Love in the Age of Chemicals Ch. 04

"And this," I said, thrusting into her. "This feels so unreal. So perfect... Your body does that: it grips me, it lubricates itself for my entry, it even manages to give you the opportunity of finding pleasure in the act."

As I continued thrusting slowly, pensively, Miranda moved my hand downwards again and showed me where and how to rub her. "Yes," she said, "but not without some assistance." As her hand lightly guided mine, she whispered, "Kind of like that, but push down a little more on th- oh! OH! - on this area. But not too much. You'll know what's working if you just keep listening."

Then, leaving my hand to its task, she pulled my other hand down to cup her breasts. I couldn't believe I had almost forgotten her breasts, so consumed was I with thoughts of what newly-revealed wonders were residing below them.

"Same thing," she whispered. "Gentle motions, but a little extra attention on the nipples sometimes. Too much makes them hurt. You can't really use your mouth on them in this position, but you can find other things to - ooohh..." Her last comment was cut off when my nose pushed past her hair and gave my lips access to the back of her neck. I saw goose bumps form on her arm and knew that was probably a good sign.

It was hard to keep everything in mind all at once, and so Miranda helped by thrusting back steadily whenever my concentration elsewhere made my hips stall. I listened intently for indication that my hands were succeeding. Soon, the whole endeavor slowed down until we were barely moving. Very small hip motions maintained my firmness insider her, but for a while, we were both content to just hold and be held. And as we did so, the sensation of her skin all along my body - from neck to feet - came to the forefront of my senses. We held that position for several long minutes. One body held together tenuously, threatening to fall back into two parts if they did not perpetually press together.

"You were right, Dear," I told her.

"I usually am," she whispered, and I could picture her smile. She reached her arm back to pull my face close enough for a kiss. I wished our lips could continue that way without spraining our neck muscles, but that was one sacrifice required of us in this position. "What in particular was I right about?"

"Spooning without clothes," I answered. "It's much better."

A small laugh became a loud, happy outburst. As it did, Miranda pushed back against me with determined force. "Use your hand, Puppy, I'm close," she suddenly whimpered. I did as requested, giving inconsistent pressure to certain sensitive spots, responding to the cries and gasps those touches elicited. Suddenly, she clenched my hand that was holding her breast and pushed down on it with more force than I thought could be pleasurable. And yet her breathing grew ragged and her cries announced how close she was.

"Push, Deke! Push harder!" she whined, tightening her walls around me and bucking back so hard I feared to mess up the rhythm. And yet I responded as my instincts dictated, tightening my grip on her body and using that grip to force her repeatedly against me. In the frenzy of lust, I was quickly overtaken by my own release. Abandoning my duties to Miranda, I grabbed whatever my hands could find to use as leverage to reach my goal. She flailed in my arms, unable to adjust or move or continue her own pursuit while mine was nearing its end.

Holding one arm around her belly, I thought briefly of this furious state in which a life begins. I thought how Miranda was at the same time a sacred entity and a mindless object. In the same moment, I revered her and also constrained her body to my will. When else but in the act of sex did such a high and such a low view of another human coexist?

Then I felt that unbearable, straining tension followed by violent release. The sweat forming between her back and my chest: lubricating our bodies, mixing our fluids. Her cries, distant and unheeded as blood rushed in my eardrums. Her tunnel milking my seed into her womb. Her spasms in my arms as her body lurched forward. I was calming down; she was still frantic in the midst of orgasm. We had reached our peaks nearly together, each one's pleasure fueling the other's.

She was saying my name, whispering it over and over as she tried to breathe normally. Groping about for my hands or arms or something to hold on to. Something to assure her that I was there - all of me. I touched her shoulder with my lips and delighted in the saltiness of her skin.

"Right here, Darling," I whispered, equally breathless. "I'm right here with you."

She exhaled loudly and relaxed.

"Thank you," she said, her voice just above a whisper. "Thank you for taking care of me tonight... and for showing me how beautiful you think I am."

In response, I pulled her closer, my length still hard inside her, and I kissed just below her ear, feeling her pulse as I did so.

*******

We lay that way for some time. I softened but did not entirely slip out of her. When I came close to doing so, a slight push of my hips kept me sufficiently encased in her folds. I listened as her breathing returned to normal, then became slow and steady. She lay so still and quiet, I wondered if she had fallen asleep, my hand rubbing her belly. Wanting to act on an impulse that seemed proper, I called her name softly.

"Hmm?" she answered dreamily.

"I wonder if... since you shared a personal story with me this evening... if you'd want to hear a personal story of my own." I felt her muscles tighten. "One that... maybe helps me understand just one aspect of the pain you've experienced. But if you're sleepy, we can talk another time."

She was silent for a moment, long enough for me to wonder if I had suggested something inappropriate. Then her softest voice spoke into the room and said, "Deke... I don't think I want anything more in the world right now than to hear that story."

I clenched my jaw and took a deep breath. It was not one I had ever told anyone, and I wasn't sure how or where to begin.

*******

I finished high school at age 14 and went on to college. I have always been as academically gifted as I am socially challenged. I never pursued friendships - neither in high school nor in college. My studies were always paramount, and my high scores reflected that commitment. After earning my undergraduate degree in three years, I went on to graduate studies. I turned 18 that first year, and there was a group of undergraduate students who seemed to take a social interest in me, even though they were several years my senior. They invited me to certain events and parties - invitations I declined in favor of my research.

But they were persistent. And one day, they gave me no chance to refuse, practically forcing me into a car with them. There was much joking and explicitly sexual conversation that made me quite uncomfortable. We went into a house off-campus for a "party," though I was ushered immediately down to the basement. Against my will I was forced onto a chair and bound to it. There was little light and a lot of laughter.

My pants were pulled down and the belt secured around the chair legs, restricting my movement. After a few minutes of screaming and pleading and insisting on my release, I heard the door open again, and another figure was brought into the basement. She was thrown to the ground in front of me with the command to "suck it." She screamed and pleaded as well, but our cries were met with laughter.

The goal, I later determined, was our mutual humiliation. The poor girl was accused of unfaithfulness to her ex-boyfriend (who stood there orchestrating our ordeal). I was targeted for failing the previous year to assist some of these young men in their efforts to pass a certain math course without completing the work - an offense I only dimly recalled.

So with threats of physical punishment and other consequences ("It's him or all of us" I think they said to her), they forced her to... to perform oral sex on me. I found no pleasure in it, even though my body betrayed me and responded according to instinct. I don't recall the sensations of her mouth on me. I only remember her tears and panicked expression. How she gagged and slobbered and wept. I don't know how long she was made to endure her punishment. It felt like ages. And when we thought they had finished their sadistic game, they ordered her to "pull down her pants and sit on it."

She nearly collapsed with grief and pleaded with them to let her go. She apologized frantically for things I'm sure she hadn't even done. With threats of worse things to come if she didn't obey, they compelled her to remove her pants, but by then I had lost any semblance of arousal. They mocked me and called me "homo" and other such things. In truth, I was relieved - for her sake as well as for mine. They made her sit on my lap and move around in some misguided effort to excite me, but it would never have worked. The two of us sat there in tears until the main instigator finally got bored with it all and sent us away in disgust.

The young lady and I had to walk the five kilometers back to campus together, never saying a word to each other the whole time. She wept most of the way. Neither of us reported the incident, though I saw her once on campus subsequently that semester (but she did not see me), and I overheard her talking to someone about her upcoming transfer to another school. A few of the young men were later that year dismissed because of charges related to hazing as well as some alcohol violations. I was glad to know they would be gone, even if I felt like their punishment was insufficient for the scope and nature of their unreported crimes.

I tried to forget that night, and it was that desire to forget that fueled much of my graduate research afterwards. Though my final topic landed elsewhere, I began by seeking ways to chemically alter or erase specific memories in laboratory mice. My hope was to someday be able to expunge that night from my own memory. So in a way, that incident was responsible for ten years of productive research and at least one major discovery in the field of neurochemistry. Perhaps that's too nice a spin to put on it, but I don't think I would have pursued this direction otherwise.

*******

In telling my story, I became so engrossed in seeing and recalling the events that I nearly lost track of where I was in the present. When I finished, I listened to see if Miranda was still awake in my arms. My soft penis had finally slipped out of her grip and rested gently between us. My one hand still rested on her belly, the other gently holding her breast as my arm supported her from beneath. It was getting uncomfortable, but I had no desire to move.

Miranda sniffed in the dark and rubbed her face on the pillow. Rolling over until she was facing me, I could see she was freshly crying.

"Oh my God, Deke," she said hoarsely. "You've been holding that in for twelve years?"

"I haven't necessarily been 'holding it in,'" I objected. "I just haven't spoken of it. There was never an occasion to."

"Baby, that's honest-to-goodness trauma," she said, touching my cheek. "I know you process everything differently from most people, but have you considered seeing a counselor or something? Maybe someone who specializes in... you know... people like you?"

I sighed, not wanting to rehash this argument again. "Counselors deal with the veneer, the labels we give to what we don't explain scientifically. I'd rather see a neurochemist."

She closed her eyes and didn't respond immediately. Then, changing the topic a bit, she asked, "And you said that this helps you understand my story a bit?"

"If I can say so without minimizing or making light of your story, yes," I replied. "The forced sexual activity, specifically in a first sexual encounter. The... uh... shame felt afterwards. The hurt felt after being so poorly treated." I paused. "Maybe it's not much, but I think..."

"You're right," she interjected. "I think you do know a little about what I've been through. Thank you."

"Say that again," I told her.

"Say what?"

"Tell me I'm right," I said. "You don't admit that enough."

My eyes having adjusted to the darkness, I could make out the details of Miranda's face next to mine. Her eyes narrowed, then widened in amazement. "Why, Deacon Kirsch, I do believe you're teasing me."

I responded with a smile. Miranda responded by taking my face in her hands and giving me a passionate kiss. When she had finished, she rolled out of bed and trotted to the bathroom. She returned a moment later and hopped back under the covers. When I curled up behind her, she wiggled around, feeling our skin touching at so many different points.

"Still naked?" she asked me, her voice surprised.

"Just this once," I warned her.

"I'll take what I can get," she replied. Then as we settled in, my arm around her, our flesh passing warmth back and forth, she whispered, "Happy New Year, Puppy."

"I hope so," I whispered back.

*******