Arthur Alexander - Emily_s Lips

Frantically she searched the room. There must be something. It was no longer a comfortable place. One more orgasm, just one more, a final one, an enormous one, one such as she had rarely felt. She needed to drown out the lust with one last mighty ecstasy. She hated the room which kept her from completion. Damn it, there must be something. Somewhere. Oh, please. Please! I have to come again. I have to come.

And then she found it. There it was, right in the bed-table drawer as though left for her to use. A vibrator. A long, white vibrator such as she secretly had at home. And she began to come even as she saw it, began the final come which she completed on the bed, her legs drawn back, the vibrator deep within her, and her fingers lashing upon her aching clit.

For a long time she lay silently after turning off her electric fucking machine. The quiet of the house finally came back to her. The rain had stopped all together.

Firelight flickered on the ceiling. She was happy again, and rather awed by her frenzy before. She saw her reflection in the mirror, and cupped her cunt, and smiled.

This would be one to remember.

The sheets were linen and ironed smooth. Cool against the skin. As the room was quite warm, she had decided to sleep naked. Besides, she thought as she lay close to slumber, the dried sweat and secretions of her masturbation smelled, and she hesitated to stain her hostess nightgown. She didn't mind her own smell. She liked it, in fact and so did everyone else, if, they were going to be honest with themselves.

As Arthur had once said, everyone is immune to his own farts. And the same is true for all smells of the body. Languidly, in the dark Emily sniffed her fingers and felt a minor rush of excitement in response to the smell of her cunt. What a nice smell it is after all! But we've been brainwashed today. We've been sold a bill of goods. The moguls of fashion and hygiene would have us do away with our darker, more sensual s ide. They would have us strip away our smells, our hair, our inelegant lumps and bumps. To make us fit their model of an inhuman, icy perfection they would take from us our sense of our own personal uniqueness. Arthur had once told her of a girl he knew who shaved her cunt. The idea! Where is the mystery in a twelve-year-old's cunt? Just a bare slit between the legs: nothing to it. But to have a thick and tempting bush to hide it under! Now there was something. There's some animal consciousness in that! Her fingers combed her own proud thatch as she thought these things. And now they even have sprays which take away that lovely smell and make everyone think you have a strawberry between your thighs. Okay for a kick maybe, but strawberries ought to s mell like strawberries. Cunt should smell like cunt. But then, she mused, I must be awfully conservative. She recalled the disappointing occasion when she had filled her vagina with M amp;M candies and then called upon Arthur to suck them back out. Maybe if they had been strawberries-or rosettes of cauliflower, South African rock lobster tails, who knows, something besides M amp;Ms. She might have been less mortified. The poor boob, he was astounded at her vulgarity. But maybe strawberries would have been the thing.

Maybe the Cunt Spray Kings did know something after all. Perhaps they should put out a line of seven flavors, one for each day: pomegranate, cantaloupe, coconut, grape-seedless of course-then prune, avocado, and back to strawberry on Sunday. Presto! Cunt de jour.

Suddenly, with a start, Emily realized that her mind must have been wandering.

What had she been thinking about? Well, no matter. She had been halfway to sleep there, and her mind had been drifting down byways of its own choosing, but a single, scintillating chord of distant music had pierced her consciousness and snapped her back to reality. She lay in her quiet bed and allowed her ears to float around the room, willing them to catch the sound once again. But it alluded her. No! There it was again. The cellar music, insistent, beating, playing upon her as sunlight does upon the night shut petals of a flower.

And as the flower opens itself to embrace the new experience, so Emily discovered herself bending over the well of the stairway, looking down three flights into darkness. She had hastily belted her robe about herself as she left the room. The corridor had been as silent as one might expect at two in the morning. And now the music played upon her pale face as it swelled up from below. There was seduction in it, even a hint of danger. But she was invisible, she realized, and she floated upon the music and the darkness down one flight and then another.

Dare she descend again? There would be people there. She stood in the entrance hall, surrounded by leering faces and polished bodies, and hovered between the future and the past. Had she retreated then, I would have nothing to tell about. She would have risen at a reasonable time, ridden with Adrian for an hour or two, been impressed by the estate, but in the end she would have driven off again, over the mountains and down to the plains. And that would have been the end. There would have been no change. Nothing would have been risked, and nothing, likewise, would have been won.

The house was empty save for the throb in its bowels. Her hand closed upon the knob. She turned it. She pulled it open. Down the stairs that Laura had descended she stealthily trod. Narrow steps, cellar steps, with walls on each side. And then the bottom. The walls turned left. The floor was thickly carpeted in red. The walls were red plush. The ceiling was black. Four candles in sconces gave wavering illumination. She walked toward a velvet curtain. Five steps, ten. Would anyone see her? Fifteen steps. She was almost there. Twenty steps, and her hands touched the curtain. It parted down the middle. She stuck her face close to the slit and looked: another hallway was all. Just like that she had already mastered. With mirrors on the walls this time, and more lights. She stepped through. The music must come from behind that next curtain. It was too loud now. She was near its source, she knew, and she was succumbing to its embrace. It curled around her, binding her with coil upon coil of its shiny rope, and dragged her slowly toward itself.

But Just then there came a shiver of girlish laughter, and the curtain at the end of her hallway parted. A pretty girl in green stepped through. But her face was turned to speak with someone behind her, and Emily had sprinted away like a foot runner from Thebes before she straightened again.

Emily's feet flew along the carpeted hallway. Would she reach the steps in time?

They were closer, closer, and she did, just. She leapt up them and was through the door and had shut it quietly before those following began to climb after her. She looked around frantically. The dimness of the library invited her. She dashed across the parquet entrance hall and was flashing behind the bulk of a long couch when her pursuers emerged. Apparently they did not see the flutter of her white robe, for they passed quite close beside her, the girl and a tall and hawklike man, laughing and chatting about a picnic which they were planning for the morrow.

Emily slumped against the back of the couch. Her heart beat frantically in her breast.

Adrenalin began to drain from her system, and she realized she was shivering. Weak and silly, she fought down an impulse to giggle.

And then a sound, a high, ululating, inhuman sound, soared through her brain from only inches away!

Emily was stricken with terror. Atavistically, all her hairs stood on end, and her nipples hardened to points. She nearly screamed. She dared neither breath nor move. Her heart thumped insanely and rushed so much blood to her head that she feared she might faint. And then the sound came again! But this time, after shuddering up and down the scale, it ended with a long, flailing "Yesssss."