tagNovels and NovellasA Summer in the Flesh Ch. 10

A Summer in the Flesh Ch. 10

byC.C. Rider©

This is a chapter in a fifteen-chapter novella, and each chapter is dependent on the one that precedes it. It is best to read them in order. In any event, the story takes place in a Midwestern college town in the summer of 1979.

*****

I showered to remove the Vaseline from my skin, and I spread my cheeks and let the hot water soothe my sore bumhole. Afterwards, in my bed, Charlie fucked me with a fury. Unfortunately, I was tired and disinterested. I fell asleep as soon as it was polite to do so.

I had a dream that night that was new to me:

I am in a spacious gymnasium watching very young men play some sort of game. They are naked, and their bodies are lean and slender. I am standing to the side of the area where the game is being played, and I am naked. My body is my body, fleshy and soft and full. My breasts are plump and my tummy pouts slightly bellow my belly button. It is familiar in its femininity save for one feature. I have a penis. The thick, handsome shaft protrudes from my pubic mound. I am fully erect.

I watch the young men play. Some are black, some are brown, some are tan, and some are white, but all their bodies are similar. They have short, neatly trimmed heads of hair. The rest of their bodies are virtually hairless, with only tiny tufts for pubic hair. Their penises, though flaccid, are long smooth and swing about freely as they play. I can feel sensations from my penis, and it is hot and hard and the skin is taught.

I want to play with the boys, but I am worried that I am different, and I am worried that my erection is inappropriate. Their bodies glisten with sweat. Hoots of laughter and good-natured shouting fill the room. They do not notice me. I cannot help myself. I take my penis in my hand. To my hand it feels familiar, a typical cock. The sensation in my penis is new to me. I feel my hand take hold of me, and its touch is cool. My penis stiffens and strains against my hand. I feel faint and nervous. I stroke my penis, and the sensation causes me to shiver. I stroke it more heartily, and I sigh with pleasure.

The beautiful bodies cavorting about in front of me transfix me. I want to touch them, run my hands over their supple muscles and lustrous skin. I want to stroke their penises. I stroke my own. One young man notices me, and smiles. He walks towards me. I cannot stop myself from stroking. Other young men notice me. Seven or eight begin to approach me. They stop in front of me. Their faces are charming with pleasant, welcoming expressions. I am a head taller than they are, but they are not children. They are men, but they are small and their beauty makes them appear younger.

A fair skinned one with straw colored hair asks me a question; may he touch me? I nod yes, and he touches my breast. Now others are touching me, my thighs and buttocks and stomach. One with dark skin reaches between my legs. I have a vagina, too, and it is moist and receptive to his touch. They are petting me, and their penises are growing. I keep stoking my own penis, and it aches with fullness.

“It’s okay,” one says. “You are beautiful,” and a mammoth stream of jism shoots forth from the head of my penis. Cum spews forth from me in and the boys catch it and smear themselves and me with my spunk. Now they rub their bodies against me, stiff penises rubbing against my skin, hot and sticky. I am dizzy from the heat. The hand between my legs rubs me and the friction builds and I come again, this time in a familiar way.

When I woke up from the dream my hand was between my legs, and it was damp. My pussy was hot and sore. I was breathing heavily. Charlie was next to me, snoring lightly. I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want him to ask me what was wrong because I couldn’t explain.

Why did I orgasm? Why did I have a penis? I tried to laugh it off. Sigmund Freud would have had a field day with that one. I couldn’t get back to sleep, and when I finally did it was daylight and again my dreams were peopled with the lithe bodied man-boys, naked and radiant with sex.

It was almost noon when I got up that day (the day after what I have come to refer to as ‘Quarry Quarry Night’, with apologies to Picasso). It was Tuesday. Only three more days and I would be through with school. It was exciting.

Charlie was gone. I was slowed in my enthusiasm by a dull, throbbing tension between my legs. I would have taken a bath if there had been a bathtub in the house. I showered and went downstairs for some coffee, and Amy was in the kitchen. She asked me if I had fun. I rolled my eyes. She winked at me. I changed the subject. I wanted to be normal again.

I went to the library that afternoon, but I had difficulty studying. I couldn’t keep my mind off my dreams. I felt like there was something different about me. I worked on trying to figure out what it was.

All my life, up to that point, I had been embarrassed by my size. This was especially true when I was in new to high school, as I matured early and suffered a growth spurt that made me taller than all but one of the boys in my class. I hated the awkwardness of it. I not only felt I was unattractive, I felt like my size was intimidating to boys, and I felt they hated me for it. As my college years rolled along, I became much more comfortable with myself, and lately I had taken to the notion that I was an honest-to-God sexy woman, but I had still never dated anyone smaller than I was. As I am just over 5’10, so that made for a large segment of the male population that I considered un-dateable. It wasn’t just that it hadn’t happened. It was that I would have never, ever considered it. Now, all of a sudden, I was having wet dreams about slim, small men. Obviously, and quite ironically, I decided it must have had something to do with my encounter with the prosthetically enhanced Amy.

I kept flashing back to the time I was straddling her, girl on top, and the curious sense of delight that filled me. I wished now that Tom hadn’t so rudely interrupted us by sticking his dick in my face (and ass). A part of me wanted to ask Amy if we could do that again, but I couldn’t see myself asking her. Besides, I thought, it had been a boy I was fantasizing about. What had I called her – my little cabana boy? But it wasn’t the “boy” part that excited me; it was the smallness. I liked being larger-than-life. It didn’t excite me to think of it as having been Amy; it excited me to think that I was on top of a man, and that he was much smaller than me. I liked being a giantess.

My more profound realization was this: I loved being me. I had finally learned to love my body. I was proud to be big. I was sexy, and sensual, and desirable, and I liked men, all kinds of men, not just the ones that were bigger than me. All of this thinking wasn’t conducive to studying. I was feeling sexually charged once again. I was insatiable and irascible.

I would be glad, I also thought, to finally get whatever was in my system out of me; it was exhausting.

I spent the late afternoon wandering around campus ogling men I had never noticed existed before. So many pretty faces and so many body types: stout and muscular, slender and sinewy, athletic and rippling. It was like a whole new sexual world had opened up to me. (Just what I needed, huh?)

I studied at home that night. Business Psychology was the subject, one of those cross-curricular courses that’s a little too easy for either business or psychology majors but counted for both. The exam was at ten the next morning. I purposefully ignored my housemates and went to bed early. I dreamed of willowy young men with slender hips and chiseled features.

I felt refreshed in the morning. My mind was clear, my body energized. It was still hot out, and I put on my faux silk, powder blue sundress and pulled back my hair in a ponytail. I laughed with Tom over coffee and a bowl a cereal, and skipped off to my exam.

There was an African student in my business psychology class that I had spoken to on occasion. I had approached him at one time as a potential study partner; I was a psychology major and I was all but certain he was business major (very few foreign students were sent to the States to study psychology). He seemed shy, so I let it go, but after that we said hi to each other when our paths occasionally crossed. His name was Alshara.

It occurred to me, as he took a seat a few rows in front of me, that he was a small man, about 5’5, and that had been another reason why I had thought about approaching him – there wouldn’t have been any sexual tension. I looked at him with my new eyes.

His skin was so richly black that he appeared to have the luster of a polished, deep-blue stone. His cheekbones were set high, his forehead was broad, and his chin was sculpted and strong. He had long hands and oval fingernails that looked as if they were professionally manicured. He always dressed impeccably, and for the exam he had on a thin, white Egyptian cotton dress shirt and neatly pressed brown twill slacks with an alligator belt.

I watched him carefully from the time he entered the classroom until he sat down. His hips were narrow and his slacks were perfectly tailored. He smiled and waived at me, and I realized how engaging he was. As he sat down, the seat of his pants pulled taught over his rear, and at that precise moment I realized that I wanted to see him naked. I also wished I had taken more time with my makeup.

I had difficulty concentrating on my exam, but I managed. I finished ten minutes early only because I knew I had passed and I didn’t have the fortitude to do better than necessary. I also wanted to be sure I finished before Alshara did. He was seated at the end of his row, and as I walked past him I purposefully swung my hip out so that the hem of my dress would brush up and over the end of his desk. I desperately wanted to look back to see if he was watching me. I put a little extra bounce in my step.

I had no idea what I was up to, but once I was outside the classroom I rushed to the ladies room to check my hair and face. I looked okay, not as bad as I had worried. I came back out into the hallway and slowly got a drink of water. I heard the classroom door open. I carefully took an extra sip of water. I turned, and it was it was three frat boys in T-shirts and gym shorts. I started to leave when I heard the door again. It was Alshara. I waived nonchalantly.

“Hello Annie.”

“Hi Alshara, how did you do?”

He walked up to me as if that had been his intent all along.

“Good. It was a good exam. And you.” He had an English accent that was perfectly modulated and articulated. I guessed that he had studied his English in England.

“I passed. That’s good enough for me.”

“Is it your last exam?”

“One more, Friday. How about you?”

“This is it. I go home tomorrow.”

“Are you through through?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are you coming back, or will you get your degree?”

“Yes, I am through through then,” he smiled graciously. “I will not be coming back.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Annie, will you do me the pleasure of having lunch with me?”

I smiled.



We ate at Willow Tree. It was his suggestion. I learned he was from Somalia in eastern Africa and lived in the capital, Mogadishu. (This was long before the fall of Somalia to the rebels and criminals.) His father was a high ranking official in the Somali military and a private businessman. He was going home to teach business and work for the Ministry of Trade.

At one point during our meal I said that I would love to visit Africa and had always dreamed of going on a safari. Alshara responded that his family was originally from Kenya, and that he had worked as a tour guide on luxury safaris through the grasslands of the Serengeti. Apparently he was also a semi-professional photographer (his pictures had been used in numerous African magazines and travel brochures), and he asked if I would like to see his portfolio. Of course I agreed, and I truly did want to see his pictures.

His apartment was on the 12th floor of a private condominium building overlooking the river. It was a short walk from campus. I had become so accustom to small studios and shared living space that the concept that a student could live in a spacious condominium in a quiet, well-maintained building was difficult for me to grasp.

I was both shocked and intrigued when I first entered the apartment. It was simple and tasteful. The wood furnishings were dark mahogany, the upholstery was eggshell damask and jacquard, and there were colorful throws on the couch. Unframed, contemporary original artwork graced the walls, and elegant glasswork adorned the shelf space. The books were all hardbound. The more I looked, the more impressed I became. He asked if I wanted something to drink and I said water. When he returned from the kitchen he was carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“I was wondering if I could be so bold, Annie, as to ask you to join me in a toast to the successful completion of my studies.”

“I would be honored.”

“My flight leaves tomorrow morning, and I have so much to arrange this evening that I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to celebrate properly. Thank you so much.”

When I first saw the champagne, I thought he was being sly, but the context he set for it made it seem as natural as rain (not that I cared about the context since I had already decided that I wanted to fuck him). He set down the glasses on his coffee table next to where I was standing, popped the cork expertly, and filled the glasses. He handed one to me, took his own, and stood in front of me.

“A toast, then, to both of us upon our graduation from college.” His perfect English mesmerized me.

I stood up. “Cheers,” I said, and I had to consciously keep my hand low so that it wouldn’t be awkward for him to raise and clink his glass with mine.

“Cheers.”

There was a brief silence, and then he raised his hand as if remembering something and took an art portfolio from behind a bookcase. We sat on his couch, sipping our wine, and he explained each picture. Without exaggerating, they were some of the most beautiful pictures I had ever seen. One in particular stood out. It was a waterfall dropping into a canyon, and the mist rising from the canyon captured the intense golden rays of the sunset. It was captivating.

We talked a little bit more, and I accepted another glass of wine and took off my flats and got more comfortable on the couch. He put on a tape, which he described as an African/jazz fusion. It was pleasant and melodious, but with complex rhythms and extended percussion instrumentals. I asked if he had any intention of pursuing a career in photography, and he said that his life had been well planned, and being an artist was not a possibility. Then he surprised me with his candor.

“I am to be married soon after I return to Mogadishu.”

“Oh my.” I almost spit out my wine. It was quiet and he seemed reflective. I didn’t know if I was disappointed or relieved, but I was curious.

“Is it a planned marriage, or, well…it’s really none of my…”

“No, no, I brought it up, though I am not sure why.”

“Everyone says I am easy to talk to.”

He laughed heartily. “You are at that, Annie. It is not planned in the old fashioned sense, but it is…expected of me.”

“Do you want to marry her?”

“Perhaps. Yes, I do. She is an extremely pleasant woman, more of a girl, really, but intelligent and friendly. I don’t know her all that well. She is appropriately connected.”

“Ah, a wealth and class thing?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just that a part of me…” he paused in thought. .” I decided to finish his thought for him.

“…Wants to tell everyone to go fuck themselves.” I feared I was out of line. I wasn’t. His laugh was genuine and prolonged, and it continued through his reply.

“Yes, Annie, Yes! That is exactly what I want to do. I want to tell them to go fuck themselves, and I want to stay here and become an American playboy, and an artist, and a writer.” He looked at me. “I want to date American women, women like you, Annie, with dynamic and incorrigible personalities and…” he paused again.

“And?” I took a long sip of champagne.

“…and beautiful green eyes.”

I looked into his eyes, and they were pitch black, giving them a sense of depth and content. I wanted him to kiss me.

“I am sorry; I have been too forward.”

Dammit. Okay, so I kissed him. I put my hand on his chest, and licked and pursed my lips to soften and wet them. And then I kissed him again. He placed a hand on my side, gently brushing my breast on its course.

“Am I being too forward?” My question was breathy; my lips were close to his.

“I’m quite shocked,” he was able to say without a hint of being shocked, making it funny.

“Just call me incorrigible,” I kissed him again, “and impulsive.”

“Impulsive, yes, that too.”

“Just promise me one thing, Alshara.”

“Yes, Annie, anything.”

“Don’t get stuck on me. I am not going to be the women who ruins your marriage.”

“I understand completely.” He kissed me with soft, full lips. His tongue caressed my lips. I pushed him back against the couch, took his wineglass out of his hand and set both our glasses on the coffee table. I had been sitting with my legs curled, and I kicked one leg out and climbed over the top of him, straddling him. I had to stoop quite a bit to bring my face down to his. I felt magnificently impressive on top of him, and I was warmed by the perception. He tilted his head back and I kissed him. His hands grabbed my sides and rubbed up and down, then wandered over the curve of my ass. I sat back up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“You are analluring creature, Annie. Tell me why we haven’t gotten together before this.”

“I was shy.”

His hands drifted up my skirt, and I actually leaned up so that he could free the fabric trapped between us. I pulled up his shirt as far as I could and admired his chest. His skin was fabulously smooth, almost slippery to the touch. His muscles were taught and hard, and his skin was stretched tight over his body like it was elastic. He petted the tops and sides of my substantial thighs.

I leaned down so that I could speak into his ear. “I want to see you naked.”

“My, you are incorrigible.”

I climbed back off of him. I sat back and curled my legs under me again and he looked at me quizzically. I motioned for him to stand up, and he obeyed. He pushed the coffee table away and stood directly in front of me. He untucked his shirt slowly. His muscles rippled as he worked off the shirt. He smiled at me and then struck a pose like Charles Atlas, tightening his stomach muscles so that they ribbed. I had never seen such a well-defined body. The deep blue-blackness of his skin made him seem edible. I tingled deep inside.

“Not too bad for a smaller gentleman, eh?”

I smiled. I wondered what he would think of me, for a “larger lady.” He rested his hands at his belt buckle. He made me wait. He unbuckled his belt, unfastened his slacks, and slowly, wistfully pulled down his zipper. His trousers dropped to the floor. He was wearing tan silk, bikini-styled briefs that were smooth and protruded over the mound of his penis (there was no fly). The mound of his penis was spectacular in relation to his size. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his slacks. He sat down briefly on the coffee table and pulled off his socks, placing them calmly in his shoes and sliding them under the table. Then he picked up his slacks by the cuffs and carefully smoothed the pant legs and set the slacks over the arm of the couch. He stood back in front of me.

His thighs were deeply cut with muscle and tendon and his legs were straight and long for his body. Slowly he rolled down his briefs. They seemed to slip down over his hips. He bent over briefly to guide them further, and they fell away. He stood up, legs slightly spread, hands on his hips, and let me admire his beauty.

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