Passing Strange Ch. 03: Dragon Babe

I was on my way to pick up a climbing buddy for a weekend of free-style mountaineering and getting hammered on fine Irish peat monster.

I stupidly took a shortcut through Nowheresville. That's where my SUV broke down during a once-in-a-decade tropical storm. If the breakdown didn't screw up our plans, the storm certainly would. Only the kind of idiot who believes in black magic would go rock climbing in a tropical downpour.

According to the news radio, the storm had stalled over New England and in some places it was raining an inch an hour. Make that two-inches in Nowheresville. I pushed the climbing ropes and carabiners aside, curled up in my sleeping bag, and dreamed of the dragon.

"Pardon the interruption," he said. "I'll be brief."

He was an Eastern dragon. A skinny snakelike body, yellow reptilian eyes, and a human face with hair going salt-and-pepper around the temples without looking at all distinguished. Just old. Compared to a sleek and frightening Western dragon, he was homely at best. Butt-ugly also comes to mind. Imagine a wrinkled human head atop a wiggly Slinky toy.

"You don't have a cell phone with service, do you?" I asked. I do things like that when I'm dreaming.

"Sorry. But the first house on the right does. Now if you'll just relax, I've got a couple questions for your unconscious."

"Careful where you step," I told him. "My shrink says it's a sewer down there."

"I'll keep that in mind. Enjoy your nap."

'Such a polite dragon,' I thought, drifting deeper into sleep. Too bad he looks like a dick-head.

###

At dawn, a Victorian farmhouse becomes visible through the downpour. The garden appears as if Jack planted all his magic beans at once. Some of the oversized vegetation reaches the eves, at least 30 feet high.

If there's a Jack, maybe there's also a Jill? I'm always hopeful.

Don't get me wrong. There are women in my life. Perhaps too many women. Most have an agenda. They want a Sugar Daddy. As a mid-thirty-something, I'm too old for young love, and too young for a trophy companion. My friends say I'm on the cusp of becoming "a confirmed bachelor."

At the first letup in the storm, I run for the house. About half way, a wall of wind-driven rain almost knocks me off my feet. I'm soaked to the jock strap in about 30-seconds.

There is some kind of commercial sign at the driveway, but the rain is too heavy to read it. The doorbell sounds like a wind chime and the windows are fogged on the inside.

I'm leaning forward, trying to peer through the window when the door swings open and I find myself inches from the shapeliest part of a terry-cloth bathrobe.

The girl wearing the robe is agonizingly beautiful. Dirty blond hair, emerald green eyes and a Milky Way of pale freckles across the bridge of a slightly turned-up nose. She probably had once been the ugly duckling next door, or the Tom boy you barely tolerated.

That would have been about twenty years ago. Things are very different now.

Even before I hear the perfect modulation of her voice, I want her. Will go anywhere, do anything to be with her. If my life is a song, she's the missing melody. She's the long riff that begins in my libido and lights up the neural pathways of my brain like the Fourth of July.

"We open at Ten," she says in a voice as sweet as her smile. "Can you come back..." she starts to ask, before her face breaks into a broad and sympathetic grin. "Poor you," she says with genuine empathy. "You look like a drowned puppy."

"My ship sank about a mile down the road," I reply. "I had to swim."

"Well, get inside, sailor," she laughs. "I'll find some towels. I'm Lula, by the way."

"Rob," I say, but she's already half-way down the hall to the kitchen.

"Nice to meetcha, Rob" she calls out over her shoulder.

While Lula looks for towels, I drip on a floor mat.

Lula's place is spotless, the polished wood floors gleam like an Arizona sunrise.

On the right is a living room decorated as an old gentleman's club with winged-back Chesterfield chairs and a large nude oil painting over the fireplace, a reclining nude that looks a lot like Lula. There's an imposing 12-point buck head on the opposite wall. But there's no gingham, or chintz, family portraits, or anything dyed or painted pink or green. Refreshing as a cold pint of Guinness.

On the left, the dinning room has been recently subdivided. There's now a wall with three wood-paneled doors numbered one, two, and three. Not your typical Victorian dining room.

Lula reappears with two bath towels and an old cigar box. "Put your valuables in the box and give me your clothes," she tells me.

"Right here?" I ask, but understand why she doesn't want me dripping water on her hardwood floors.

"Yes, sailor. We're a clothing optional establishment."

I'm not sure what that means, but I do what she says. Despite being cold and soaked, Lula in her bath robe is so arousing that by the time I get my wet briefs off, I'm at half mast.

"Nice," she says, a sparkle in her eye. She kneels in front of my cock, taking it very gently in her fingertips and inspecting it closely. "A Goldie-Locks cock," she says looking up at me.

"Goldie Locks?" I'm confused, and shocked, and try not to study her nipples too closely since the top of her robe has pulled open and I'm looking directly down her milky white tits. Maybe she mistook my manhood for a Creamsicle? Loved those as a kid. Lick off the orange part to get at the creamy vanilla center.

"As in the 'Three Bears.' Not too big... not too small... just right," she giggles and stands up, letting go of my now very stiff willie. "Something like that."

"On the subject of fairy tales," I say, trying to hide my disappointment that Lula didn't slip my Goldie-Locks cock between her full, red lips while she had it inches away, even if it probably doesn't taste like a Creamsicle. "What's with the giant bean stalks outside?"

Anything for a distraction.

"Amazing garden, isn't it? Courtesy of the previous owner. A Vietnam vet who apparently had a bamboo fetish. Don't know anyone with a panda, do you?"

"Just the National Zoo. I didn't think bamboo grew this far north."

"Nobody else does either. Let's warm you up. Your lips are turning purple. Follow me."

Lula bundles up my wet clothes and I follow her to a laundry area next to the kitchen. She throws my stuff in the washing machine, adds some detergent and starts it. "In here," she says, swinging a door open and turning on the lights. "Face down."

There's some kind of waterproof-vinyl table and as I stretch out on it, I tuck my swollen cock under my stomach so it doesn't hang out between my legs. Lula turns some valves. An apparatus overhead shudders and bangs and a hot mist pours down on me.

When I glance over at Lula, she's as naked as a hypo-allergenic cat, and there's a big soapy brush in her hands. She still has a Tom-boy's toned muscles, but her body? Good god! Hard to imagine how it could be more perfect. Starting with ripe, up-thrust breasts. Not too big. Not too small. Everything else is in perfect proportion from there.

A little shiver passes down my spine as I relax into the soft, wet table top. Once in a while, I take a sideways peek at Lula while she works my back and legs with the soapy brush. Every time I look at her, my erection increases by a notch or two. Mostly, I keep my eyes closed and hope that if this is a dream, I never wake up.

Lula's skin is slightly tanned and flawless, except for a sprinkle of freckles across her chest. I imagine each of those freckles is a planet and wonder what it would be like to live on one the worlds on the edge of her tan line?

Lula has no tats on her arms, legs or torso. Just softly rippling muscles and the kinds of curves that will get you thrown out of class if you drew them in high-school geometry.

After the brush, Lula takes a natural sponge and wipes off the soap. She spreads my ass cheeks, ladles a little warm water into the crack, and runs the sponge all the way down to my balls. I moan. The happy, satisfied kind.

"You like that?" She doesn't really have ask. She grabs the ladle and does it twice more. 'This woman is just too good to be true,' I think. 'A heavenly angel.'

When Lula turns around, I catch a glimpse of her upper torso from the back. If my jaw could have dropped, it would have. On the back of each shoulder blade is faint scar about two-inches wide and six-inches long. Exactly where angel wings would have grown, if such a thing existed.

"What?" she asks, noticing my look of astonishment. "My scars?"

"You really are an angel!"

She laughs. "And when this rain stops we'll find a sunken ship a mile down the road. According to my mom, it was some kind birth defect that was fixed when I was still an infant."

"They may have clipped your wings, but you're still an angel to me."

"Stop it," she giggles. "I'm very flattered that you think that. But I'm no angel. Didn't you see the sign?"

"Couldn't read it in the rain."

"Oh, Rob," she laughs. "It says 'Lula's Holistic Asian Massage Parlor.' It's your lucky day, sailor. You've just been rescued by three hand-job whores in a massage parlor that's probably going see its slowest day of the year, unless this rain lets up."

"Three?"

"Suzi and Keiko are still asleep. And it's time for you to turn over."

I do as Lula tells me and she soaps my chest, and groin and legs with the brush. My cock is fully erect and stiff as rebar. When Lula's tiny fingers wrap around, it only gets harder. She tugs gently, and increases the rhythm until I can feel an ejaculation building.

For some reason I wonder if Lula fills out applications with the phrase "sex-worker?" Out of the blue, she slaps my cock. Hard. Maybe she's a mind-reader.

I howl in pain. "Sorry, Rob. Didn't want you shooting too soon. There's a house rule at Lula's. 'No copulating with customers.' But you're not a customer, are you?"

"Just a shipwrecked sailor with a damaged cock who washed in with the rain." At least I'm still rigid as a fence post. But any thought of orgasm faded as pain flooded my groin. But even after the surprise slap and the Asian massage parlor revelation, I still want Lula desperately.

Angel or whore. Lula is my missing melody.

"Let me make you feel better, sailor," she says, climbing on the table next to me, then lowering herself effortlessly onto my cock until our pubic bones are touching.

"No foreplay?" I ask? I also notice the door's been left open. But that's hardly a priority.

"No need. You're hard as a tire iron. And I've been horny since the storm woke me. You're the answer to a dirty girl's prayers."

"Ohhhhh," I moan as the hot, tight sheath of her Lula's vagina engulfs me and I feel a long, sad saxophone note pull at my heart strings. Then Charlie Parker, the jazz saxophonist, appears in the mist and whispers in my ear, "this is what you've been missing, ain't it kid?"

"It is," I say under my breath. I want Lula more than I ever wanted anything.

"Oh, yes, Baby. It really is," Lula answers. "This must be why they say 'all the way.' Cause there's no where else left to go."

"Not for me."

"Me either."

Neither of us moves. The slippery, wet walls of paradise grip me with a delicious frisson. I look into the infinite wonder of her eyes, losing myself in their laughter. Their hidden intelligence. Losing myself in Lula.

I don't know how long it lasts. My torso pinned under Lula's lithe body. Her breasts pressed against mine, our diaphragms touching so that our breathing becomes perfectly synchronized. Our public bones locked together. We are motionless, resting in silent meditation, drinking in the measure of each other.

Finally, her eyes close and she moves her lips to my ear.

"I forgot to offer you coffee, didn't I?" she whispers.

"You offered me something a thousand-million times better."

"I did?"

"Yes. Yourself."

"Nothing so special about that."

"I think so."

"Have you ever done this before? Being still so long with your cock in the honeypot?"

"No. You?" I asked.

"Never. It's nice. Very Tantric. But..."

"It's time to cum?"

"I think so."

"Me too."

With that, we pull apart a couple inches, then come together again. Gradually, the pace quickens. Lula's breath grows deeper and more ragged. So does mine. Our bodies and our breathing move in unison. No false starts or stops. Our tempo builds like embers in the wind until the passion burns white hot.

She starts to scream my name as her muscles contract, pulling me deeper inside. In that instant, I cum too. Like never before. Pulse after sticky wet pulse. I open my eyes, soaking in her beauty.

Lula's eyes flutter open too. For a fraction of an instant, her pupil is a vertical slit. Like a cat.

"Did you know that when you first open your eyes..." I mutter.

"They look feline?"

"I thought I heard you purring earlier."

"Ha. Ha. Part of that birth defect thing. Mom told me a famous eye surgeon fixed it for free when I was an infant because it was so rare. Now they are only cat-like in the dark. Or sometimes when I first open my eyes. And I have incredible night vision."

"Saves on electricity?"

"And flashlight batteries."

"Did they fix your claws as well?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.

"Why? Do you have an itch you want me to scratch?"

Then she put her lips on mine and we make out like a couple of horny teens until I notice someone watching us from the open door. She's Asian. Smaller than Lula, but almost as beautiful, if that's possible.

She's also naked, except for tiny white thong. One hand fondles her breast, the other is inside her thong. When I catch her eye, she grins with a shy, 'looks like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar' kind of smile.

"Lula-san?" she asks with a sweet Japanese accent that oozes sexuality. "It's Ten. You want me to open up?".

"Yes, Suzi," Lulu laughs. Being watched by Suzi hasn't phased Lulu. "Probably will be a slow day until this rain stops."

'Ten o'clock.' I'm speechless. We'd been making love for three hours. Probably more. And it is gone in a heartbeat."

We kiss again. "That was beautiful," Lula whispers. "It's the first time... I've ever cum at the like that. Simultaneously."

"Me too."

We kiss some more. Then reluctantly disengage. I'm still firm. Lula is still wet and warm. But my stomach is audibly growling.

"Sounds like you need some coffee and eggs, sailor," Lula says. "And I'll formally introduce you to Suzi and Keiko as long as you promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"You save this for me," Lula says, squeezing my balls.

"Promise!"

"It may be harder than you think," she laughs.

Lula is right. Suzi is so sexy she could make a dead man cum. It turns out Keiko is not far behind. It will be a long time before the vivid image of Suzi masturbating in the door while watching Lulu and I make out on the water table begins to fade.

They arrive at breakfast wearing tiny butt shorts and little cotton T-shirts without bras. As the four of us sit down together for breakfast, I truly wonder if I haven't died and gone to heaven.

It occurs to me I haven't called about a tow, or let my climbing buddy know I'm still alive. But all that seems so far away. The responsibilities of some former lifetime.

After breakfast, I try to help clear the table, but Keiko won't let me and Lula drags me up a rear stairway and into a large bedroom overlooking the road. It's still raining and I can make out a dark smudge where I left the Range Rover.

Lula's room is surprisingly uncluttered, almost monastic. There's a double bed, a night stand, a bookcase, a desk with a laptop and an overstuffed reading chair. The walls are white, the floors are bare hardwood, with one large Afghan prayer rug. Marie Kondo would love it.

There are also half-a-dozen framed paintings. All very excellent portraits by the same artist. The style is vibrant and expressive. Each one captures something essential about its subject.

"You went to art school?" I guess.

"In Boston. You like them?"

"You have enormous talent. Do you still paint?"

"Sometimes. I'd like to do your portrait. But first, there's something we have to do," she says dropping her robe and pulling off mine as well.

They say the yin/yang symbol is an ancient predecessor to "69." A position that ignites all five senses — taste, smell, touch, vision and hearing — in a way no other sexual activity can. So, Grasshopper, remember that the dragon created a cosmos of dualities: darkness and light, hot and cold, hard and soft, male and female. If unity is what you seek, 69 is the pathway.

The 'something else we have to do,' that Lula mentions is her way of saying 'let's get down to a little lip service.' The next thing I know, I'm on my back with Lula's swollen pink pussy lips inches from my mouth. And Lula's tongue is racing laps around my cock like it's in the Indy 500.

Something must have increased her arousal. Either my cock in her mouth or my eyes on her pussy lips, or maybe both. As I watch, her outer lips spread open and the inner folds descend in slow motion like some kind of Nature channel video of a flower in springtime. Damn, if Georgia O'Keefe didn't have it right, metaphorically speaking.

I peel back Lula's outer lips, then roll them between my finger tips while drawing my tongue along their edges. She moans contently.

After a couple minutes, I go deeper, sucking on the delicate inner lips. This time Lula groans. The girl-juice is flowing freely. Chock-a-block with pheromones and hormones and Yahweh only knows what other aphrodisiacs and stimulants. The aroma alone is enough to make my cock another silly-millimeter longer. The taste is like the nectar of the gods. Salty. Womanly. Heavenly.

I am so entranced by Lula's sex candy, that I overlook something important. Not until I stop slurping and open my eyes and see the little pearl peeking out at me from under it's hood, do I remember.

I haven't sucked Lula's clit.

Her groans take on a new dimension. More lioness than pussy cat. Deep and guttural. Lula's clit is too small to suck properly, but the tongue lashing I give it is enough to kick her arousal into another gear. I put my free hand on her nipple and twist. The groan picks up another five decibels.

Lula responds by ramping up her action on my cock. Using her fingers along with lips and tongue and mouth. I can feel the fire burning in my gut. And my nuts.

I'm sure the "Kama Sutra" has more to offer, but there's only one thing left in my playbook. I slip my tongue between her inner lips and probe her vagina. Soft and slippery. Then hard and wet, like a cock going in and out. My finger circles her clit, pressing harder and harder.

Lula is mewling like a cat in heat and I'm joining the chorus with my own groans and moans and warning, "I'm gonna cum... gonna cum..."

Like a well rehearsed marching band, we cum in perfect synchronicity. Again.

Lula's muscle contractions grasp my tongue and tug it deeper. I ejaculate between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, spurting stream after stream of sticky hot cum. Even as she shakes like a rag doll from her own orgasm, Lula somehow gulps down the river of juice that flows from the tip of my cock.

When it's over, we lie side-by-side, tongue-kissing and redistributing what remains of our body fluids.

"It happened again," she says.

"I know. It's wonderful. Know what I'm thinking?"

"The same as me?"

"If this happens once more, we're going straight to the justice of the peace to get married."

"Something like that," Lula giggles. "Except I'm going to chain you in the basement as my love slave."

"You have chains in the basement?"

"Don't know. It's such a mess I'm terrified to go down there. But I know where Home Depot is."