A Rose for Laurel

“Say you’ll have lunch with me under the oak,” she whispered.

A gush of air was flipping the pages on the stand, as my fingers were slipping one by one from the keyboard. I remember sitting in a stall of the restroom afterwards and slipping my fingers under the waist band of my panties. Creeping over the bushy curls, they encountered the ones that had become moist. I then quickly withdrew them and wondered, how could I have been thinking of Laurel in that way? How could I have let myself lose control? But I had been thinking of Laurel and had become so very aroused, by her hand on my shoulder, her fingers on my neck, the sweet taste of her lips in mine, and the passionate words she had whispered in my ear.

Nervously and uncontrollably, I was letting my fingers slip a second time under the waist band and finding once more the moist curls, then hesitating before moving further down. I remember it feeling like stepping into a warm bath, as my fingers then tasted the sopping labia and my mind engaged itself with thoughts of Laurel. With my eyes closed, I then slowly and gently caressed the extended clitoris under its sheaf. The music of it was like a thick string being strummed repeatedly deep under my skin with its sound resonating throughout my belly and thighs, while reverberating notes of a melody were floating high in my head. I was quivering with delight, as I quickly slid the panties toward my knees and continued to stroke my clit with steadier emphasis. I was trying desperately to chase the notes before they could fade, but then they suddenly returned with an undeniable vengeance. A counterpoint melody soon followed, then another melody on top of that, then another and another and . . . Feeling the onset of orgasm, I gripped and twisted the panties, as my body tensed. Suddenly, I was being overwhelmed with waves of sweet symphonic inundations. But I dared not cry out. Instead, I tilted my head back and clinched my teeth, letting the warm liquid drip from my dangling fingers as the music faded into silence. Only then, after straining a deep sigh, did I release my hold on the elastic fabric.

I then whispered to myself, “Yes, my dear Laurel! You may have me . . . for lunch . . . under the oak!”

From that day, I began spending more time with Laurel, having lunch with her each day under the oak in the Square, shopping with her on weekends, listening to her rehearse on Thursday evenings. She told me of the many places where she had been, the people she had met and performed with or learned from, the many accolades and admirers. She said that the critics had dubbed her “The Grey Butterfly,” because of the way her hands seemed to “flutter” over the keyboard.

“And what about Elise?” she would often ask while stroking my hair. “What secret memories lie hidden behind those pretty green eyes? What mysterious pasts and forbidden encounters?”

“Well, nothing like that,” I would say with a chuckle. “Just the usual stuff, kind of dull and average.”

“Not so average,” Laurel would say, “to my mind, at least. I sense a passion, a daring, something not yet set loose, but waiting for the right moment, the right touch to make it come alive.”

It was the way she persisted that made me want to believe her. I often found myself after a shower, staring into the full-length mirror on the closet door, trying to see myself with Laurel’s eyes. I would pull loose the strap and let the bathrobe fall open, then spread the flaps further till more had been revealed. But the breasts would just hang there plainly, and the wedge of dark curls at the base of the belly would hold no special appeal. At such times I thought that perhaps I had misunderstood, perhaps there had been something more that was being overlooked. What that something was seemed always to elude me, until that one morning in early August when long slender fingers would caress the bud of my rose and coax it to peep open.

I remember a thick fog hanging over the university lake that morning, as Laurel draped her long slender fingers over and around my hand. She had told me how she liked going for long walks early in the morning and had asked if I wanted to join her. When she picked me up in her car one Sunday before dawn, she was wearing a tight-fitting jumpsuit, burgundy with white trim, a sharp contrast to the plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants I wore. We casually walked hand in hand along the paved track that followed the lake’s shore, my hand in hers of course, neither of us saying anything. Laurel seemed so sure of where we were going, that I felt like I was merely following along.

After a few moments of walking, I could feel her caressing the backs of my fingers with her thumb, occasionally inserting it between the two middle fingers and stroking them length-wise. The gesture seemed rather peculiar, but at the same time strangely stimulating. When I reciprocated by caressing her fingers, it caused her hand to tighten its hold and her thumb to increase its rubbing and penetration. This in turn led me to increase my stroking, as well. I felt my breathing becoming more labored as our hands continued their intertwining. We quickened our pace, hurrying to I knew not where. Suddenly, the early morning stroll had become a passion-filled dash. When we came to a small pier to which a row boat was tied, Laurel stopped abruptly and gasped, pulling me close to her.

“Oh, Elise!” she said. “A boat! Let’s take it and go out onto the water.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it belongs to someone.”

“Then why would they leave it here,” she asked, “if not to share its use with others?”

Laurel quickly walked to the end of the pier, dragging me with her. She easily stepped into the boat, while I was more cautious, holding onto the pier and carefully setting my feet in one at a time.

“Untie us from the pier, Elise,” said Laurel.

I slipped the rope from the post and no sooner had seated myself, when Laurel was stroking the water with the oars. The shore disappeared behind the bleak fog, as Laurel moved us further out into the lake.

“This is so much more fun than walking,” she said. “Don’t you think, Elise?”

“It would be nicer, if we could see where we’re going,” I said.

“But the mystery of not knowing, Elise,” she said, “that makes it so much more exciting, so much more intriguing.”

Laurel smiled and stared at me as she repeatedly extended her arms and drew the handles of the oars close to her body. I felt as though I was being abducted. Our earlier hand wrestling still had my heart pounding, not knowing what to expect next. After several more strokes, Laurel stopped rowing.

“My arms are already tired,” she said. “Would you like to row some?”

“But I’ve never done it before,” I said.

“It’s easy,” she said. “Just come and sit between my legs and I’ll show you.”

I crawled over the middle seat and turned, holding onto the sides of the boat. Laurel made room for me on her seat, and I settled between her legs.

“Now take the handles,” she said, “and I’ll guide you for awhile.”

The handles of the oars seemed large in my hands. Laurel placed her hands over mine and helped me lift their ends out of the water. As we extended our arms and settled the ends back down, she leaned her body more into mine. Drawing the handles toward my chest, I felt the weight of the water in my hands and Laurel pulling my body closer to hers.

With a calming voice, she said, “just relax and breathe deeply with each stroke.”

She inhaled with me as we once more pulled on the oars. Then, we exhaled together, before attempting another stroke. Soon, I was rowing the boat alone, as Laurel rested her hands on my shoulders and began massaging them.

“You’re doing fine, Elise,” she said. “Just loosen up a bit and keep breathing.”

I felt a slight soreness growing in my arms, but Laurel’s hands seemed to be soothing the muscles, and I began to feel more relaxed as the rowing became easier. As I continued rowing, Laurel slipped her arms around my waist and held me close. She continued to breathe with me, squeezing my body slightly with each inhaling, sighing into my ear with each exhaling. I began to shiver in the cool damp air, but somehow felt comforted within the warm embrace of Laurel’s body. She then placed her hands over mine and slowed the movement of the oars.

“Let’s let the boat drift for awhile,” she said.

My hands slipped from the handles and laid on my knees. I was breathing heavily from the exertion. My arms felt weak, and my head felt light. Laurel then took my hands in hers and drew them close to my waist. The eddies forming at the back of the boat twirled softly, as the fog closed in behind.

“Let’s leave the cares of the world behind us,” said Laurel, “and let the boat take us where it will. We’ll let ourselves become lost in the fog and forget who we once were.”

“Yes,” I found myself almost unconsciously saying, “we’ll drift into a world of dreams and forgetfulness, losing ourselves in the timeless mists of dawn. Our souls merging with . . .”

“Why, Elise!” said Laurel. “But I should have known you were the poetical type. Share some more of your beautiful words with me.”

“But I’m not really sure where that came from,” I said, blinking my eyes. “And I’m not sure if I can do it again.”

“In time,” she said, “it’ll come again.”

In the middle of the fog-filled lake, I had been on the verge of opening my heart to Laurel, of letting myself go. The words had seemed to flow so easily, but for some reason the valve had been shut and the threatening surge abated. My inability to continue made me wonder if I had let her down again, but then I felt her hand on my cheek and my hair being drawn away from my neck. Her lips were pressed lightly against the base of my neck, then higher up, then just under my ear. My pulse was quickening in response, anticipating more whispered words to be scattered and consumed.

“Oh, Elise,” she whispered, “you have such beauty hidden within you. If only you would reveal more of it to me. If only you would let me . . .”

I felt her hand slowly sliding down my neck to my chest then over one of my breasts, cupping it within her palm, her fingers closing around it and squeezing slightly. I felt both stunned and stimulated by the gesture, and when she brought her other hand up and cupped the other breast, the two hands gently constricting in unison, I thought I was going to pee on myself. But somehow I knew that was not it. The sureness of her hands was causing a warm and electrifying sensation to flow over my skin, culminating in a tingling at the base of my spine that then shot between my legs. There was a sudden contraction like just before orgasm, and I almost hated myself for wanting it to happen, for not even caring if it stained my pants.

Laurel’s lips were on my neck again, devouring more of my skin, as her hands continued their kneading of my breasts. I felt as though I were trapped in her embrace, even though I was not actually physically confined. But in my mind, there was a struggle all the same. Part of me wanting to break free, urging resistance and disallowance, while the other half held me still and told me to get use to it, reminding me that after all, this is what I had been craving all along.

One of her hands then rested on my thigh and began tracing the inner seam of my pants, moving toward where all the seams met. There her fingertips lightly stroked up and down along the crotch seam, sending electrical charges through the fabric and over the skin of the labia. She kept stroking the seam and pressing more firmly inward, causing the charge to penetrate to the inner lining of my vagina. I gasped, as my insides began to ripple and constrict. I shut my eyes tightly, feeling my whole body being lifted from the seat. Then, something cold and soft brushed across my uplifted forehead.

Opening my eyes, I saw long strands of leaf clusters slide over me then drag along the bottom of the boat. I was looking up into the dark hanging branches of a willow tree descending and passing over us. Laurel’s hands settled on my shoulders and her warm breath was against my cheek, as she again whispered softly into my ear.

“Have you ever wanted to swim naked under the hanging branches of a willow?”

My eyes widened and I quickly crawled away from Laurel to the middle seat. When I turned to face her, she laughed. At first I thought she was just joking, but then she slipped off her shoes and unzipped the jumpsuit. As she began pulling it off, I could see that she was wearing no underwear. Before I knew what was happening, she stood up naked in the boat then very gracefully dived over the edge and into the water. After steadying the boat, I frantically looked all around for where she had gone. Laurel surfaced just beyond the edge of the hanging willow branches and waded back toward the boat.

“Dr. Grey!” I said, “what are you doing? Someone might see you!”

“Let them,” she said. “It’ll be so much more of a turn on, then. Why don’t you join me, Elise. We could continue where we left off.”

She stood up in the shallow water, letting it stream over and between her naked breasts. Her upper body seemed so alive, the firm yet delicate breasts heaving with each breath, the nipples erect from the cold water and so delectable to the eyes. She took some of the hanging branches in her arms and twirled herself around a couple of times with them, before falling backward into the water, laughing the whole way.

“I think we should be heading back,” I said. “The fog will be lifting soon, and people will be walking along the other shore.”

“Are you sure, Elise?” she asked. “The water’s not that cold.”

“Please, Dr. Grey,” I said. “Laurel, please don’t do this to me. I’d be so embarrassed.”

“Alright, Elise,” said Laurel with a smile. “You win.”

She then began to back stroke and quickly cleared the edge of the hanging branches.

“See you on the other side, Elise,” she called to me, as she splashed and disappeared into the fog.

There are those moments in your life, when you are tempted to do the extraordinary, but then you hesitate out of some fear. Like when someone drops a coin, and you are ready to bend over, pick it up and hand it back, but you don’t because you think they might accuse you of trying to steal from them. Or when you are driving and see someone on the side of the road with their thumb out, and you are tempted to pull over and give them a lift, but you don’t because you have heard all the horror stories of brutalized good Samaritans. Some call it self-preservation, being careful, learning from the mistakes of others. And there I was, sitting in the boat underneath the willow, gazing into the fog covering the lake and just within a heart beat of tearing my clothes off and jumping in after Laurel. I had never failed a test before in my entire life, until that morning.

I finally found the pier again. After aimlessly navigating through the endless fog and spotting its form jutting from the other shore, I carefully stirred toward the pier. After escaping the entanglement of the willow branches and struggling frantically with the oars, I reached the pier and managed to secure the boat. But Laurel was not there nor anywhere around. I gathered her shoes and jumpsuit in my arms and walked back and forth along the pier looking in the water for her.

“Laurel!” I called into the mist.

The fog was beginning to lift, and a pale light grew all around me.

“Laurel, where are you?” I called again.

A woman and her dog jogged along the track. She looked at me strangely as she passed. Thoughts crossed my mind of Laurel, exhausted from the rowing and the swim, helplessly sinking into the lake. I could already hear the campus security officer asking me, “ma’am, what were you two doing out there so early in the morning?” My heart was pounding, and sweat formed on my forehead. I was ready to break down right there on the pier, when I heard something both strange and wonderful. A woman’s voice singing in the distance, somewhere behind me.

“La, la, la, la, la, la, la, Elise. La, la, Elise, la, la, Elise,” the voice sang. The tune was a very familiar one, Beethoven’s “Fur Elise.” The other music students had always begged me to play it, teasingly saying that I should make it my theme music. I saw a slender figure coming through the glimmering mist, skipping toward me and flapping her arms. It was Laurel, naked, skipping and singing. She slowed to a walk as she drew near.

“Hello Elise,” she said, panting, shivering and dripping with water, and smiling. “Isn’t it such a wonderful morning? And here I am, sharing it with my most favorite student and friend.”

She took the jumpsuit from my arms and began toweling herself off.

“Laurel,” I said, “I was so worried. I thought something had happened to you.”

“You were worried?” asked Laurel. “About me?”

“When I didn’t see you,” I said, “I got scared. Scared that I had lost you.”

“Oh, my dear Elise,” said Laurel, drawing nearer to me. “My darling. That was so sweet of you, to be so worried about me. But I’m here now, my love.”

As she caressed my cheek, a drop of water dangled from her chin. I watched as it landed on her chest, rolled between her breasts, veered around her slender navel, then made a straight path to merge with the glistening patch of dark strands that wedged so nicely between her upper thighs. Her breasts were smaller than mine, and the pubic wedge was not as thick, allowing a more uninhibited view of her plump labia. Laurel then lifted my chin, leaned closer and pressed her warm, wet lips to mine. The kiss lasted several heart beats, and after releasing me with a light smack, she brushed my lips with a single stroke of her tongue. Such beauty had never met my eyes as that which stood before me in the pale golden light of morning.

“So now it is time again for the butterfly to slip back into her cocoon,” she said.

She stepped into the jumpsuit, and as she was lifting it up her legs, that’s when I saw it for the first time. I mean “it,” there inside her upper thigh and just inches below her vagina. The suit stopped at mid-thigh and drooped, as she turned her leg outward then glanced up at me. Flexing the muscle, she made the green, blue and violet wings of the tattoo flutter and shimmer in the pale light. A corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile.

“You do like butterflies,” asked Laurel, “don’t you, Elise?”

I stood there with my eyes fixed on the beautiful and hypnotic tattoo, until the suit was drawn over it. Finished dressing, Laurel then took my hand as we returned to her car.

Her long slender fingers were spread over my knee and squeezing it gently, as we sat in her car outside the apartments where I lived. I stared out the window, letting my legs part slightly, half wanting her to go there again.

“Is she there now?” asked Laurel. “Your roommate?”

“I don’t see her car,” I said, “so she must be out.”

“Would you like for me to come in?” she asked, moving her hand further up my thigh. “We have the rest of the morning.”

My pulse quickened, but then I clinched my teeth in defiance.

“She may come back soon,” I said and closed my legs tightly.

I turned toward the door and gazed at the sunlight streaming through the branches of some pine trees. Laurel’s hand was then on my shoulder. “What are you afraid of, Elise?” she asked. “Are you afraid she’ll walk in on us? Or are you afraid that I’ll walk out on you after we’re done? Which would be the harder to bear, the embarrassment or the hurt?”

“The madness,” I said.

“Are you afraid of losing control, Elise?” asked Laurel. “You know, it’s true that being an artist does require discipline, yes. But it also requires sacrifice. You must be willing to let go of yourself, to give yourself completely to the moment, before you can say that you have truly lived and loved.”