Jungle Love

Jungle Love, or The Silk Scarf Interludes

Turning and turning in the widening sunlight, Saxby Chambers tossed her suitcase on the white matelass coverlet of the bed, and opened the louvered shutters opening onto the porch. Her bungalow was perfect, isolated by a winding gravel path and opening onto a rainforest view of hundreds of brilliantly colored butterflies fluttering in the trees. On the porch was a woven hammock, and given the seclusion of her cabin, she could lounge au naturel if she wanted and was careful to avoid rope burns.

No, Saxby Chambers was not the daughter of Marilyn Chambers, and she was tired of answering the question. She had looked at photographs of the young Chambers. Saxby had the same lean, shapely figure, the same fresh, innocent mien. Not that Saxby had ever seen "Behind the Green Door" or any other such Politically Incorrect movie. Or would admit to it.

Yes, there were times when Saxby grew weary of her name. She was tired of telling people she did not play the sax. If one more fellow in a smoke-filled bar called her "Sexby," violence would not be out of the question. But she had to be fair, even to male chauvinist pigs. She knew men would wonder how sex would be with Saxby.

Saxby went into the tiled bathroom and turned on the Jacuzzi. Turned on. Those were appropriate words. She stood up, stretched like a jungle cat, then began to remove her embroidered demi-bra. As the delicate fabric fell away from her body, she caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. The years of aerobic (not to mention isometric) exercise had molded her body into a firm, athletic creation. Even the fleeting moment of self-admiration caused her nipples to begin to swell. Or all moments fleeting? No matter, she ran her fingers over the left nipple, lazily flicking a thumb over it, sighing involuntarily. Slowly, almost playfully, she undid the side-tie thong. Even more slowly, she removed it. It fell gently to the floor, as if reluctant to release its contact with her supple form.

She stepped in, squeezing some scented body wash onto her sponge and running it over her svelte, supple legs. She paid special attention to her toes, and indulged herself in her recurring fantasy of having them licked and kissed. Would she ever find a lover who realized that sensuality was not only ankle-deep? Before long, she was knee-deep in sub-ankle dreams. In those dreams, a Valentino-like figure hovered over her toes, his swarthy countenance bending toward them. She hoped the dream-figure was not Saddam Hussein, but then nobody knew where he was.

Out of the bath, into the hammock, Saxby picked up her Catherine Coulter book, took a look at it, and tossed it off the porch into the jungle. Did she have a tendency to litter? Oh no, she knew the paperback would swiftly biodegrade in the humidity. She thought she heard a waterfall in the distance, which sparked another fantasy. Feeling restless, she eased out of the hammock and wandered back into the bedroom to begin unpacking. The first items to come out of the suitcase were her silken scarves. Arranging them in the dresser, her eyes strayed to the posts of her bed. Four posts. The posts looked large and strong.

Saxby thought back to the stories told by her friend, Susan Harriman. Ah, that Susan was a wild child. Susan had a degree in psychology, but was uninterested in studying for a Ph.D. in that subject. And so, like many others, Susan sought employment in a bureaucracy. There, lost in tedium, she was soon bored. Her mind turned to her real interest, which was sexual exploration. She did not long to translate, like Richard Burton (no, not that Burton). Susan longed for experience rather than scholarship.

Saxby was certain that Susan's stories were far more accurate than those filed by Jayson Blair of The New York Times. Susan told her about asking a guy to assist in her explorations. Susan had asked this fellow, John, to tie her with silk scarves and to use her little 12" toy whip to gently tease her to multiple orgasms. At first, John was reluctant, concerned about the feminist ideal of freedom. But his position, no matter how noble, could not be defended. Susan was determined. She promised that there would be no actual knots, that she would be free to move. She promised sensual afternoons in which both of them would have delicious multiple orgasms. And thus it was arranged.

Enough. At least for now. The images whirled through Saxby's head. She would think no more of Susan's adventures. At least for a while. Either Saxby was going to have to go to the beach to check out fellow travelers that afternoon or she was going for a long ride on horseback in the jungle. She couldn't decide.

But the warm sun caressed her skin, the hammock swayed slightly in the breeze, and Saxby did not move. Unbidden, Saxby's mind turned again to Susan's stories of her afternoons with John. What were those afternoons like? Susan had told it all. On the morning of a scheduled meeting, Susan would feel the tension increase. Soon, her body would tremble with pleasure.

At the meeting place, Susan would slowly remove her outer clothing, revealing tantalizing demi-bras. John was not affected by such bras, unless one counted the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss them. Susan would slowly remove her skirt, revealing g-strings no more substantial than one would find in an old Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue. She would walk around the room thus attired, selecting a TV channel, getting a glass of ice water, knowing his eyes were upon her. Finally, she would seek his help in removing her undies, knowing as she did that the only proper way for a g-string to be removed was for a fellow to grasp it in his teeth. The method sounded harsh, but in reality it was quite gentle.

Susan would ask to have the silk scarves loosely "tied" around her ankles and wrists, then draped around the bedposts. Susan could easily undo them at any time, but she liked the "psychological drama" (her words). Then John was asked to shave her. Patiently, he assembled the water, a warm towel, and shaving cream. She flinched and laughed as the shaving cream made contact. Sometimes John created a thin landing strip. Or a tiny triangle with its base an inch above her clitoris. As an outlet for creative energy, it was matchless.

As he labored, brow furrowed in concentration, she would shiver involuntarily with the tension. The warm water, the shaving cream, the gliding razor, and the sense of exposure combined to tease her unbearably. And, given her vulnerable position on the bed, she was left to wonder if he would find it necessary to test the smoothness of his handiwork with kisses, thereby giving her an initial orgasm.

As the hammock moved, Saxby could not rid her mind of Susan's 1001 wicked tales. She knew that, on other occasions, Susan had asked John to pretend to secure her face-down on the bed. Sure, the knots were loose and she could remove the scarves at any moment with a flick of the wrist. But Susan said she felt no desire to remove them. Face-down on the bed, Susan would have John slowly rub baby oil over her shoulders, her back, her ankles, her thighs. And then (not fearing the baby oil because it might preserve his skin and prevent it from ending up as ravaged as the skin of Tommy Lee Jones) John would kiss the backs of her thighs. At Susan's request, he would administer gentle little taps on her hips with the mini-whip. He watched her shapely hips writhe, at first fleeing the little strands, then seeking their taunting little touches. Susan liked to remain poised on the edge of orgasm, wondering what would cause her next spasm of pleasure.

But did John ever kiss Susan's toes? No, he began by kissing her ankles, then journeyed in a northern direction. Never once did he even think of kissing her foot. His toe competence was not on a strong footing. John's eyes did dilate at Susan's bag of toys, and at her brazenness in bringing them along. But he liked the fact that Susan aggressively sought her own pleasures. He concurred with her argument that, if Hitler and Stalin had enjoyed better sex lives, millions of lives might have been spared. Who said there were no lessons in history?

As the sun penetrated the triple canopy of the jungle, it grew warmer in the hammock. Saxby thought again of Susan's stories of her bag of toys. Susan, who, with the aforementioned bag of toys, often reminded Saxby of a sexual Santa Claus, except that she was not white-bearded, fat, or even, in fact, male. True, there were parts of her body that did shake like a bowl full of jelly, but in some cultures, Saxby reflected, that might even be considered an asset.

As the sun's warmth fell across her thighs, Saxby imagined it was the hands of a lover caressing them. She let her mind wander, thinking of his rough, yet elegant caresses. As she let the images take total control of her imagination, she focused on a frangipani vine entwined around a post of the porch, the blossoms reminding her of a Georgia O'Keeffe painting. As she touched herself, she imagined herself sinking down into the voluptuous, arching petals. She closed her eyes and let her fingers move lightly over her body, brushing the slightly convex surface of her tummy, just grazing her turgid nipples. She writhed slightly, thinking of a lover's tongue, flicking in and out of her navel, teasing her to the point of erotic frenzy. What need did she have of toys, given her fevered imagination and her lush, willing body? Still, she'd like to see what kind of mileage she could get out of the Insatiable G Vibrator she'd viewed at a sex toy site.

Her body trembling, Saxby thought again of Susan's stories. After Susan had experienced her first orgasm, she would delve into her bag of delights and pull out her strand of tiny anal beads on a black nylon string. Susan believed that the added sensation was too intense for an initial orgasm, but enjoyed adding a little extra zest to later ones. John admired her ability to prioritize her orgasmic potential. Yet he was also distracted as he watched her stretch the beads out on a towel, pour oil over them, slowly roll over on her tummy, and then begin to insert one. He saw her hips flex and twist in pleasure, heard her involuntary gasps of pleasure.

Although the conventional use of such beads was to withdraw them at the apex of pleasure, Susan had arrived at the belief that keeping them in during orgasm maximized their potential to heighten pleasure. When, at long last, she had enough beads in position and could tolerate no additional teasing, Susan would ask, her voice husky with passion, for an ordinary white vibrator (buzzing insistently with D batteries) to be gently teased across her shaven labia. Obedient to her every command (as all men should be), John would conduct this procedure slowly, deliberately delaying her orgasm to intensify it, waiting until she could wait no longer.

As Saxby reflected, tiny drops of perspiration dotted her lightly tanned skin. Technology had advanced in the ten years since Susan had first assembled her bag of toys. Inspired, Saxby had checked web sites and found that modern manufacturers produced Jelly Love Beads without the connecting string. If memory served (and Saxby's attention level was high on this point), the superbly sensuous 10 " strands of jelly beads made the perfect addition to any sensuous encounter. She scoffed at Ronald Reagan's jelly beans.

Were the Jelly Love Beads difficult for Saxby to find on the web site? Yes. First she looked in vibrators, then the subcategory anal, then in vibrating plugs/probes/beads/balls, and on page 2 she encountered success. Regularly priced at $8.95, they were on sale for two dollars less.

Saxby speculated. She wondered, purely in scientific terms, what would happen if she combined the above-cited Jelly Love Beads with the Insatiable G. Saxby knew that the Insatiable G was a beautifully designed vibrator made of purple jelly, with an insertable G-spot arouser offering breathtaking pressure while the nubbed clitoral stimulator fairly waltzed. She wondered if she could bear the pulsating blend of sensations as they coaxed the user to orgasm after orgasm.

Then Saxby considered the opposite approach. In stark contrast to Susan's efficient and oily path to ecstasy, Saxby remembered the guy with whom she had engaged on a regular basis in hours and hours of tantric sex, though that, too, could incorporate the use of toys. She recalled being lightly teased with a feathery puff, her partner dipping the brush into a jar of cinnamon-flavored body dust, then stroking it on her body, just enough to create increasingly heightened levels of pleasure whenever the feathers brushed against her body. 45 minutes of cinnamon body dusting and Saxby was audibly whimpering, more than ready for the next tantric pleasure.

She could never decide which she preferred, the body dust or the multi-flavored pack of nipple nibblers. Either was fine, actually, and just because the label deemed them "nipple nibblers", Saxby was not averse to using them elsewhere on the body. She was a free spirit, not to be constrained by the rigid dictums of sex gel labelers.

She had been particularly disposed toward the mint body gel, as it fit right in with the tantric credo of prolonging sensation. When she and her partner became so hot they could easily have burst into flames like mythological phoenixes, the arousal gel cooled things off a bit, and Saxby felt a slow burn, not unlike what she'd felt when doing the Jane Fonda workout in the 80's, except infinitely more pleasurable and just as aerobic.

Saxby fanned herself. But enough of sex toy nostalgia--it was time to hit the beach. She rolled lightly out of the hammock, but once again, the bright butterflies fitting through the trees sparked a memory, that of the butterfly position. Not the Venus Butterfly immortalized by Stu Markowitz on L.A. Law, but the the one from the Kama Sutra that had the woman on back, feet on man's shoulders as he stood in front. That, in turn, reminded her of her Victoria's Secret butterfly mesh thong, and she turned to her suitcase, images whirling in her head, feeling as reckless and devil-may-care as Paul Wolfowitz with a news reporter in front of him.