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[ THE PERFECTION OF HER SALAMANDER,
CHAPTER ONE ]
Thomas Chalice
Sceptor
I stuck my tongue in her ear.
My breathing was hollow. It was just the very tonguey-tip, stamp-moist; not dripping.
Her back was to me, spooned; I was hard, huge, panting. Well inside her as I
was, this wasn't the point. Not yet. Not for a long time.
She squealed musically, a carnival balloon bright note in the otherwise calm
forest.
Her body felt hard, taut beneath me, beside me, wet with the slick of her
juice and sweat, tense with the imminence of Oshun's Ocean, yearning to burst
forth any moment now. I chuckled like a B-movie devil, and moved my thumb
over to the pearl of her oyster. She began to buck like a hyena in heat,
sending out a yowl into the night air that woke the day birds, screaming,
fluttering from the trees in unison to the waves of her climax, churning and
spinning insanely all the molecules of her being, the hot white blue light of
our spirits United washing through our tent, our life, this holy holy night.
I paused, hearing the far away drums of the festival; still Pan, Goat Crazy
for her wild, wicked little Ass. I planned to prove to her just how Well she
could invoke Him.
Our friends were going to wonder where we were separately, not yet knowing we
had found each other. Not this way. At least Sam would figure it out....
The moment I met her I knew I had to have her this way. She was a
friend of Sam's from way back while she was still in Junior High school, when
she first began to write a little feature in his ahead-of-its time Goth
journal. Sam was the Boho King of our little Circle in Minneapolis, shaved
head, prince-nez glasses, probably one of three people in Minnesota to
regularly purchase mustache wax in the year 1983, which he used to hone his
impeccable handlebar 'stache to Snidely Whiplash-ian perfection. Nobody this
side of the Atlantic knew more about Aleistair Crowley, B-Horror Movies, 30's
Pulp fiction, and 50's porn than Sam. Except maybe Saki.
Even she wasn't entirely certain why she was named Saki. Her Mother (What a
trip!-another story altogether) claimed that she was named after the famous
author of ironic short stories. But her father, the light of her life who
died when she was eight, had insisted it was for the sweet, cheap rice wine
they got plastered on the night she was conceived. She certainly didn't look
Japanese by a long shot, except maybe for the down-to-her-ass length
shot-straight jet black hair, but she seemed to actually be, I dunno...
Etruscan or something. Her doe-brown eyes and button nose threatened to turn
into something distinctly hawk-like, her Olive skin soaked in the sun like a
hungry sponge, her perfect 5'2" frame held sweet little jumbo teacup
breasts, a firm physique, and oh, yes, that ass. That ass I talked about.
It’s my opinion that that ass has SECRETLY caused more trouble than any ass
since Helen of Troy. Come to think of it, I'm not entirely convinced it's not
THAT very ass itself, reborn in curious alchemy lo these many centuries
hense... but I digress.
The point is, she was a part of my Universe that had always seemed to be
there from square one, but that I had never actually encountered. It was as
if some cosmic Konrad Lorenz had placed an indelible image of her on my
cortex at the moment I hatched. I had always sought what was simply, exactly her,
but usually settled for something that was second best, or worse. For her, I
was, as the Sufis say, a Dancing Dog. That’s what I was the moment I laid
eyes on her, and that’s what I was especially that first night she came to
me, her lips sweet with mushroom wine, her jaw semi-slackened in a grin
wicked as a she wolf, slick with the juice of the night. Oh yes. Part of me
will always be her dancing dog. Its all the fault of HOW she came to me;
twisting and bending that part to forever salivate Pavlovianly at the thought
of her...
The day had been long, driving up from Detroit, and I suppose I could
blame some of what happened on having a bit too much Mead instantly upon
my arrival at the festival. It was while sampling this mead in a circle of my
Druid pals that Sam proudly introduced me to Saki, all 115 pounds of her,
bespectacled and geeky, yet obviously concealing a leonine grace. Our
conversation was ordinary; we had an ordinary chat about ordinary things, oh
yes: we knew all about each other, and had even complimented each other's
Gothic Prose in a recent issue of Sam's little magazine, Bloody Kisses.
We shared the fine home-made God's nectar, I played it cool, complimented her
on her good taste in Mickey Rat T-Shirts, and headed off to set up my
spot, high and sort of deep in the woods above the main field. As I trudged
up the embankment, I noted that during the entire past hour and a half of ordinary
conversation with this woman, I was sporting a constant, throbbing erection.
As usual, it took me more than a couple of more hours to actually reach this
intended tenting spot of mine, what with running into old friends, gabbing,
and stopping to party with several disparate groups. By the time I reached my
little off-the beaten path spot, the hour was well past 11. Without
instructions, it took me an absurdly long time to set up my new tent. It was
a profitable Spring, and I had celebrated my tax return by buying this
virtual sultan's palace of a nylon sanctuary, never realising I would have to
improvise a method of extending my arms 8 feet into the air as I balanced the
frame to pull up the support joists connected to the fly rod that supported the
dome center ribs, while slightly drunk, in pitch darkness, wearing hiking
boots that were way too hot, as a neverending chorus of mosquitoes danced and
sang an evil song around my head. Just as I was about to scream with the
toomuchness of it all, the tent somehow stood, full, faultless, a monument to
peace and potential, silhouetted against the stars. I sighed with relief,
pulled off my boots and pants, and unrolled my sleeping bag. "Just a
nap," I told myself, my body not fully believing. I was expected to show
up for a Discordian Jam Session sometime before dawn.
While thinking up excuses that I could use the next day for not having made
it , I found myself as close to sleep as a man can be without actually being
in the arms of Morpheus... and a sound of crunching leaves.. as if in a
dance... began moving closer.
It was a woman, for sure, and her voice was softly, sweetly singing.
We are Siamese, if you please, (stomp stomp stomp)
We are Siamese , if you don't please, (stamp stamp stamp)...
It was the
Siamese Cat song from "The Lady and the Tramp". What a fucked up
thing to be singing while stomping through the woods at four in the morning-
I peered through the tent's mesh window, wanting to see who it could possibly
be- stomping through the woods at four in the morning, stark naked.
Wait a sec, I double-taked out of my stupor, stark naked? For it was
none other than the aforementioned, be-spectacled, Mickey Rat T-Shirt wearing
Saki-- utterly without benefit of spectacles, T-shirt, or any other adornment.
Good Gods, I remember thinking, she's... beautiful. I was astonished.
Nakedness is something one gets used to seeing at a Pagan Gathering, but it
is seldom in the form of one's complete and total subconscious ideal Sex
Fantasy. I was agog. "Heya, " I gulped, "uh.. nice night for a
walk."
She stopped in her tracks. The moon was full, shining on to her face, her
pupils wide and glistening. She smiled mischievously and partly popped a
finger in her mouth, crossing her feet and wiggling a little, Lolita style,
fixing me in her gaze. "I know," she half giggled, half purred. She
was high as a goony bird. She was naked. I was transfixed, with a hard-on
stiff as a bone. And she knew it.
"You look like you've been having fun, " I volunteered.
"Uh-huh. I sure have." She added a gleeful wickedness to her
baleful stare, still keeping the finger in her mouth, toying with it,
kittenesque. "After you left the Druid site, I wandered over to the
Coyote camp. Crow Coyote made some Tantric Punch. I drank it, and then I
joined the orgy, in Melissa's tent."
"Wow... orgy..." I was dumbfounded. I mean, what is one supposed to
say?
Her voice dropped half an octave, and her stare became more focused,
serpentine. "I just spent the past four hours sucking and fucking. Yeah.
Fucking, " she began stepping, gingerly, closer towards me, "and
sucking." She stopped again, removing the finger from her mouth. Her
gaze left mine and rested on the finger, still pointing up, wet with her
spit. She watched it as if she was not in control, and let it stray across
her left tit, leaving a little trail of saliva on the nipple, down her belly,
to the thatch of thick but neatly trimmed black, silky fur of her pubis. She
began to deftly and very definitely touch and tease her dark little cunt,
recalling the rhythms of her recent fever. "But you know what I kept
flashing on all that time?"
"What?"
"The thing that was making me craziest and juiciest and made me cum
(*gasp*)," she was acting now, but it didn't matter, it still worked, "and
cum again?"
"What? What was it?"
"It was thinking of you, and those cute hemp shorts of yours, and
how I could see your hard-on the whole time that you were sitting there with
me in the Druid camp, talking about ordinary things and making ordinary
jokes, as if we were teenagers in some fifties health class film," her
fingers kept moving, "about always washing your hands, scared to death
of giving in to our-UH!" Her timing was good, fingers rhythm snap moving
faster now, she didn't fake THAT gasp. Her voice rose to a higher pitch, her
eyes half closed now, "giving in to our BASE ANIMAL INSTINCTS!" I
was standing up without remembering having done so, right in front of her. I
grabbed her slim waist with my left arm, put my right hand over her left,
aiding her movement, helping her bring her forth to full peak whippedness,
helping her get closer, then quicker then I might have thought, to cum,
kissing her, for the first time, deep and deeper, my heart leaping into the
thrust of my tongue, suddenly hot, thick, and alive. Whooo ha, I was awake,
now, I was definitely awake.
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