Words, Naked

Words though.

'So what about,' he says, and now his voice is no longer too dry but too thick, 'what about. . .' He stops. Shakes his head.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'No. Tell me. What you were going to say.'

'It's personal.'

'You don't think I'm a person?'

He closes his eyes. 'I was going to ask. . . Well, you've seen mine. So I was going to ask, what about yours?'

'My what?'

'Genitals.'

She laughs. 'Come on. That's too polite. You're not talking to me about some stripper and what she's got. You're talking to me about me and what I've got. So. .?'

'Your cunt, then.'

'My cunt then? Or my cunt now?'

He manages to sit up. It isn't easy, his cock is so sensitive he's afraid he'll explode if its tip even touches his own skin. 'Your cunt now.'

'That's more like it.' She lapses into a thoughtful silence. Eventually: 'I have some more words for you. Some more of my favourites.'

'Okay.'

'Say "spread".'

'Spread.'

'Great word. Say: "wide".'

'Wide.'

'Put them together.'

'Spread wide.'

'Say: "open."

'Open. Spread wide open.'

She sits up. Stares at him. Seems to be concentrating on him, his face this time, his expression. Nowhere else. 'Also say, "yourself". Between "spread" and "wide".'

He almost fumbles it: 'Yourself, spread,' then halts, starts over. Takes a deep breath to stop the quivering in his shaft becoming a quavering in his voice. 'I want to see you. . . spread yourself wide open.'

She smiles. Nods slowly. Sweeps her hair back from her forehead, then lies down again, arms by her sides, hands palm flat upon the sand. 'But no touching,' she says. 'All right? You don't touch me.'

'I won't.'

'You want my nakedness, don't confuse it with your nakedness. Don't clothe me in your needs.'

'I promise.'

'Just . . . Watch.'

PART 3

He gazes at her breasts, there's movement there, her nipples are rising, hardening, but then he realises that beyond the blonde tuft her legs are beginning to part, both at the same time, slowly, slowly, like scissors.

On his knees, he shuffles across the sand. Gets himself into position where his viewpoint is as if at the base of a triangle, her left leg angling in from one side, her right leg angling in from the other, both going up in a flowing sculpturing of sun-bronzed calves and thighs. Going all the way up.

He doesn't speak. Silently watches, instead, the gradual emergence of lips, of nub-topped cowl and its arc of fine blonde hair.

He could ejaculate now: one touch, that's all. One curling of thumb and fingers around his glans. But that would not be. . . Right. This is her time. Not his. A schoolboy might splatter now, or a moron, but he is far from being either.

'Wide?' she says. Her voice is soft, her hands still at her side. But her eyes are open and looking at him, calm, unwavering.

He nods.

'I have to spread myself wide open?'

But it's a charade, her hands are moving downwards even as she speaks, and now fingertips are resting on the lip-flesh, the flesh that's neither too full nor too lean, resting first and then pressing down, beginning to pull back, slowly, slowly, he can see a sheen on the pinkness as sunlight sharpens softness, as warmth comes flooding in on heat, as that which was folded now separates then merges.

And further, wider, her legs stretching even more apart than before, but it's this he's concentrating on, it's all his being locked on to all her being at a moment beyond every word in the language except the most powerful of all.

Pearled strings of moisture in unbroken festoon, they shimmer and stretch as her fingers continue to press and part, they tremble from one side to the other of the opening cleft, are trapped under her fingertips but are still unfragmented as the darkness between at last accepts the light.

'Can you see me?' she asks.

'Yes.'

She raises her head. 'My hole, am I open? I want you to see me open.'

'You're open.'

'Good.' She settles back down.

They stay like that, neither of them moving, separate from each other yet bound together by the same brightness, the same heat, the same sunlight that touches the nape of his neck, that plays upon her openness. He is as near to weeping as he has been for many a year, but does not know why. He can hear the sound of the ocean but it's strangely distant: wherever the place that they are both at now, it is not the beach.

'Cunt,' she whispers.

'Yes.'

'I feel beautiful.'

'You are.'

'Shall I start?'

For a moment he's lost, then remembers, what was said before. Showing everything she's got is but the first requirement of a stripper. Showing what she can do with it -- what she can do to it -- is the second. The requirement is not negotiable. She may have stripped, but to be truly nude she must be lost within her own nakedness.

'Start,' he says. 'Show me how you do yourself.'

'Fuck myself.'

'Yes.'

'Until I come?'

'Yes.'

He watches as her hands move again, the left to hold down more firmly than ever on the parted cuntflesh, the right to edge sideways, fingers curling, first one, then two, two going in.

'Three,' he says. 'If you can. Three inside.'

And now the third slides in.

'Ready?' she asks, as if he is the one about to perform.

'Ready,' he says. 'Fuck your cunt until I see you come.'

For a moment, there's no movement, but then the fingers begin to withdraw, and then push back inside, withdraw, push in, withdraw, push in, rhythmic, not frantic, measured, not uncontrolled. Her head turns from side to side.

In, out, in, out, breasts rising, breasts falling, head beginning to turn more quickly even though her pace hasn't changed.

In, out, and there's a glaze over the fingers, in, out, and the glaze is spreading back to her wrist, in, out, and when he remembers to listen instead of just look, there's the sound of the ocean, and that of her breathing, but also more loudly than both now, of wetness spilling and welling, welling and spilling.

In, out, in, out, and faster, beginning to blur, her other hand with fingers splayed now, the tip of one at the tip of her cowl, working it as her legs start to spasm and her back begins to arch.

Out, in deep, out in deeper, faster, harder, watch those fingers, hear those sounds, that drenching sound, that swamping sound, she's moaning now as if in pain but the smile says otherwise, the smile is wide and open like her cunt as her back arches more violently than before and her breasts thrust higher towards the sky.

Fast deep hard wet faster deeper harder wetter go on go on do it do it do that cunt cunt cunt cunt:

She cries and buckles all at the same time, rolls suddenly onto her side, shuddering, spasming, he needs to move across to see what is happening because her legs are closed tight, squeezed tight, one hand is still between them and is surely being crushed. Another cry, and it's as if she is a dog shedding water from its coat, every muscle at work, shaking, twisting.

But though he tries to get there, to reach her side, he cannot now move, fists clenched, lips clamped together, stomach muscles as taut as he can make them as he fights the surge within, the one that must surely, finally break through because his cock is already beginning to spill, one silvered chain after another already emerging from the swollen slit.

His own cry joins hers as he grasps his shaft and explodes and explodes, into the sand.

PART 4

She sits up. Removes her hand from between her legs. Looks across at him, curled up on his towel, the oil on his skin streaked by sweat, the milky pearl that trembles over the head of his diminishing cock a small and liquid crown.

'You came?' she asks.

There are no words for his defeat. He nods.

'I would have liked to watch you.'

'Sorry.'

'Oh well.' A quick smile. 'Next time, then.' She glances around her. 'Where? Where did you come?'

'The sand.'

'Shame.'

She raises her hand. Inspects the glistening knuckles, the long fingers looped together with translucent beaded threads. Carefully, she licks the back of her hand and her wrist then slowly places one finger after another in her mouth. Sucks at the wetness. Watches him as she does so. Eventually, she removes her hand, returns it to its original place between her legs. Grinds herself against it.

'Don't stop,' he says.

'For you?'

'For both of us. Show me how you swallow your own cum.'

The hand emerges. The sheen that coats it seems even thicker than before. Again she inspects it. Again she licks. Again she sucks. Again, she swallows.

She continues on until her hand emerges without trace of wetness, of essence, of her. She licks her lips. Says: 'Do you do that, too?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

He shrugs. 'I don't know.' A pause. 'I don't think I could.'

The quick smile again, fleeting, regretful. 'Next time, then.'

'You said that before.'

'You don't want to?'

'Oh, I want.'

'Give my your number then. I'll ring.'

'We'll come here?'

'Maybe. Maybe a hotel room. Somewhere nice. Expensive.'

'I can afford it.'

'So can I. We'll pay our own way.'

'No, come on -- '

'I already did. Next time it's your turn.' She stands up. Takes the towel, dabs at the wetness along her inner thighs then massages high between them. 'We'll have another word next time. You know, for discussion.'

'I liked cunt.'

'Then you'll like sperm.'

'The word?'

'And the reality.' She drops the towel. 'Next time, I want to see it. You're going to show me all your sperm.'

He shivers. It's not with cold.

She picks up her bag, begins to take out her clothes. There's a small notebook in there and a pen. He gives her his number, watches as she writes it down.

'Well,' he says, 'Happy Nude Day.'

'They don't have to be once a year,' she says.

'No. Well.' He pauses. 'It's not like I thought.'

'That's because you just thought, lose your clothes, that's it. When really, you have to rid yourself of everything to be truly naked. Your clothes. Your name. Your fears. Your protections. Your. . . mirrors.'

He grins. 'A lot to learn.'

'We're all still learning.'

'But you'll teach me?'

'We can teach each other.'

He looks down at his shrunken cock. 'And fuck? We'll fuck?'

'Not next time.' She gets into her clothes. 'I'm the audience then. You're the performer.'

He stands up. Is overwhelmed by a sudden awkwardness. There are words that he ought to be saying but he can't find them. She looks at him, and he can tell from her expression that she understands his turmoil.

She bridges the gap between them. Takes his hand. Shakes it.

'Good to meet you,' she says.

'I can't believe this.'

'You'd better.' Another squeeze of his hand, and she steps back. Not even a kiss. 'Till next time then.'

'Yes.'

She picks up her bag, her towel, walks away. Disappears eventually behind one of the outcroppings of shelving rock.

He stares after her, then looks up at the sky where a sea bird is wheeling, high, wide and free.

'Happy Nude Day,' he calls out to it. 'Happy Nude Day.'

It goes higher and yet higher.

The End

*

© Tyler Stanford, 2008.