moonbird
09-06-2010, 02:16 PM
She’s a pretty young thing, with bouncy blond hair and the thighs that men love. She wears a layered brown dress, old-fashioned and unflattering, with a dark green apron tied round her thin waist. She’s in bed with a man with bright red hair, not making love, not yet, just talking, talking the way lovers do, all whispers and giggles and foreheads pressed together, looking into the other’s eyes.
And then, suddenly, he says something that turns her on, and she slips off his flannel shirt while he unties her apron and tosses it away. His jeans come off as he peels away the colored layers of her dress until finally she is completely nude, and then his underwear too are gone and they are both two naked lovers in bed, and of course they begin to make love.
And then without warning it is all gone, the bed and the lover, and there is the girl, now in sexy lingerie, and she’s in a different bed with a different lover, one with toned muscles and shaggy brown hair, and they are beginning to take off the other’s clothes, and the girl is giggling, and they too make love.
Suddenly it flicks back, to the other bed and the other lover, and then back again to the brown-haired lover, and back and forth until her actions begin to mesh together and you can’t tell who she is truly making love to. The girl and the men are obviously enjoying themselves, as there is a continuous chorus of sighs and moans from all parties. Their hands clutch and stroke, and their legs are intertwined.
And without warning the chorus suddenly is broken by two words, spoken softly by the girl, and we cannot know which bed it came from, only see her wince as she murmurs, “That hurts.”
And then she cries out in pain, and she pleads, “Please, baby, that hurts!” and then she’s screaming in agony and sobbing miserably.
And then everything begins to rush away, and the lovers’ faces fade like mist, and one of them whispers, “Did I ride you too hard, baby?” and then the other, like an echo, “Did I ride you too hard, baby?”
And now the girl is screaming in desperation, as the men are fading away into oblivion, and she clutches at their transparent bodies and wails, “Come back! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh please come back!” She chokes on her sobs, she screams in pain and agony, and then everything is gone, the lovers, the beds, even her, and there is nothing.
She opens her eyes.
And she looks up into the faces of her lovers, both middle-aged now, and they all lie in a bed with the men pressed tightly to her sides, and the dark-haired lover points a pistol at her forehead.
She screams, but it is truly in sadness and confusion, for she is not afraid to die.
The gun disappears, and then she sees only the face of her first lover, the one with red hair, which now has receded much from his forehead. His eyes are encircled in a sickly blue.
“Are you sure we should tell her?” he asks. “After all, she’s just a girl.”
“Yes,” replies the other man, the dark-haired lover. “It must be done.”
So the red-haired lover sighs and says to the girl, “You must remember that we will do all that we can to protect you. We love you.” He hesitates, then adds, “You must be protected from the actress; the actress who will try to militarize the world.”
Her eyes are very wide and blue.
The red-haired lover nods. “I will tell you everything, but you cannot hear the beginning from me. You must hear it from the rain.”
For the first time the girl looks around and sees that they are on a stiff bed in a dingy little hotel room, and outside the window she sees and hears the rain pounding down on the world.
She does not understand.
“Listen to the rain,” repeats the red-haired lover. “Listen to it closely, and it will tell you the answer.”
So the girl looks out the window and listens, and she hairs the raindrops tap and splash in a monotonous rhythm, unbroken, unfeeling, unrevealing.
She tries to speak, to tell them that she cannot listen to the rain, but her red-haired lover just repeats, over and over, “Listen to the rain... it will tell you the answer... listen...”
And so the girl listens.
And then, suddenly, he says something that turns her on, and she slips off his flannel shirt while he unties her apron and tosses it away. His jeans come off as he peels away the colored layers of her dress until finally she is completely nude, and then his underwear too are gone and they are both two naked lovers in bed, and of course they begin to make love.
And then without warning it is all gone, the bed and the lover, and there is the girl, now in sexy lingerie, and she’s in a different bed with a different lover, one with toned muscles and shaggy brown hair, and they are beginning to take off the other’s clothes, and the girl is giggling, and they too make love.
Suddenly it flicks back, to the other bed and the other lover, and then back again to the brown-haired lover, and back and forth until her actions begin to mesh together and you can’t tell who she is truly making love to. The girl and the men are obviously enjoying themselves, as there is a continuous chorus of sighs and moans from all parties. Their hands clutch and stroke, and their legs are intertwined.
And without warning the chorus suddenly is broken by two words, spoken softly by the girl, and we cannot know which bed it came from, only see her wince as she murmurs, “That hurts.”
And then she cries out in pain, and she pleads, “Please, baby, that hurts!” and then she’s screaming in agony and sobbing miserably.
And then everything begins to rush away, and the lovers’ faces fade like mist, and one of them whispers, “Did I ride you too hard, baby?” and then the other, like an echo, “Did I ride you too hard, baby?”
And now the girl is screaming in desperation, as the men are fading away into oblivion, and she clutches at their transparent bodies and wails, “Come back! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh please come back!” She chokes on her sobs, she screams in pain and agony, and then everything is gone, the lovers, the beds, even her, and there is nothing.
She opens her eyes.
And she looks up into the faces of her lovers, both middle-aged now, and they all lie in a bed with the men pressed tightly to her sides, and the dark-haired lover points a pistol at her forehead.
She screams, but it is truly in sadness and confusion, for she is not afraid to die.
The gun disappears, and then she sees only the face of her first lover, the one with red hair, which now has receded much from his forehead. His eyes are encircled in a sickly blue.
“Are you sure we should tell her?” he asks. “After all, she’s just a girl.”
“Yes,” replies the other man, the dark-haired lover. “It must be done.”
So the red-haired lover sighs and says to the girl, “You must remember that we will do all that we can to protect you. We love you.” He hesitates, then adds, “You must be protected from the actress; the actress who will try to militarize the world.”
Her eyes are very wide and blue.
The red-haired lover nods. “I will tell you everything, but you cannot hear the beginning from me. You must hear it from the rain.”
For the first time the girl looks around and sees that they are on a stiff bed in a dingy little hotel room, and outside the window she sees and hears the rain pounding down on the world.
She does not understand.
“Listen to the rain,” repeats the red-haired lover. “Listen to it closely, and it will tell you the answer.”
So the girl looks out the window and listens, and she hairs the raindrops tap and splash in a monotonous rhythm, unbroken, unfeeling, unrevealing.
She tries to speak, to tell them that she cannot listen to the rain, but her red-haired lover just repeats, over and over, “Listen to the rain... it will tell you the answer... listen...”
And so the girl listens.