Erotic Hitchhiker's Guide Ch. 06bydiggypop©
Hitchhikers Manual Entry # 7539287287.2
Language is, at base, a mind-bogglingly useful device for sentient beings to give instructions to each other regarding various tasks that need performing. It also serves to enable sentient beings to feign sympathy, affection and other mind-sets likely to put one's fellow beings at ease and, thus, more susceptible to manipulation.
Many also use it as a device to persuade others of the superiority of one's own cultural, political or ethical systems, in the hopes that they will then adapt them as well without the need for additional coercion. This last usage has proven to be of limited efficacy, but is still a popular use of the technology.
For a technology it undoubtedly is. The widespread use of language throughout all known sectors of the universe is presumed to have an origin that is traceable, at least theoretically, to somewhere in the distant past, either bestowed on all sentient entities by an extremely powerful and clever being of some sort, or concocted by a confederation of immensely clever scientists and wizards, who then took pains to erase all records of their existence, as such groups are wont to do.
There is effectively only one language in the entire universe, with one regrettably obsolete exception. Extensive study of this planet is currently impossible, but reports from previous visitors tell of a legend involving interference from an immensely powerful being as the culprit behind this multiplication of tongues, but without approval for extensive temporal investigation of the entire history of its native sentient species, speculation is all the serious scholar may avail themselves of.
Questions had to be asked. The last thing Arthur wanted was to come off like he was interrogating her, but it would be tricky to avoid. A brief flashback to his grammar school days reminded him that the technical term for questions was 'interrogative statements,' so interrogation was already worming its way into the even most innocuous question by virtue of definition, and there was little to be done about it.
At least she didn't seem upset, or defensive, not at the moment. Surprisingly, she appeared to be more amused than anything else, while he was just on the verge of panic. It was hard for him to tell if he was anxious for the future, or just upset by the over-all weirdness of his current situation, by how dramatically his inability to influence events had been demonstrated over the past couple of days.
He wondered if this was why all the aliens he'd met so far were so obsessed with sex:either it made them feel, just for a second, like they had even the tiniest bit of control, or it simply proved to be a handy distraction from the real state of affairs. Plus, there seemed to be something about the DILDO that encouraged happy accidents. If the universe was essentially random, a happy accident might be the best thing you could ever hope for.
Of course, endlessly nattering to one's self via an internal monologue was Arthur's preferred method of avoiding unpleasantness, but he was rapidly discovering the limits of that technique, as it required a certain momentum and routine of daily life to render most noteworthy situations, unpleasant or not, essentially temporary.
It was the same impetus that led a store clerk to nod sympathetically at a litany of complaints, take no action, and conclude the encounter with the phrase, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" Only retirees and lawyers have the time and/or stamina required to wear down an intransigent employee, as a rule, especially one supported by official policy. The rest of us almost always have something better to do.
Neither Arthur nor Agnes had anything better to do than talk with each other (except maybe have sex, and Arthur knew they would have to have an Important Conversation before that could happen again) and literally nowhere to go for either of them. So one of them would probably need to say something. That ended up being Agnes.
"So are you ready to talk?" she asked. He was privately impressed that she'd learned to read him so well after such a short time. But then, he was just her latest in a long line of boyfriends stamped from essentially the same mold as him.
"Yes, he replied, "but I'm not entirely sure where to start. I gather the bloom is off the rose, so to speak."
"I don't feel the way I did just a couple of hours ago, that's for certain." She furrowed her brows slightly, as if trying to recall. "To be honest, I don't think I've ever felt that way before. It was like I'd been transformed into this incendiary slutbomb who kept homing in on you for some reason. If there's an active trigger inside me for that, I might not mind setting it off once every couple of weeks or so. But I'd want the duration cut by about half at least."
Arthur shook his head sadly. "It sounds like the attraction to me was more of an afterthought."
She smiled, but it was tinged with guilt. "Sometimes it's all about being in the right place at the right time."
"I guess then the question is how do you feel about me now?"
She started as if this was the first time she'd pondered the matter. "Quite fondly, oddly enough."
Arthur supposed this was better than nothing. "Does that include any residual attraction?" He looked at her expectantly, knowing it could easily come off as pathetic but hoping she'd find it amusing.
"You know, I think it does." She laughed, not unpleasantly. "If nothing else, we had the best sex of my entire life, also the weirdest, and--" she scrunched up her eyes in remembrance, "--it's less like a real memory than some incredible erotic dream, the kind that makes you want to ravish the person the next time you see them."
Arthur smiled. "I guess I can live with being in the right place at the right time. But I do have a confession."
She looked at him quizzically. "What?"
"I still think you're dead gorgeous."
This time, her smile lit up the room. "We really should see how the sex is when we're both in our right minds. I've got an idea all of a sudden..."
This idea had been sparked by some delightfully silky material Agnes had spied spilling out of a mostly closed drawer in a dresser that appeared to be made of wood, and might well have been. By checking in all the compartments they were able to obtain an assortment of...well, it wasn't clear what they were at first.
They seemed to have no definite shape no matter how they were held or laid down, and it was impossible to say with any conviction whether a given section was for sticking one's head or arms through, or for covering one's crotch, and all that could be ascertained with any confidence was that this material would feel positively delightful against one's skin, which made the inability to nail down the intended form of the garment (if garment it was) most frustrating.
Finally, in a move that was equal parts frustration and playfulness, Agnes simply stuck her head into the damned thing and was rewarded to discover that it fell onto her body in precisely the form of a baby doll nightgown.
She was further delighted to discover that the fabric was responsive to a degree that seemed almost self-aware. It clung to her breasts lovingly, miraculously imparting better support than even the firmest under-wire she'd ever worn, while never pinching or chafing, only bestowing delicious comfort as it wickedly highlighted her nipples, allowing Arthur to share in the enjoyment.
Deciding a little mystery might be just the thing, she pulled the fabric down so it just rested at her mid-thigh area, which gave it an opportunity to form around and flatter the spectacular globes of her ass and the flare of her hips.
By working it carefully with her fingers, she discovered that it could also be stretched into almost transparency, a diaphanous, almost gauzy look that retained the original silky feel, which she then pulled over her arms to her elbows, doing the same with the equivalent of the hem, pulling it down to mid calf, then finally over her shoulders, even covering her neck.
She could never explain why something that promised concealment while actually revealing everything it 'covered' should be so sexy, but she was startled to discover the level of arousal it gave her, even though by rights she should still be exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally.
But she didn't want to seem too easy this time. Looking sternly at Arthur, she said, in as serious a tone as she could manage, "All right, let's dress you up and see how it goes."
Arthur's garment folded itself into a just long enough bathrobe, which, while not the least bit frilly, still tested his intuitions about what type of attire counted as masculine. Agnes calmed him by promising he could keep as much body hair as he liked and she had no intention of getting him to try makeup.
"Besides," she said, "if I'm going to play dress-up, you have to wear something that matches. Otherwise one of us will feel damn silly."
Arthur had to admit this sounded sensible.
"And doesn't this fabric feel fucking amazing?"
Arthur had to nod to that as well. It seemed the fabric contrived every so often to brush against one part of his body or another in a way that felt -- the word 'magnificent' kept coming to mind.
And yet 'magnificent' seemed insufficient to describe Agnes in her current attire. The way her curves shifted underneath the practically animated fabric made Arthur doubt the accuracy of his vision.
It seemed one second as if she was on the verge of spilling out of it, even as it wrapped snugly around all her protuberances. And then a few seconds later it gave the impression of imminently melting off of her, only to merely reconfigure itself into yet another enthusiastic ode to her sensational figure.
Agnes could tell, without Arthur saying a word, that he was lost in his ogling of her body. She wasn't sure if this could fairly be called seduction.
She smiled. "Maybe it's time you look with your hands," she said encouragingly, "and not just with your eyes."
He hadn't stumbled more than two steps towards her when she held up a finger, halting his progress. "I think," she said, "we need some rules first. Not to be autocratic about things, but I am feeling in the mood to be serviced, and properly. Plus I think things have been too rushed around here lately."
"All right," said Arthur, "I like taking my time about things. What did you have in mind?"
"Until I say otherwise, I want you to keep your hands over the fabric. Touch me wherever you like, but it has to be covered."
"You do realize," Arthur said solemnly, "this means I can't stroke your hair, rub your feet, or kiss your lips."
"Exactly," said Agnes. "However, after a while, I will likely desire to take things a bit farther. At that time, I will tell you that it's all right to ask my permission to touch me in an uncovered area. Obviously you must specify the area and how you plan to touch it. But I will allow you to start using your mouth."
"May I ask what the next stage will be?" inquired Arthur. Arthur routinely perused the last few pages of every mystery novel he ever read first, preferring to know who the murderer was before looking through all the clues and red herrings. The first time he saw Columbo, he seriously thought God had granted a wish he'd never explicitly formulated. He also thouroughly loathed surprise parties.
Luckily so did Agnes. "You may," she said, already sounding the part of the benevolent queen. "I shall allow you to use your mouth and hands both over and under the fabric, increasingly subject to my direction, until such a time that I either have an orgasm or am just too exhausted to continue. And you should strive for the former, because that's the only way we're getting to Phase Four."
"And what is Phase Four?" asked Arthur, though he had an inkling.
"I get to see if I can make you feel as much pleasure as you've made me feel. So let's set the bar high, hm?"
Arthur just nodded. It was a nice incentive, but he really didn't need it. She'd had him at, "Put your hands on me."
She sat on the edge of the bed and patted it invitingly, softly. He sat where she'd indicated and pondered his next move.
She'd basically given him carte blanche, but he was, paradoxically, eager not to seem too eager. He'd done the tearing-off-of-the-clothes thing already, and he was happy at the opportunity for a slower approach.
He started by putting both hands on her shoulders. Holding the right one steady, he began stroking slowly, from her shoulder to her back. He caressed her back for a while, then began running his left hand up and down her right arm.
He wondered if she felt the same feeling on her skin he did on his hands. It was like an artificial liquid, which left no residue of wetness, greasiness or stickiness. It seemed to draw the skin of his hand into her skin, only to come away clean as a whistle, with no adhesive effect. It felt like boundaries were exploded, yet everything was held inside, safe as houses. And it was making him insanely horny.
For one brief, insane second he felt that if he were to just lunge at her, he could dive into her, as if she were a pool. For all he knew, the fabric could accommodate that. But he'd received explicit instructions, so he figured he'd keep everything skin-level, for now.
He took his right finger and placed it just below her neck, on her spinal column. Then he drew his finger down her spine slowly, to just past her tailbone, right at the cleft of her ass, then pulling it away. She shivered at thet, and made no protest as he guided her to lie on her stomach. This acquiescence was rewarded by his hands rubbing at her back, rubbing lower and lower until they'd made their way to her buttocks, which had been Arthur's destination all along.
Her ass was such an ideal mixture of muscle and fat that it almost brought tears to Arthur's eyes. In his experience, plump arses felt the best, whether grabbed in one's hands or lain against in the dark of night. But there were drawbacks, mostly visual.
Fat rear ends seemed to have a less than symmetrical appearance, the adipose simply didn't tend to arrange itself beneath the skin in a firm and taut manner. Also, some complections seemed ill-served by a visible layer of fat, rendering particularly the lightest and darkest of skin tones blotchy, further enhancing the asymmetrical appearance.
And there was the unfortunate creasing that occurred when pressure and a less than smooth surface were applied against the buttocks for too long. Although minor irritations at best, these things were noticeable, and he had never been able to not see them as flaws, albeit insignificant ones.
One could teach one's self an appreciation of the more Rubenesque bottom, partly by developing an interest in Renaissance nudes, partly by constant reminders of the tactile pleasures such anatomies can bestow, remembering to feel first and see later, a feat that, in Arthur's experience, became easier with practice.
But every so often one came across a rump that truly embodied the best of both worlds, that gave just enough under pressure to allow the gentleman in question to truly feel he was taking possession, but betrayed not a hint of sag, that only bulged in a perfectly Callipygian fashion, that only betrayed marks when firmly smacked. Agnes had such an ass.
The fabric that adorned it was close to magical, so it is likely it would have looked luscious so displayed even were it on the dumpy side. But Arthur had happy memories of seeing it both unclad and filling a pair of white bikini panties, and this memory was perfectly in agreement with the way the silky, filmy stuff draped over it and the feel once his hands started vigorously kneading her firm, yet pliant cheeks.
As he massaged her buttocks, he slowly worked the material into the crack of her ass, allowing him to lightly probe her anus with his pinky every so often, which prompted several small squeals.
Wanting to mix things up, he rolled her on her back. He wanted to continue the slow teasing, but her breasts all but screamed out for his attention. He would give them at least a couple of minutes, he decided, as a reward to himself for what he felt had been admirable self-control.
He allowed himself a few seconds of simply cupping them, delighting in their heft and size. The fabric made the nipples glaringly visible, so he proceeded to attack them, first by means of gentle finger strokes, followed by firm, sharp tweaks, as they began to jut out prominently and she began whimpering more loudly.
He had to restrain himself firmly from lunging at them with his mouth, marveling at how immediate the impulse was. He decided it was best to leave them alone for a bit, hoping that other areas would allow him to keep his ardor at a lower burn.
Gently, almost religiously, he stroked her belly, relieved to see she seemed to be enjoying it. Too many women, in Arthur's opinion, would prefer to forget that part of their anatomy existed, especially if an inch or two of fat had found its way on there.
This...touchiness might have been part of what Arthur always loved about the belly; wives and girlfriends generally believed that access to the cunt, shameful as that body part might be, was something they owed to their men. The tummy, on the other hand, could and should be covered up as much as possible. So when a woman didn't mind her belly being stroked, tweaked or fondled, it always conveyed an intimacy or comfort level that made Arthur smile.
And of course, with some exceptional women, starting at the navel was a so-called happy trail that led enticingly down to her pubic mound. Although Agnes was sadly not one of these women, (unless she had been scrupulous about removing it up to now, and slow to grow it back) he could not help but think of the far too few times his fingers had been so happily guided, and smile. (Something about this particular encounter was making Arthur alarmingly happy; it was a relief to look down and see that Agnes seemed to share his mood.)
In his mind, he replayed John Cleese's admonition not to go "stampeding for the clitoris," and decided to take himself a bit lower, the object being to work his way up, of course. He was surprised Agnes hadn't moved them into Phase Two already; he guessed that ordinarily she was more of a slow-burner than she'd displayed in the past few days; plus she appeared to be enjoying herself, and he certainly didn't want to throw a wrench into those works, so he'd keep easing his way into things.
Best to spend some time with her legs. Of course, the leg is a far more powerful erogenous zone when one is in a public or semi-public setting, simply because it can be accessed in a clandestine fashion provided the object of one's affections is in reasonable proximity. Putting one's hand deliberately on another's leg, particularly the thigh area, is at once blatantly sexual yet somehow not the least bit obscene.
This is one area the Victorians were dead-on about. Even to say "legs" was indecent. Anything with legs, such as a chair or piano bench, was fair game for putting a skirt on, which of course made them even sexier, to the point that the merest glimpse of an ankle was enough to send men into a frenzy.
Arthur, being in a fully private area with an openly consenting partner, was not granted quite the charge he would have gotten sitting in a theater box in 1905, giving a quick squeeze to his oh-so-proper companion, risking her bringing the bobbies running if she decided to protest, so he was forced to make do with the current situation.
Of course, the female leg still possesses inherent charms even in the absence of brutal repression. They are pleasing to look at, the inner thighs are quite sensitive and make excellent erogenous zones, and they inexorably lead to the vulva, which is useful to remember if one happens to get lost from time to time.