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[Author’s note: the principal characters continue from Mars Memoirs, Ch.1]
“Oh, be still,” Oona scolds. Despite the fiery sparks in my hypersensitive, over-stimulated penis, I suppress my squirming as she works the condom off me, taking care to capture every drop. After tying a knot in the end of the rubber, she holds it up, eyeing the pool of semen, hefting it. She smiles at my balls as she takes them in hand, and says, to them, not me, “Not bad, boys, but I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”
My eyes pop open at the slight shaking. Oona’s image shimmers, then fades into the ether, and I realize where I am.
Jostled awake by the harmless impacts as the ship streams through a meteor shower, I know that I’m lying in my slumber tube, inside the nuclear-powered spaceship traveling to Mars at over 30,000 mph in its Hoeman Transfer Orbit. As I slip back into my drug-induced hibernation, scenes from my past flash by like trees when speeding through a forest at night. As I breathe in the rose-scented gas that keeps me comatose, I wait for the recollection I want — a way to rejoin Oona — and grab on. As the memory plays from the beginning, my wedding and its aftermath come to life before my eyes.
***
“Do you, Mary, take John to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Mary’s muted affirmative is truncated by her sob.
“By the power vested in me by God and the state, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss.”
Mary turns her face aside, away from me and the assemblage of our friends and families, and my lips land on her cheek. It is wet. I lower her veil to hide her running makeup and we walk arm in arm down the aisle and out of the church, to begin our lives of wedded bliss.
“What kind of bride weeps at her own wedding?” one clueless guest stage-whispers as we exit.
I bite my tongue rather than reply: “The kind whose greatest friend and lover, her actual betrothed, had had her ashes spread just months ago.”
The cancer that took Kyla was so virulent that it was all over in three months. Mary and I, acceding to her last, most fervent wish, were now married, but the mere fact of being in each other’s presence was agonizing, reminding us constantly of who was missing, the woman we both had loved more than life itself.
We’d had nearly a year of true bliss, the three of us living together, sexing together, sleeping together, cooking together, traveling together. We made such wonderful plans — Paris, Venice, Mardi Gras, RAGBRI — but they all proved for naught.
As the weeks after our wedding dragged into months, Mary and I became perfect companions. United in our grief, we shared almost everything: interests, opinions, political views, and love of cooking, fine food, wine, music, opera, art, movies, the theatre, reading and travel. Everything but sex. Mary’s lesbian bent had been exacerbated by Kyla’s death, and I was in such sorrow that my libido went as flaccid as my cock. Counselors were helping each of us, but the process dragged on, endlessly, it seemed. Mary’s sexual reawakening occurred with Nan, but that’s coming in Chapter 4. Mine was due to Oona’s and Mary’s connivance.
Mary’s good friend, Oona Leblanc, had recently suffered through a nasty divorce, and setting up a new house by herself found her lacking the skills to do some of what her worthless, cheating husband had done previously. Like hang curtains.
Days in advance Mary had asked if I’d mind helping Oona out. That they planned on more for me than some minor carpentry was not mentioned, nor was the truly quirky nature of what was in store. Of course I was happy to be of assistance, so at the appointed hour, 1:30 on that designated Saturday, I grabbed my toolbox, hopped in the car and was chez Oona in no time. The curtains turned out to be Venetian blinds, a good choice I thought, as curtains often strike me as dowdy, and Oona is anything but.
Oona is spectacular. An arresting five-foot eight-inch specter whose long, luminous, unruly raven mane parts naturally on the right side and cascades freely to the tops of her perfect, upturned breasts. Full eyebrows accent the darkest brown, nearly black eyes, whose alluring power is not diminished in the least by stylish, oversize glasses perched on her strong, narrow nose. Prominent cheekbones and concave cheeks abet her ethereal aura, despite full, sensuous lips that always seem pursed in an intriguing, introspective half smile. Except for those rare times when her innate reserve relaxes, allowing her amorous, hot-blooded core to bubble up and transform everything. Then the world is suddenly alive, enthralling, replete with possibility. Such a smile greeted me at the door that Saturday.
The blinds went up easily — I have skills — and Oona asked me if I’d like a cup of tea, or perhaps a beer. I said OK, but really would prefer a glass of wine, if she had some open. As I packed up my drill, rule, level, and screwdrivers, I slipped my Sig P365, snug in its inside-the-waistband Kydex holster, into my toolbox. As a detective, fethiye escort I’m required to always be armed, but the Sig would be handy enough. Oona fetched two Riedel white wine glasses — she has refined tastes — and a bottle of King Estate pinot gris from the fridge.
Our conversation roamed as we sipped — to her three kids (they were with their father this weekend), our jobs, our “wonderful” bosses, the wine, Mary and how devastated she still was over Kyla’s death, and our shared love of Shakespeare. The three of us had seen an outdoor Hamlet just the week prior. Energized by intelligent conversation with a gorgeous older woman — Oona had maybe ten years on my 25 — who was not in the throes of severe depression, I paced as we talked, gesticulating as we bantered lightheartedly about the interpretation of some lines in Hamlet. It was a breath of fresh air for me, the best time I’d had since I’d first heard of Kyla’s illness.
Well into our second glasses of pinot, Oona patted the couch beside her, beckoning with her eyes. I obediently sat and we continued our verbal jousting. It was fun. When she refreshed our third glasses, she slid so close to me that our hips were touching. Her perfume, already quite arresting, became truly captivating. During a break in the conversation, Oona expressed her gratitude for my help. “John, if there is ever anything I can do to thank you, please don’t hesitate ask. Anything.”
Well.
I’d been truly enjoying our conversation, and the proximity of a very attractive woman who was being overtly friendly, if not seductive, had awakened urges long dormant. I suggested that a beautiful woman should take care with her language. “Telling a man that you’d do ‘anything’ could provoke a wide variety of thoughts.”
“Goodness! Well, what thoughts might you be having, John?”
“‘Do you think I meant country matters?'” The line from Hamlet was perfect.
“I think nothing, my lord.”
Like Hamlet, I certainly did mean cunt-try matters, and, as we’d previously discussed that “nothing” was Elizabethan slang for a lady’s privates, I found our venture into Shakespearean repartee stimulating. I kept to the script, though skipped back a few lines. “Lady, shall I lie in your lap?”
“Aye, my lord.” Ophelia’s line is “No, my lord,” but I liked Oona’s improvisation better. And what happened next.
Oona slowly, studiedly, put her wine glass on the coffee table, took mine and placed it beside hers. Her eyes sucked mine in as she leaned close. “Well, I did say ‘anything.'”
The experience was so unique, quirky and astonishing that I remember it in the present tense. Always.
The kiss begins lightly, lips exploring, but grows quickly, spiraling in intensity. Oona’s moans match mine as my lagging libido awakens and takes flight. When our tongues meet, my hands, already caressing her head and neck, roam lower, edging ever closer to her breasts. By the time I’m almost to my goal, however, I’m stunned by the feel of her fingers finding my erection and tracing its length. My eager left hand rushes to her right breast, but freezes and drops when reality lands full force. Deflated and devastated, I sag, slumping next to Oona.
Who proves to be psychic, a mind-reader. She brushes my cheek as she whispers tenderly, “John, this is fine, really it is. I know you’re thinking about Kyla and Mary, about being unfaithful to them. You needn’t. Mary suggested this. She told me it makes her very sad to see you so depressed, aimless, moping about, but she’s just not interested in sex, at least not with men. She’s certain that Kyla would also want you to be happy, to move on. Mary asked me if I would help her by helping you. If you were willing, of course, John. From what was happening a few seconds ago, it seems you are. So am I. We have Mary’s blessing.”
With that she takes my chin in hand, turns my face to hers, and kisses me. The slightest glimmer of light dawns at the end of the dank, dark claustrophobic tunnel in which I’ve been existing.
Just as I begin to respond, Oona abruptly breaks off the kiss and stands, wordlessly takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom. She grabs the lapels of my shirt, maneuvers me back up against her bed, and locks my eyes to hers as she places my hands on her breasts. Smiling, she starts undoing the buttons of my shirt. When I helpfully begin to reciprocate, she playfully slaps my hands and puts them back on her tits. After my shirt falls open, she makes similarly quick work of the belt, button, and zipper of my jeans. Her hands take mine and lower them to my sides — I intuitively know to keep them there, as she’s in charge — then elevates my shirt’s shoulders, pulls them back, and lets go. The shirt falls to the floor. “Very nice,” Oona whispers as her fingertips and eyes flutter over my torso.
Oona kneels as she pulls my boxers away from my body and slides both them and my jeans to my ankles. The heat of her moist mouth is almost too much and I wince and gasp. She stands quickly. “Oh, poor baby, did I hurt escort fethiye you?” Her salacious chuckle is almost a cackle. Both hands blithely push on my chest, and I fall backwards onto the bed. My running shoes slip onto the floor just before my socks, and after my jeans and boxers join them, she lifts my legs onto the bed. Oona stands back, chin in hand, ostentatiously ogling. She licks her lips.
I’m a trifle uncomfortable being naked while she’s completely dressed, but when I roll towards her and reach out, she facetiously slaps my hand again, saying, “No, John. Just lie there.” Then, after a long, studied second, “And watch.”
Oona touches a button on her phone lying on her dresser and the overture to La Traviata fills the room. Mary told me once that Oona had studied ballet, but I had no idea. The seductive, sinuous Salome begins the most steamy, erotic dance imaginable. Undoing each button of her blouse is a momentous occasion, allowing her fingertips to caress the newly exposed skin. As I get glimpses of what lies beneath — flashes of ruby red lace — the oxygen in the room thins. Lightheaded, I stare transfixed as her blouse floats to the floor and I see her perfect breasts hardly constrained by the most provocative lingerie.
She must have choreographed her dance, as the teasing, taunting undoing of the fastenings of her jeans, their excruciatingly slow descent, and the final frontal reveal ends precisely with the three minute overture. As I gape in wonder, the gorgeous temptress, clad only in her scrumptious Bordelle Botanica enticements, begins moving to the beautiful, haunting aria that follows. “Ah, fors è lui” is one of my favorites, and begins playing on a loop as Oona sexily sidles up to the bed beside me.
“Ah. You seemed to have enjoyed my dance,” she whispers lasciviously, eying my erection. Her finger running up the underside makes it lurch up against her. “Oh good! It likes me,” she says as her hand closes on it. I roll towards Oona, needing to get my hands on her, but she shakes her head, “no,” releases my cock as punishment for my disobedience, and pushes me back, flat on the bed. “Just lie still. I’m in charge here,” she smilingly commands. I comply, but can’t help but wince and twitch when Oona’s long, crimson fingernails, which match the color of her lingerie and lipstick perfectly, carve incisions in my chest as they flit about, sending frissons of fire throughout my body.
When she thrums her fingers lower, I can’t help but try to move, to touch her, but she scolds, “No, John. Lie still.” She intercepts the hand that had almost reached her breast, elevates it high over my head, and places it firmly down onto the mattress. Oona releases it, commanding, “Stay!” She smiles at my compliance, then takes my other hand, pulls it, too, into the surrender position and orders it to be still.
Oona deftly mounts me, throwing one thigh over my belly. “John, can I trust you to behave, not to interrupt the wonderful plans I’ve made for us?” Not waiting for a response, she leans forward, kisses me, and, when my arms automatically move to embrace her, she grabs them and pushes them back over my head. “I didn’t think so…” she playfully taunts as she slides higher on my chest, her knees landing on my biceps, hands still holding my wrists. My cock jumps at the whiff of her sex, just inches from my nose.
She is quick. Before I can even begin to fathom the meaning of cold metal on my wrist, one handcuff is latched and both her hands keep the other hostage until it, too, is quickly cuffed. I pull against them, testing, and find that I am securely bound to her headboard. Oona slides back down my chest, smiling at her work, and proclaims, “There. NOW I think I can trust you.”
Oona leans over me and starts kissing my forehead. It’s nice, if rather vanilla. Her nibbles cover my face, continually arcing closer to my mouth, always on a trajectory to land on my lips. But each time she’s almost there, when I turn, rise up, strain to make contact, Oona quickly pulls back, denying me. It’s a maddening, delightful tease, a continuation of her enticing dance, and when Oona finally does kiss me, the sense of fulfillment is so complete that I have to consciously still my rocking hips. It’s been forever since I’ve had sex, and my overflowing balls have been oozing semen into my tube.
Oona’s lips move lower, to my neck and ears, getting them also tingling. Then it’s time for my chest. Again she’s the temptress, always approaching my nipples but never landing, always evading, building my anticipation.
I am again forced to suppress the torrent of semen boiling up my cock when she finally sucks the first nipple into her mouth. The heat is consuming and the flicks of her tongue are insanely erotic as she devotes equal attention to the other. Her slow kissing and licking descent down my abdomen is tantalizing, weaving back and forth, always circling in towards what we both know is now the center of my universe. Yet never arriving. When everywhere else has been kissed and licked, fethiye escort bayan there is nowhere left except my forsaken penis, my moaning becomes clearly audible as I strain upward, waiting, hoping.
My eyes spring open in surprise when I feel her lips on the top of my left foot. I groan in helpless frustration. I now know she is going to kiss her way up each leg, making me wait forever for what I crave more than anything.
Though my eyes flutter closed in resignation as she begins her work, they snap open at the feel of the soft cord being tied tightly around my ankle. “Damn!” I exclaim to myself as I contemplate my bad options. I can submit or object, but that would end this amazing experience that seems to continually be taking unanticipated, intriguing turns. Befuddled and in the throes of arousal such as I’ve never before experienced, I hesitate.
Not Oona. With surprising alacrity she ties my other ankle and sits up, admiring the view. “Ah, this looks nice, John. But perhaps there’s something still missing?” Her low laugh has three drams of wicked in it, and, though something in my stomach sinks, my dripping cock lurches up in a standing ovation for her tantalizing tease.
Oona lies down beside me and snuggles into me. It’s sweet, very erotic, and our kiss is wonderful until I’m distracted by the feel her hands reaching over my head. She rolls on top of me, and her sly, devilish smile is the last thing I see before the sleep mask covers my eyes. “Well, that’s better. But there’s still something…”
Her mouth on my right nipple feels fabulous, and the combination of her tongue flicks and powerful suction have my point erect immediately. The pop of her mouth as it pulls off resounds in the room, as does my gasp when the clamp squeezes my nipple tightly between its pincers. The attached chain is cold on my chest, and she gives it a couple testing tugs — eliciting more gasps from me — before wet warmth surrounds my other areola. When its nipple, too, is teased to hardness by her flicking tongue, it is captured, squeezed by the prongs. Oona gently yanks my chain to gauge the tension. It seems perfect to me, but Oona chooses to tighten the clamps a bit more, until I wince as the threshold of pain is just crossed. “That’s better; now things look right. Almost…” My mind reels — what kink could possibly be next? — as the bed compresses when Oona sits beside my hips.
The feeling is so unique I’m at first mystified about what it could possibly be. However, when I feel Oona’s fingers tying a knot, I realize that she has wrapped a soft cord around my scrotum and the base of my cock, and, as she draws it tight, I feel my testicles elevate away from my body. Oona hums along with the operatic highlights as keeps wrapping me, weaving lengths of twine around and between my balls, separating them, and drawing them further from my groin. The band of the cock ring being tightened over the base of my shaft completes her work. “My, that looks almost perfect. Just one more thing and we’re ready to begin.”
The condom being rolled down my shaft explains the tearing sound I’d heard. “There. We can’t have you making a mess all over everywhere, and this way I can compare how much you give me each time you ejaculate. And you’re going to come a lot, John. Isn’t this great fun?” When I’m silent, she continues, “Well, it is for me. Time to begin.”
Anticipating feeling her lips on my ankle, assuming that she would resume her agonizingly slow tease, I’m puzzled by the soft hum until I feel the vibrator contact my penis, right on the spot where the underside of my shaft meets the head. My most sensitive spot. Oona beings to roll it over it, just the slightest bit. I am transfixed. Even through the condom the feeling is unique and titillating, the jiggle jostling my nerves, making them dance, setting them aflame.
Despite the intensity of the increasing fire in my tool, I am vaguely aware that Oona is purposely making no contact with me elsewhere. The absence of all other stimulation focuses my mind intently on the irresistible tingly sensations in the tip of my penis, drawing me further into her thrall.
It is torturous, exquisite, and I can’t help but succumb, become increasingly aroused, until just the insistent oscillations of her device draw me to the very brink of explosion. As the boiling gism begins to drive up my shaft, burns right to the edge, the vibrator abruptly abandons me. I gasp, “Oh, no…”
“Oh yes, John.”
I tremble and groan, my consciousness completely fixated on my penis as it twitches, burgeons, and clenches, striving to shoot, to achieve completion. Absent any further stimulation, however, it, and I, are left hanging.
As I settle back onto a high plateau of arousal, my groans become soft moans. “John, Mary told me it’s been a long time since you’ve had sex, and I’m so looking forward to draining you. But first, I want to get these big balls,” Oona gives them a little encouraging caress, “to produce even more semen. I like massive ejaculations, and I want all you’ve got,” Oona whispers in her most sultry contralto as she leans over me, rubbing her lace-clad breasts against my chest and kissing me deeply. “Ready for round two?” she asks, her voice husky with arousal.
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