offered.

Celine's glare back was just as blistering.


* * *

Eddie held the station in awe. A technological heaven watching its meteorological counterpart.

"Weather fascinates me." he explained, "The Met gave me permission to visit. Didn't they inform you?"

Snowdrift of unopened mail propping up a corner. Celine gave cold front. A shrug.

Eddie, like the sun, filled rooms with cheery social light. Welcome wherever he shone. Except here.

Where others forecast using mechanical means interpreted by experience, Celine had an instinct for weather, only using station measurements to confirm what she felt, give unemotional figures to the plane people. She was never wrong.

Except now.

Meteorology. Definition: Study of the atmosphere and its phenomena. Celine could taste the air, its subtleties and nuances, as a food or wine connoisseur would. But she had miscalculated the human element. No interest in it. Now one, like flapping butterfly wings creating tornadoes, had thrown her. A sacrifice to chaos.

Eddie could cut the station atmosphere with a knife. No expertise required to sense that.

He opened a window to let warmer air in. A rainbow-coloured butterfly flapped in.

Warning before the storm.


*

"Tell me about the clouds." Eddie asked. Ice breaker, if any.

With a sincerity doubting sigh, Celine yawned a way through textbook, 101, definitions.

"No, not what they are. Tell me about how they feel."

She seemed to see him properly for the first time. Visibility clearing, half a smile.

Celine led him to glass, her window on the sky. A single cloud, solitary drifter, her 'joie', had once again taken residence above.

"Imagine that swirling body, overcasting the whole sky." Celine's true passion emerged, "Its textures and colour, shades of grey, blotting out the sun."

Eddie considered. "The sun gives life. Some still worship it."

"False idol." She countered, "So does water. Life started in the sea." Vague gestures between them. "We're still largely water too." Eddie smiled. Some were a percentage of sun too.

They watched the weather quietly through afternoon and evening, clouds darting back and forth until they clothed the descendant sun in gold and red.

"Would the sunset be as glorious without clouds?" Celine pondered.

"Or without the sun?" Eddie put his hand partly over hers.

Surprising herself, Celine entwined her cool fingers with his warm ones.

50 per cent cover, she considered the cloud ceiling. Neither one forecast or another.

Mirror of her mixed emotions.


*

Night was the only time Celine didn't mind clear skies. Moonlight was coolly soothing, even in summer.

"You realise that moonlight is only reflected sunlight." Eddie told her.

Celine nodded. The glow from the celestial crescent reflected on his profile too. Man in the moon lite. Still too earthly for her.

"It's late." She said. "There's a bunk if you want to stay."

More tolerance than acceptance but a warmer clime for Eddie, as he took the top bunk, above her.


*

Sun up was 06:12.

Celine was already awake, watching her sky. Still 50 per cent cover. Undecided.

Forecast could go either way. Chaos in a coin flip. Unfamiliar tastes.

Eddie was akin to his meteorological namesake. Behaved differently from the larger volume of people. Unlike her weather, unpredictable.

"Good morning." His voice behind her.

The outside door and window rattled in a sudden wind. Clouds were buffeted past as Celine's mind raced. Beaufort scale six, rising.

Eddie studied the atmosphere as he walked towards her. The barometer was falling. But Celine was far from depressed. She actually beckoned him to watch the growing tempest.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she asked gleefully, as rain speckled the glass. Growing to trickles as heaven opened. New waters.

Eddie had to smile, a different reaction to expected. Celine really loved the clouds, the rain, unlike most who wanted sun and heat, as he did. Forces of nature. Equal yet opposite.

Damn it, he thought, she was the clouds, the rain, the very weather. But an inversion from the norm. That made her even more interesting. Personification of his fascination.

Impulsively, he took her chin in his fingers. Drew her lips to his. Kiss the rain.

Lightning flared outside. Something sparked.

The barometer continued falling. Eddie stepped away, letting her consider.

"No pressure." he said finally, as heaven dripped and splashed outside.


*

Celine found him outside. Just standing in rain, letting the cold wind hug him, run its fingers through his hair. The flash bang of lightning and thunder overhead lit and shook him.

He saw, and shouted over the torrent, "I'm trying to imagine what..." Threw his head to the grey sky, then arms wide before wrapping them round his drenched body.

At her bemused frown, he squelched to his car, revved the engine and was gone.

As Celine unsteadily padded among the puddles, the rain stopped. The sun peered through her clouds, shook its shiny head at the storm wrought devastation.

The clouds dissipated to 50 per cent again, a tapestry of sapphire and pearl hue.

Wetness on her cheeks. Uncertain if they were tears, or a memory of rain.


*

The rest of that day was sun, with only a strong breeze.

Not what she forecast. Celine felt as blue as the firmament.

Fuck the weather, she thought, fuck people! And fuck Eddie!

Her sky was empty. As above, so below.


*

Celine phoned through the forecast to the airport, then spied the drift of mail. Shoveled through it for ones postmarked Met Office.

Eventually she found it. The letter even had his number on it. Thumbed it into the phone pad with heavy determination, like hailfall.

An answer came there none.


*

The sun retired to its horizon bed, weary at mopping up after the storm. Weary at her day too, Celine slumped in the lower bunk. Closed her eyes to blot out the dying brightness.

The forecast was clear skies with the odd scattered cloud. That figured.

A splash on her face. She blinked away the drop. More fell on her arms and legs.

Then Celine was aware of a man-shaped cloud lying on the wire mesh, faux sky above, its mattress removed. A cloud which softly rained on her.

How Eddie got there, why he still dripped from the earlier cloudburst, she didn't care. Stranger things in heaven and earth.

A new angel over her. Slowly he descended from bunk heaven, and found a new one in her.

"I missed your call but recognised the number." He told her.

He looked weathered. Damp and cool from the earlier tempest. Celine liked that against her. Peeled off his rain-filled clothes. Felt the charged potential within him, like lightning.

The weather may be predictable but Eddie wasn't. She would have to work on that. Find ways to forecast his behavior.

Celine warmed him with her pale unsunned complexion. She was not without heat either but hers was the hot wet clinging humidity of summer. Of dew burned to mist by sun.

Eddie ran his lips over her in a pitter-patter of raindrop kisses. Then they were both clouds, damp and grey in twilight, their textures swirling and mixing in the growing wind. Summer evening perspiration, like condensation, all over.

They shared their moisture, dripping and splashing as much inside, as it was pounding on the night dark glass outside.


*

For that night, the rain was torrential.

*end*


#wankwednesday #cloud

'Once In The Journey Of Life'

by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

Don't want to be the wallflower, the quiet one, shy girl, person no-one speaks to... ignores.

But it's my nature. I like to watch people, see how they move, dress, talk, live. Call me a student of the human condition, if you like. It's a bit like the sex my friends always talk about. Either a giver or a taker. I take quietly, passively, without them knowing, share their existence vicariously. But I remain detached. Partitioned. Separate. There, but not really...

Words, tales, gossip, instead of the experience, taste, feel itself.

So I set out to be a part of it. Change, transform, re-invent...

Typical, tale of my life, the night I choose is victim to one of the worse public transport fuck-ups ever. We never get the full story, like we ever do, but the tannoyed weary announcements invent new excuses to explain why our train has all the speed of a snail, direction of a moth.

Eventually we're dumped on an already packed platform, the dark, crowd loud heat of a Friday night gone bad. No choice but to change here and catch another crippled carriage. Just one more stop down the line to go. Pity the poor souls damned to travel further, for an eternity on the midnight delights of British Rail...

I feel overdressed, my own change drawing lusty looks and piercing whistles. My heels are higher, the skirt much shorter, blouse too tight, too sheer, wishing I'd worn a bra... Unwanted bodies pressed against mine as we all vie for personal space.

A tumble, a tide, of tortured travellers down the platform to where there's space and air, however summer burning, to breathe. I have no wall to flower against, spotlighted under a lamp. The only darkness for hiding is the platform edge.

One other body detached himself from the crowd, standing near, on the edge too. Admiring glances, up and down. Could be any smart casually dressed clubber, on his way between scenes, or just on a journey, no destination in mind.

Not especially good looking, attractive over handsome, but confident against my fight not to be shy, demure, ignored. I sought attention, realise now you get the unwanted with wanted, chaff with wheat, bathwater with the babe. Subconsciously I move away, while every nerve is magnetised to him, my eyes, smile, as I back off, not knowing quite what I want, don't want...

Risk the platform spotlight as I move to the other side. He follows slowly, first with gaze, then slow but sure steps. It becomes a slow dance, as I totter from edge to edge, until he stops in the middle, watching me pace back and forth like a trapped animal.

Eventually I decide he may be just what I need. For all I know he could be married, have a girlfriend, be attached, wandering eyes but not motive. I return the admiring gaze, the taunting smile, revel in his spotlight. It's reflected back, more intense.

The only sign I can give, fighting the nervous wall of self-doubt I still cling to, is a one word conversation, more unsaid than said, and flash of my ticket. My destination. Whether you like it or not...

He slowly flips his own ticket out, and replies singly too. His objective. Beyond my stop. Welcome to join me?

There's a thundering trundle as the train aches from slow to stop beside us. It's going both our ways. There's a brief parting as we embark through different doors, eyes still locked, until the pushs, bumps, grinds and shoves karma us together between carriages. Standing room only.

The need for everyone else to get off Hell's Platform presses us together. As if our sardine tin audience is watching, waiting, clamouring for us to get it on.

I lean back against the wall with him ironing my clothes, gently, slowly, hotly, up and down, me still in them, in time with the train trundling on its track. The wall gives slightly to one side, door of the unisex toilet. I feel behind for the handle, draw it open, jump inside. I see his pained expression of parting, even for a loo break I don't actually need. Then, as the door closes, I impulsively reach out, drag him inside, close and lock it behind me, gasping. There's a muffled 'woooo' from the crumpled crowd outside, some clapping.

Now he's the trapped animal. Certain of what he'd like but unsure of what I want. He's not the only one. There's a third creature inside with us, within me, starting to pace and pound round my gut. Growling for attention. Wants I'm beginning to crave.

Just him, me, and this being of desire. The last two, like converging tracks, become one...

Grabbing his lapels, pressing my lips to his, I push him down on the toilet seat before he has a chance to return my forceful smooches. I'm bent over, standing room only, feeling burning needs to take him, even if he doesn't want it. Taking actively, no longer passive. Is that right? That's the wall I've always had. The flower wilts from the new heat... a twisting, wild creeper grows in its place, entwining round him.

He grips inside my thighs, pulls them apart so I'm plonked heavily on his lap, straddling him. Buzz of excitement, gasps of tension. We're really magnetised now, attraction pulling us bodily to each other. I can feel his stiffy through his trousers, the meagre thin fabric of my panties. Know he wants it inside me. I'm so aroused, so high, so full of need I don't just want to press my naked skin to his, I want to be inside him too. Part his body and snuggle beneath the cover of his flesh. Two animals becoming one.

The journey between stations is usually a few minutes. At its current crawl, we may have ten or so. Make them all count...

One...

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... Train on its tracks.

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... My heart pounding so loud, so heavily, it makes my unsupported breasts jiggle.

Bumpity-bump... bumpity-bump... Rubbing against each other. Clothes in the way...

Two...

Raise myself so we can fumble, tear, at his trouser belt, button, zip. Hug his waist to lift him so he can tug them down. Then his boxers. Freed, his erection springs up. Just the thought of it easing, no... grinding, into me... a low subconscious whimper, moan, sigh... call it what you will, it's mine.

Hadn't really thought I'd need them so soon, if ever, at all, but fumble in my bag for a condom. Stretch tear the wrapping, stretch it over him. Stretching my panties to one side as I settle back down on him, sheathed skin on skin, inside skin. Ooooh, that first contact, touch, penetration, slide, embrace of my twat around him, moments of bliss, snuggle, grip. And it keeps going in, fuck, is it ever going to stop. Eventually, our thighs connect. He's all the way.

Three...

Shrug his jacket off. Unbutton what I can of his shirt. His hands support the small of my arching back, as he tugs at my blouse with his teeth, popping it open until he can kiss my nips, snog them, sucking needily, greedily like a baby. That goes all the way too. Up, around, down... shocks of sensation connecting with him deep up, full of him, in my gut.

His hands under my thighs, lifting my knees, my full weight on him, over him. I'm no model, stick-insect, lightweight. But he likes it, loves it, obsesses against my heaviness as he jiggles, pumps, pounds, up into me. Bringing us closer, closer, still...

Four...

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... Bouncy up and down.

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... In and out, right in... and right out, in out, in out in out...

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump... Closer, so close now...

All the way.

Train as fast as it can go.

Five...

Clawing at each other, tongues in mouths, mingling of wetness, excitement, intensity.

He lets go, gives it all up. My purple painted nails dig deep into my palms, toes curl within stockings and shoes, teeth gnawing lip, parted lips, sighs, moans, cries, tremble all over, shudder, convulse...

Another one word conversation. He says, "Yes... ". I just give a chokey squeal of perfect pleasure, sensing every white-hot last spurt, hug him to death, his stubble against my cheek and throat.

Six...

More smoochies, kissies, snuggles, long moments. The bliss of after, comfort of just holding, being, existing within each other...

Amazingly he's still hard, huge, hot, held fast in my gut. Super-sized sensations from a satisfying, long overdue, unscheduled shag...

Seven...

Return ticket ride.

I struggle up, off him, let him stand. His condomed cock glistens as he peels it off in a thick wedge of loo paper, drops it in the loo. Whiteness dribbles from him, splashing around, on us. Its sticky scent drives me, dares me, to risk bareback.

I bend over, brace myself on the toilet seat now. Look back, look him straight in the eyes, yes again. Yes! No words, just instinct. He gathers up my skirt round my waist, tugs my damp panties down, just enough to reveal, let him see, slip slide into, my wet anticipating hunger.

Humpity-hump... humpity-hump...

His knees angle between mine, spreading them, thighs parting. His strength against the taut tugging binding of my undies. Push me. His firm hand grapples forward, clawing my shoulder, whole body, back onto him. Pull me. The other reaches under, hammocks a free swinging breast, massages it, my sucked sore nipple. Pinch me.

Eight...

Swaying, rocking, colliding in rhythm with the carriage. Falling, cascading, against, within each other. Bodies in transit, between places, hell and heaven. Closest yet, another climax. Him, me, one tripping over another. Powerfully, explosively, loudly, lingering. Mingling with the scream of train brakes, objective reached.

My vision blurs, misty-eyed, mascara smudging... soaring, roaring in ears, rushing of blood in my head, all over, all the way, legs give way but he holds me up until finished, suckling on his cock with my cunt, milked, drained...

Nine...

Bump... bump... bump... Train slowing for station approach.

Bump... bump... bump... Our hearts, bodies, breathless pants, ease down from their brief marathon.

Bump... Limbs separate.

Bump... Souls tear apart from union.

A mop of tissues, off skin, dabbing clothes, flush away the evidence.

Quick studies in fastening clothing, straightening hair, modesty, composure...

Ten...

The carriage shudders to its own climatic stop. Was it good for the train too?

A journey's end. The show over, our audience is already moving on. Release the door, and I join the flurry of people, swept away backwards, eyes still locked, with a last call of his name. I call mine out too, introduction after intimacy, but what does it matter... Mr Tom Two-Stops-Up-The-Line? We'll probably never meet again.

Even now, only a memory, echo, remembrance, scorching hot, sticky wet, white keepsake, where it counted, tantalisingly cooling, dribbles caught in the towel sandwiched between my damp panties and raw cunt. Oozing out squishingily as I shimmy, tender thighs painfully aware of each other, out the station.

Hook up with my friends, squee hugs and air kisses. But even my perfume, body spray, can't mask the musk of him, the unmistakeable smell of sex, spunk, and my deepest self too.

"What is that scent you're wearing?" As if they need to be told, all far too knowing for that. Add to that a laddered stocking, unseemly crumpled skirt, an undone button, forgotten in haste...

I shrug, "I just... grabbed what was handy." A smile, smirk, hands-up guiltiness acting innocent.

No longer entirely ignored but I keep my mystery while they gossip, speculate, try to entice it out of me - unlike his cum still freely leaking, now cool as if thick clingy perspiration - with drink, raised eyebrows, more sexy, lusty, bawdy tales of their own.

I just find the wall again, cling to it, but liking the new dark, growing, taller self, petalled head held high, a sunflower now, glowing.


*end*


- - - - - - -

#wankwednesday