0 comments/ 55459 views/ 5 favorites A Rose for Laurel By: Imaginator A whisper. So small and subtle, yet so very intimate. Soft lips pressed close to the ear, light puffs of air slipping through the opening with a message meant only for one. A whisper, so intimate, slipped through my window at two-thirty in the morning. I remember my roommate Jeannine not liking my idea of leaving the windows open that night. The air conditioning had stopped working, and the landlord had said that nothing could be done till morning. “But Elise,” she said, “what if someone tries to break in?” “Then we’ll just have to entertain them,” I said. “And when we’re done, they can watch as we entertain each other. Won’t that be fun, Jeannine?” “God, Elise!” said Jeannine. “Just when I have you figured out, you go and get weird on me again. First this morning, and now this.” “Well, it must be the heat then,” I said. “Because I feel like I’m on fire. Would you like to share a glass of wine with me, Jeannine?” I remember her grunting and stomping out of my room. I then drained a fourth glass of Chablis, slipped my shorts off and fell onto the bed. I awoke later that night covered with sweat and surrounded by darkness. Lying there, unable to reclaim sleep, I then listened to the usual sounds coming through the window, crickets chirping, cars passing, then fewer cars and more crickets. My head was swimming, so I let the chirping of the crickets fan my brain for awhile. But soon the image of thousands of pairs of legs being rubbed together was only fanning the flames of my desire. I then flung my arms over my head, trying desperately to find some breathable air. Suddenly, I noticed something lifting the curtains of the window. There was a rustling sound coming from outside. Then words were being whispered to me through the window screen. They were too subtle at first, so I slid off the bed and crept closer, listening more intently. And there they were again. “. . . let it pour . . .” My heart began to throb and my mouth felt dry. I found it hard to breathe, so I grabbed the keys from the dresser. The night air outside was warm, except for a light breeze. The lights of Willingsport lit the sky, clouding out most of the stars. As I unlocked the car door, I could hear the words again coming from the end of the parking lot, this time being whispered more loudly. “. . . LET IT POUR . . .” The streets were full of the dancing shadows of trees, and every stop sign I came to vanished before my eyes. Seven blocks later, the familiar buildings of the university campus stood like ghosts, and in the middle of a humid August night, I found myself running across the open lawn of Fellowship Square, the dew from the grass splashing my ankles and nothing but a long t-shirt and panties to protect me from the saturated air. A rumbling noise pursued from the west, and in front of me rose the dark swaying shape of the oak tree at the center of the Square. There stood the live oak offering me cool refuge under its thick canopy of dark green leaves, while every leaf tapped and brushed its neighbor, passing along the message of impending rain. But could this have been just a dream? Or could it have been the wine? And if I was neither drunk nor dreaming, then what madness had led me there? For there I stood at the edge of the oak’s shadow and heard echoed whispers urging me to throw my whole being under the long thick branches. “. . . LET . . . IT . . . POUR!” The words suddenly stirred images from my memory, and I saw again eyes staring deep into my own and felt once more a hand gently squeezing my shoulder, then one of my breasts. The next image was another hand slipping deep inside my pants, then soft lips being pressed wet and warm against my neck and light puffs of air filling my brain like helium. Yet these were but shadows to the things that were actually spoken on such occasions, the intimate things whispered to me during that summer of my twentieth year, words left floating in my brain and meant to lure me out of my shell. It was those things that had excited me the most. The most personal things that had ever been and the most illicit things that would ever be, if I had only allowed them to be. And such things were always slipped in at the oddest times, always with an attempt to catch me off guard, like once on a Saturday afternoon in April of my junior year at Central, as I was accompanying Jeannine to the local supermarket for some items she needed to cook supper with. I remember standing alone at the fresh vegetable case selecting some carrots and hearing two Spanish-speaking women approaching. They then stood next to me, chattering away as though I were invisible to them. Remembering my Spanish courses from the previous year, I then curiously listened in to see how much I could discern from their conversation. I distinctly remember the woman nearest me holding a large cucumber behind her back and speaking in a melodious voice to her friend, telling her that she had a juguete nuevo, a “new toy.” She then showed the cucumber to her friend who gasped at the sight of it. “Es tan grande!” the friend said. I was looking into the mirror at the back of the case and seeing the woman taking the friend’s dark hand and placing it around the end of the shiny green vegetable. She then spoke softly of how it would bring both of them mucho gozaremos, “much pleasure” that night. Both women then giggled, as the cucumber was being slipped into the hand basket on the friend’s arm. I was standing there motionless, watching their hands clasp each other as the women then prepared to walk away. I remember my body quivering and my breathing becoming more rapid, as the whole image the woman had just painted was spreading itself before my mind: the two of them on a bed, dark and naked against the sheets, the friend lying down, the other kneeling between her legs, the ends of the long shiny cucumber slipping and disappearing inside of each. I then found myself blinking my eyes and trying to shake the image from my mind, then taking a deep breath to calm the quivering and regain my composure. I remember a warm hand suddenly being laid on my shoulder, while another was gently prying my fingers from around a thick carrot in the case. There was a woman’s floral scent enveloping me, and light puffs of air entering my ear, as this stranger holding me close from behind then shared one of her most intimate experiences with me. With whispered words she spoke, “once, while on tour in the South Pacific, I let two Filipino women rub palm oil all over my body. Then they leaned me against a tall palmetto and showed me the pleasures of island love.” Her other hand then glided across my back and gently held my shoulder. I remember seeing her select two cucumbers from the case, examine them closely, then drop the larger of the two into the plastic bag in my hand. She then smiled at me and winked, before turning and slowly walking away. I remember following with my eyes the slender form of her body, fitted so nicely into a sleeveless pantsuit draped with a sheer green poncho that shimmered and fluttered with her movements. I was watching the woman as she then disappeared around a corner at the far end of the aisle, while wondering how she could have known what I had been thinking. It was then that I noticed the plastic bag no longer in my hand but lying on the floor. I was scooping up its spilt contents, as Jeannine was approaching with the shopping cart. With a sigh she said, “Oh, well! I was going to have to wash them off anyway. Just drop them in the basket. And what’s with the cucumber?” “Jeannine,” I said, “did you know they have palm trees in the Philippines?” “Of course, silly,” she said, “everybody knows that.” “I didn’t,” I said. That had been my first personal encounter with the beautiful and talented Dr. Laurel Grey. She was a gifted concert pianist who joined the faculty of the Brown School of Music during my freshman year. Many wanted to study with her, including myself. But her roster of students quickly filled up, and I remained stuck for two long years with the aging Mrs. Faust, senior piano faculty member and a woman of staunch Puritan values. Mrs. Faust did not like Laurel and took every opportunity to make her views known to me. Laurel was in her mid 30’s and highly accomplished, but her youth and success was not all that earned her the hatred of the finicky Mrs. Faust. For you see, there was nothing formal or condescending about Laurel Grey. She was as casual and unpredictable as a summer storm, yet just as inevitable. Her eyes were gray, like her name, and her short blond hair, windswept and falling just to her shoulders, lacked only some autumn leaves stuck within it. Irreverent best described the way she dressed, going from what looked like a school girl’s uniform with white tennis shoes, dark fish-net hose and a daringly short skirt to black leather boots, tight studded jeans, a black tank top and deep purple lipstick and eye shadow. One day in the middle of May, while I was dutifully practicing my scales for the nodding Mrs. Faust, the door to her studio suddenly opened. And there was Laurel, wearing a dark green pin-striped vest and matching slacks with a white blouse and a red tie loosened at the collar. Her lips were ruby red, and the top two buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing a beautiful pearl necklace underneath. It was the most seductive outfit I had seen her wear yet. “Dr. Grey,” said Mrs. Faust, “it is customary to knock before entering another faculty member’s studio.” “It is?” asked Laurel. “Well, customs do come and go, don’t they? Just like the leaves on the trees? By the way, here are those student evaluations you requested.” Her voice was like velvet, and the whole time Laurel was there her attention seemed focused more on this shy and uninteresting girl sitting at the piano than on the prim and properly attired Mrs. Faust. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Faust, “but I would have preferred that you had brought these to me at another time. As you can see, I have a student.” “Oh, I’m sure Elise won’t mind,” said Laurel. “After all, she’s so much further along than the other students. It wouldn’t surprise me if we should soon see her true talent emerge, as she begins to blossom on her own.” “Elise is my student, Dr. Grey,” said Mrs. Faust. “I will monitor her progress and determine when she is ready to advance. Some of us did not have gifts handed to us at birth.” “But who said Elise’s real life had already begun?” asked Laurel. “Her musical talent, among other things, is still in embryo and will soon burst forth of its own. Of this I am sure.” As she turned to go, Laurel beamed a warm and vibrant smile my way then winked her eye. I felt as though I was being summoned to follow her. “Oh, the nerve!” exclaimed the perturbed Mrs. Faust. “She must think she owns the world, and all because she played a Beethoven concerto with the New York Philharmonic before she was 18. You will do well, Elise, not to take after her example.” Despite Mrs. Faust’s assessment of her, I immediately developed a fondness and admiration for Laurel. For she could see even then that I was not just this shy and quiet girl with long brown hair and glasses who everyone thought spent all of her free time either in the library or practicing piano; nor did she think that I was just this silly girl everyone laughed at because she occasionally dropped or tripped over things. Somehow Laurel understood the real me, even if I myself did not. And her presence, whether up on stage or simply walking by in the hallway, seemed always to awaken in me something I had never quite come to terms with, a longing, a feeling, vague yet ever present. And the words she would slip into my ear that summer would become like pieces of bread scattered and left floating on the surface of a dark pond, set there to lure something deep within me to the surface. It was early June, when the indomitable Mrs. Faust was finally persuaded to retire. An opening occurred in Laurel’s studio, and I was immediately placed there at her request. And even though the semester was ended, a lesson was scheduled for me, and it was during that lesson that I remember her commenting on the oak in the Square. But not before she kissed me. I mean, really kissed me. When I entered her studio that morning, she smiled warmly, hugged me close, then kissed me right on the lips. It lasted just a second, maybe two. If it had lasted an hour, I could not tell. It was such an affectionate kiss, and I was so stunned by it that I let one, then two books slip from my arms. Laurel glided back to where she had been standing next to the window. The long silk blouse she had on, un-tucked and with its sleeves rolled up, swished and shimmered with the warm breeze from under the raised sash. Most of the oldest buildings of the university faced Fellowship Square, so the oak was quite visible from the window of Laurel’s studio. “Have you noticed the magnificent oak in the Square today?” she asked. “How inviting its dark shade is?” She continued to stare out the window, as I was gathering up my books from the floor and setting everything on the edge of the piano. I watched her standing there in the golden light of late morning. It was the first time I had ever gotten a good look at her, and I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. It was also the first time I had been in her studio, and its furnishings were quite exquisite. Of course, like most of them it was small with beige plaster walls and the obligatory baby grand and ceiling fan. But whereas most instructors had a desk piled with papers, Laurel’s was chuffed into a corner and draped with an oriental-style table cloth. What looked like a Japanese tea set was displayed on top and on the wall behind hung a samurai sword beneath a photograph of a naval aircraft carrier with smoke billowing from its deck. I was later to learn that the decanter on the desk actually contained sake. The piano was rolled onto a Persian rug and in its curve stood a 3-foot tall replica of the Venus de Milo with Mardi Gras beads around its neck. A couple of plants were set here and there. Photographs lined the wall behind the piano, mostly of Laurel with other people, while other framed pictures and honors sat in a box on the floor. A large print of Delacroix’s “Liberty Leading the People” hung on the opposite wall, and under the print sat a wicker settee with red cushions. Finally, in the far corner stood a large steamer trunk open and containing stacks of old piano scores, a treasure chest to my mind’s eye. After taking in the room and seeing that Laurel was still occupied with the view from the window, I decided to sit at the piano and demonstrate for her what I had learned thus far. “I thought I’d start with a Chopin piece I’ve been practicing,” I said, “if that’s alright with you.” Laurel said nothing. So I sat at the piano and quickly fumbled with the pages on the stand. As I played, my fingers continually stumbled over notes that I thought had been mastered. My hands seemed unwilling to cooperate with my brain, causing me to constantly start whole phrases over again. After finally reaching the end of the piece, I let my shoulders droop in defeat. I wanted to crawl into the piano and close the lid, hiding myself from what was sure to be stark criticism from Laurel. I slowly turned to see what expression would be on her face this time. She was still staring out the window, lost in whatever it was that had captured her gaze. She seemed to have not even heard my playing. “Dr. Grey?” I said. “Elise,” said Laurel without turning from the window, “do you always try to do what is expected of you?” “I always try to do my best,” I said, fighting back a tear. “I try to do what is required of me, what all my teachers tell me to do. If I’ve failed you, then please don’t be mad at me.” I turned toward the piano, trying to hide my shame from her. My head drooped, and tears filled my eyes. I lightly stroked the keyboard, thinking of how much I loved playing it. I was ready to run from the room, and then, I felt Laurel seating herself beside me and placing her arm around my shoulder. She lifted my chin and brushed the hair and the tears from my face. “My dear Elise,” she said. “You haven’t failed me. After all, it’s only your first lesson with me, and being a little anxious is understandable.” “But I know I could have done better,” I said. “It’s just that I sometimes stumble a lot and can’t help it.” “Always remember, Elise,” she said, “when you stumble, whether physically, mentally or emotionally, it is only because you have made yourself a prisoner to the wishes of others, or to your own desires. You must never give them what they want, Elise, but only what they deserve.” Laurel continued to caress my cheek. She seemed to be looking deep into my eyes, and I felt the tip of her thumb lightly brushing my lower lip. I believed that she was about to kiss me again, and I could feel my heart throbbing in my chest. Then she looked from side to side, and smiled a most mischievous smile. “Do you know what I want to do right now?” she asked. “What I really want to do? More than anything?” She carefully drew back the hair from my neck and brought her lips close to my ear. I could feel once more the warmth of her breath against my cheek and her luscious scent enveloping me, causing my heart to increase its throbbing. “I want to run to the oak,” she whispered, “embrace it, kiss it, press its leaves against my bare breasts. I want to lie within the cradle of its roots and fall asleep to the swaying of its branches.” Laurel pulled away and looked again into my wide-open eyes. No one had ever shared such intimate thoughts with me before. The prudish Mrs. Faust certainly would never have said such a thing, nor would she even have heard of it. It was exhilarating, yet frightening at the same time. “And you, Elise Richardson,” she said, “what do you want to do? Stay here and try to decipher the scribblings of a lonely man who’s been dead for over a hundred years, or come with me and lie naked in the shadow of the oak?” I was stunned by what I was hearing, and yet for a few seconds I actually found myself wanting to let Laurel chase me naked across Fellowship Square in front of everyone. It was the strangest, the most wicked desire I had ever felt. But the candle that had been lit within my mind could not hold its flame for long, partly from a lack of nerve and partly from a deathly fear of being once more made to look like a fool. Having entrusted my heart to someone before and seen it carelessly handled like a toy, I blinked and averted my eyes from Laurel’s gaze. She then softened her smile as if she understood. “But we must not give in to our desires just yet,” she said, then set a pair of reading glasses on the tip of her nose. “Nor will we do what is expected of us, either. We’ll give ourselves instead a much deserved lesson in passion from the pen of Mr. Chopin.” The Prelude was a short piece, little more than a minute long, but that day Laurel helped turn it into the most sensual experience of deep passion. While her right hand waved gracefully in tempo with the meter, her left hand squeezed then slowly relaxed its hold on my arm. My fingers walked the keys more smoothly this time, breathing in the notes of the melody deeply, but always remaining under the control of Laurel’s hand squeezing and telling them to hold each breath just a little longer. I could feel my heart throbbing in sync with the pulsating accompaniment, and as another sequence of phrases began, Laurel’s squeezing hand would lay on top of my shoulder with its fingers massaging the muscle, pressing it then relaxing, pressing, relaxing. While a fragment of the melody was being strummed, her fingers would walk up and down my neck as if stroking the strings of a harp. A warm and invigorating sensation coursed through my body and energized my hands so that they seemed to glide effortlessly over the keys. The second theme repeatedly rolled under my fingers, and Laurel swayed my body in rhythm with hers, immersing me in the throes of her passion until we sank quietly together into the deepest note. With the final return of the main melody, the Prelude took its last breath, and Laurel’s waving hand floated gently like a falling leaf and landed over my heart. She pulled me closer to her and pressed her lips firmly against my cheek, then lightly against my ear. A Rose for Laurel “Say you’ll have lunch with me under the oak,” she whispered. A gush of air was flipping the pages on the stand, as my fingers were slipping one by one from the keyboard. I remember sitting in a stall of the restroom afterwards and slipping my fingers under the waist band of my panties. Creeping over the bushy curls, they encountered the ones that had become moist. I then quickly withdrew them and wondered, how could I have been thinking of Laurel in that way? How could I have let myself lose control? But I had been thinking of Laurel and had become so very aroused, by her hand on my shoulder, her fingers on my neck, the sweet taste of her lips in mine, and the passionate words she had whispered in my ear. Nervously and uncontrollably, I was letting my fingers slip a second time under the waist band and finding once more the moist curls, then hesitating before moving further down. I remember it feeling like stepping into a warm bath, as my fingers then tasted the sopping labia and my mind engaged itself with thoughts of Laurel. With my eyes closed, I then slowly and gently caressed the extended clitoris under its sheaf. The music of it was like a thick string being strummed repeatedly deep under my skin with its sound resonating throughout my belly and thighs, while reverberating notes of a melody were floating high in my head. I was quivering with delight, as I quickly slid the panties toward my knees and continued to stroke my clit with steadier emphasis. I was trying desperately to chase the notes before they could fade, but then they suddenly returned with an undeniable vengeance. A counterpoint melody soon followed, then another melody on top of that, then another and another and . . . Feeling the onset of orgasm, I gripped and twisted the panties, as my body tensed. Suddenly, I was being overwhelmed with waves of sweet symphonic inundations. But I dared not cry out. Instead, I tilted my head back and clinched my teeth, letting the warm liquid drip from my dangling fingers as the music faded into silence. Only then, after straining a deep sigh, did I release my hold on the elastic fabric. I then whispered to myself, “Yes, my dear Laurel! You may have me . . . for lunch . . . under the oak!” From that day, I began spending more time with Laurel, having lunch with her each day under the oak in the Square, shopping with her on weekends, listening to her rehearse on Thursday evenings. She told me of the many places where she had been, the people she had met and performed with or learned from, the many accolades and admirers. She said that the critics had dubbed her “The Grey Butterfly,” because of the way her hands seemed to “flutter” over the keyboard. “And what about Elise?” she would often ask while stroking my hair. “What secret memories lie hidden behind those pretty green eyes? What mysterious pasts and forbidden encounters?” “Well, nothing like that,” I would say with a chuckle. “Just the usual stuff, kind of dull and average.” “Not so average,” Laurel would say, “to my mind, at least. I sense a passion, a daring, something not yet set loose, but waiting for the right moment, the right touch to make it come alive.” It was the way she persisted that made me want to believe her. I often found myself after a shower, staring into the full-length mirror on the closet door, trying to see myself with Laurel’s eyes. I would pull loose the strap and let the bathrobe fall open, then spread the flaps further till more had been revealed. But the breasts would just hang there plainly, and the wedge of dark curls at the base of the belly would hold no special appeal. At such times I thought that perhaps I had misunderstood, perhaps there had been something more that was being overlooked. What that something was seemed always to elude me, until that one morning in early August when long slender fingers would caress the bud of my rose and coax it to peep open. I remember a thick fog hanging over the university lake that morning, as Laurel draped her long slender fingers over and around my hand. She had told me how she liked going for long walks early in the morning and had asked if I wanted to join her. When she picked me up in her car one Sunday before dawn, she was wearing a tight-fitting jumpsuit, burgundy with white trim, a sharp contrast to the plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants I wore. We casually walked hand in hand along the paved track that followed the lake’s shore, my hand in hers of course, neither of us saying anything. Laurel seemed so sure of where we were going, that I felt like I was merely following along. After a few moments of walking, I could feel her caressing the backs of my fingers with her thumb, occasionally inserting it between the two middle fingers and stroking them length-wise. The gesture seemed rather peculiar, but at the same time strangely stimulating. When I reciprocated by caressing her fingers, it caused her hand to tighten its hold and her thumb to increase its rubbing and penetration. This in turn led me to increase my stroking, as well. I felt my breathing becoming more labored as our hands continued their intertwining. We quickened our pace, hurrying to I knew not where. Suddenly, the early morning stroll had become a passion-filled dash. When we came to a small pier to which a row boat was tied, Laurel stopped abruptly and gasped, pulling me close to her. “Oh, Elise!” she said. “A boat! Let’s take it and go out onto the water.” “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it belongs to someone.” “Then why would they leave it here,” she asked, “if not to share its use with others?” Laurel quickly walked to the end of the pier, dragging me with her. She easily stepped into the boat, while I was more cautious, holding onto the pier and carefully setting my feet in one at a time. “Untie us from the pier, Elise,” said Laurel. I slipped the rope from the post and no sooner had seated myself, when Laurel was stroking the water with the oars. The shore disappeared behind the bleak fog, as Laurel moved us further out into the lake. “This is so much more fun than walking,” she said. “Don’t you think, Elise?” “It would be nicer, if we could see where we’re going,” I said. “But the mystery of not knowing, Elise,” she said, “that makes it so much more exciting, so much more intriguing.” Laurel smiled and stared at me as she repeatedly extended her arms and drew the handles of the oars close to her body. I felt as though I was being abducted. Our earlier hand wrestling still had my heart pounding, not knowing what to expect next. After several more strokes, Laurel stopped rowing. “My arms are already tired,” she said. “Would you like to row some?” “But I’ve never done it before,” I said. “It’s easy,” she said. “Just come and sit between my legs and I’ll show you.” I crawled over the middle seat and turned, holding onto the sides of the boat. Laurel made room for me on her seat, and I settled between her legs. “Now take the handles,” she said, “and I’ll guide you for awhile.” The handles of the oars seemed large in my hands. Laurel placed her hands over mine and helped me lift their ends out of the water. As we extended our arms and settled the ends back down, she leaned her body more into mine. Drawing the handles toward my chest, I felt the weight of the water in my hands and Laurel pulling my body closer to hers. With a calming voice, she said, “just relax and breathe deeply with each stroke.” She inhaled with me as we once more pulled on the oars. Then, we exhaled together, before attempting another stroke. Soon, I was rowing the boat alone, as Laurel rested her hands on my shoulders and began massaging them. “You’re doing fine, Elise,” she said. “Just loosen up a bit and keep breathing.” I felt a slight soreness growing in my arms, but Laurel’s hands seemed to be soothing the muscles, and I began to feel more relaxed as the rowing became easier. As I continued rowing, Laurel slipped her arms around my waist and held me close. She continued to breathe with me, squeezing my body slightly with each inhaling, sighing into my ear with each exhaling. I began to shiver in the cool damp air, but somehow felt comforted within the warm embrace of Laurel’s body. She then placed her hands over mine and slowed the movement of the oars. “Let’s let the boat drift for awhile,” she said. My hands slipped from the handles and laid on my knees. I was breathing heavily from the exertion. My arms felt weak, and my head felt light. Laurel then took my hands in hers and drew them close to my waist. The eddies forming at the back of the boat twirled softly, as the fog closed in behind. “Let’s leave the cares of the world behind us,” said Laurel, “and let the boat take us where it will. We’ll let ourselves become lost in the fog and forget who we once were.” “Yes,” I found myself almost unconsciously saying, “we’ll drift into a world of dreams and forgetfulness, losing ourselves in the timeless mists of dawn. Our souls merging with . . .” “Why, Elise!” said Laurel. “But I should have known you were the poetical type. Share some more of your beautiful words with me.” “But I’m not really sure where that came from,” I said, blinking my eyes. “And I’m not sure if I can do it again.” “In time,” she said, “it’ll come again.” In the middle of the fog-filled lake, I had been on the verge of opening my heart to Laurel, of letting myself go. The words had seemed to flow so easily, but for some reason the valve had been shut and the threatening surge abated. My inability to continue made me wonder if I had let her down again, but then I felt her hand on my cheek and my hair being drawn away from my neck. Her lips were pressed lightly against the base of my neck, then higher up, then just under my ear. My pulse was quickening in response, anticipating more whispered words to be scattered and consumed. “Oh, Elise,” she whispered, “you have such beauty hidden within you. If only you would reveal more of it to me. If only you would let me . . .” I felt her hand slowly sliding down my neck to my chest then over one of my breasts, cupping it within her palm, her fingers closing around it and squeezing slightly. I felt both stunned and stimulated by the gesture, and when she brought her other hand up and cupped the other breast, the two hands gently constricting in unison, I thought I was going to pee on myself. But somehow I knew that was not it. The sureness of her hands was causing a warm and electrifying sensation to flow over my skin, culminating in a tingling at the base of my spine that then shot between my legs. There was a sudden contraction like just before orgasm, and I almost hated myself for wanting it to happen, for not even caring if it stained my pants. Laurel’s lips were on my neck again, devouring more of my skin, as her hands continued their kneading of my breasts. I felt as though I were trapped in her embrace, even though I was not actually physically confined. But in my mind, there was a struggle all the same. Part of me wanting to break free, urging resistance and disallowance, while the other half held me still and told me to get use to it, reminding me that after all, this is what I had been craving all along. One of her hands then rested on my thigh and began tracing the inner seam of my pants, moving toward where all the seams met. There her fingertips lightly stroked up and down along the crotch seam, sending electrical charges through the fabric and over the skin of the labia. She kept stroking the seam and pressing more firmly inward, causing the charge to penetrate to the inner lining of my vagina. I gasped, as my insides began to ripple and constrict. I shut my eyes tightly, feeling my whole body being lifted from the seat. Then, something cold and soft brushed across my uplifted forehead. Opening my eyes, I saw long strands of leaf clusters slide over me then drag along the bottom of the boat. I was looking up into the dark hanging branches of a willow tree descending and passing over us. Laurel’s hands settled on my shoulders and her warm breath was against my cheek, as she again whispered softly into my ear. “Have you ever wanted to swim naked under the hanging branches of a willow?” My eyes widened and I quickly crawled away from Laurel to the middle seat. When I turned to face her, she laughed. At first I thought she was just joking, but then she slipped off her shoes and unzipped the jumpsuit. As she began pulling it off, I could see that she was wearing no underwear. Before I knew what was happening, she stood up naked in the boat then very gracefully dived over the edge and into the water. After steadying the boat, I frantically looked all around for where she had gone. Laurel surfaced just beyond the edge of the hanging willow branches and waded back toward the boat. “Dr. Grey!” I said, “what are you doing? Someone might see you!” “Let them,” she said. “It’ll be so much more of a turn on, then. Why don’t you join me, Elise. We could continue where we left off.” She stood up in the shallow water, letting it stream over and between her naked breasts. Her upper body seemed so alive, the firm yet delicate breasts heaving with each breath, the nipples erect from the cold water and so delectable to the eyes. She took some of the hanging branches in her arms and twirled herself around a couple of times with them, before falling backward into the water, laughing the whole way. “I think we should be heading back,” I said. “The fog will be lifting soon, and people will be walking along the other shore.” “Are you sure, Elise?” she asked. “The water’s not that cold.” “Please, Dr. Grey,” I said. “Laurel, please don’t do this to me. I’d be so embarrassed.” “Alright, Elise,” said Laurel with a smile. “You win.” She then began to back stroke and quickly cleared the edge of the hanging branches. “See you on the other side, Elise,” she called to me, as she splashed and disappeared into the fog. There are those moments in your life, when you are tempted to do the extraordinary, but then you hesitate out of some fear. Like when someone drops a coin, and you are ready to bend over, pick it up and hand it back, but you don’t because you think they might accuse you of trying to steal from them. Or when you are driving and see someone on the side of the road with their thumb out, and you are tempted to pull over and give them a lift, but you don’t because you have heard all the horror stories of brutalized good Samaritans. Some call it self-preservation, being careful, learning from the mistakes of others. And there I was, sitting in the boat underneath the willow, gazing into the fog covering the lake and just within a heart beat of tearing my clothes off and jumping in after Laurel. I had never failed a test before in my entire life, until that morning. I finally found the pier again. After aimlessly navigating through the endless fog and spotting its form jutting from the other shore, I carefully stirred toward the pier. After escaping the entanglement of the willow branches and struggling frantically with the oars, I reached the pier and managed to secure the boat. But Laurel was not there nor anywhere around. I gathered her shoes and jumpsuit in my arms and walked back and forth along the pier looking in the water for her. “Laurel!” I called into the mist. The fog was beginning to lift, and a pale light grew all around me. “Laurel, where are you?” I called again. A woman and her dog jogged along the track. She looked at me strangely as she passed. Thoughts crossed my mind of Laurel, exhausted from the rowing and the swim, helplessly sinking into the lake. I could already hear the campus security officer asking me, “ma’am, what were you two doing out there so early in the morning?” My heart was pounding, and sweat formed on my forehead. I was ready to break down right there on the pier, when I heard something both strange and wonderful. A woman’s voice singing in the distance, somewhere behind me. “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, Elise. La, la, Elise, la, la, Elise,” the voice sang. The tune was a very familiar one, Beethoven’s “Fur Elise.” The other music students had always begged me to play it, teasingly saying that I should make it my theme music. I saw a slender figure coming through the glimmering mist, skipping toward me and flapping her arms. It was Laurel, naked, skipping and singing. She slowed to a walk as she drew near. “Hello Elise,” she said, panting, shivering and dripping with water, and smiling. “Isn’t it such a wonderful morning? And here I am, sharing it with my most favorite student and friend.” She took the jumpsuit from my arms and began toweling herself off. “Laurel,” I said, “I was so worried. I thought something had happened to you.” “You were worried?” asked Laurel. “About me?” “When I didn’t see you,” I said, “I got scared. Scared that I had lost you.” “Oh, my dear Elise,” said Laurel, drawing nearer to me. “My darling. That was so sweet of you, to be so worried about me. But I’m here now, my love.” As she caressed my cheek, a drop of water dangled from her chin. I watched as it landed on her chest, rolled between her breasts, veered around her slender navel, then made a straight path to merge with the glistening patch of dark strands that wedged so nicely between her upper thighs. Her breasts were smaller than mine, and the pubic wedge was not as thick, allowing a more uninhibited view of her plump labia. Laurel then lifted my chin, leaned closer and pressed her warm, wet lips to mine. The kiss lasted several heart beats, and after releasing me with a light smack, she brushed my lips with a single stroke of her tongue. Such beauty had never met my eyes as that which stood before me in the pale golden light of morning. “So now it is time again for the butterfly to slip back into her cocoon,” she said. She stepped into the jumpsuit, and as she was lifting it up her legs, that’s when I saw it for the first time. I mean “it,” there inside her upper thigh and just inches below her vagina. The suit stopped at mid-thigh and drooped, as she turned her leg outward then glanced up at me. Flexing the muscle, she made the green, blue and violet wings of the tattoo flutter and shimmer in the pale light. A corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile. “You do like butterflies,” asked Laurel, “don’t you, Elise?” I stood there with my eyes fixed on the beautiful and hypnotic tattoo, until the suit was drawn over it. Finished dressing, Laurel then took my hand as we returned to her car. Her long slender fingers were spread over my knee and squeezing it gently, as we sat in her car outside the apartments where I lived. I stared out the window, letting my legs part slightly, half wanting her to go there again. “Is she there now?” asked Laurel. “Your roommate?” “I don’t see her car,” I said, “so she must be out.” “Would you like for me to come in?” she asked, moving her hand further up my thigh. “We have the rest of the morning.” My pulse quickened, but then I clinched my teeth in defiance. “She may come back soon,” I said and closed my legs tightly. I turned toward the door and gazed at the sunlight streaming through the branches of some pine trees. Laurel’s hand was then on my shoulder. “What are you afraid of, Elise?” she asked. “Are you afraid she’ll walk in on us? Or are you afraid that I’ll walk out on you after we’re done? Which would be the harder to bear, the embarrassment or the hurt?” “The madness,” I said. “Are you afraid of losing control, Elise?” asked Laurel. “You know, it’s true that being an artist does require discipline, yes. But it also requires sacrifice. You must be willing to let go of yourself, to give yourself completely to the moment, before you can say that you have truly lived and loved.” A Rose for Laurel “But you make it seem so easy,” I said, turning toward her, “being so confident and so beautiful and so alive. Besides, what do I have to give? My life is so confused right now, that I don’t know where to turn next.” “The hardest part of giving is always finding the handle to the spout,” she said. “But once it’s firmly within your grasp, all you have to do then is tip it and let your true self come pouring out on its own. You know it’s there inside you, Elise, ready and waiting to begin pouring forth. It just needs a little gentle tipping of the handle, that’s all.” Her fingers walked across my chest then slid over my breast, gently stroking and fondling it. Then her hand slowly crept over my belly and underneath the waist band of my pants. I could feel her quivering breath in my ear, summoning me to let my legs part for her once more. Her long slender fingers then slid over my panties and inserted themselves between my thighs. They hugged and massaged the labia through the cotton. “Let it pour, Elise,” her lips blew into my ear. “Let it pour for me.” Her fingers were rubbing my already hardened clitoris. I gripped the car seat and lifted myself, arching my back and straining not to give in. But my eyelids were fluttering and begging to close, as the warm vibrations sang to me to let go. But then a car passed, and with its suddenness my eyes were forced open with a gasp. Gripping her forearm, I quickly pulled Laurel’s hand out of my pants. “I have to go,” I said, and opened the door. After standing outside the car and catching my breath, I then stooped and peered in one last time. Laurel was leaning over the seat, smiling and rubbing her fingers together. She sniffed them like they were fresh flowers, then she licked and sucked them like they were dripping with honey. I closed the door and began walking toward the apartments. My pace quickened, then suddenly I was running, driven by the echoes of her whispering and the shadow of her hand on my crotch. “. . . let it pour . . .” I couldn’t get into the shower fast enough. Leaving a trail of clothes in the hallway, I turned the handles and let the water slap me in the face. It was cold, and I needed it to be. But it grew warm, then hot. I jumped back and quickly turned the cold handle. Feeling the water cool again, I splashed some on my chest and continued splashing, till a stiff nipple was accidentally brushed, and I was suddenly on fire again and squeezing my breasts hard. A hand then slid downward, down over my slippery belly, down through the bushy curls, down and under and over the dripping labia, fingers bending and easily inserting themselves, the thumb riding the pointy clit, faster and faster, harder and harder. “. . . LET IT POUR . . .” The thick string was being strummed once more, as the notes of the melody dripped like water in my brain. My body slid down the shower wall and sank onto the floor, as I continued working my vagina. The water rained down on me, drenching me, but not yet quenching the fire that still raged within. I rubbed and pumped harder, imagining Laurel’s long slender fingers inside me. Laurel, so confident and so beautiful, reaching deep inside me and bringing such sweetness to the surface. “Yes, Laurel!” I moaned. “Oh, yes! Be my butterfly! Sting me, Laurel! Sting me!” “. . . LET . . . IT . . . POURRRRRRRR!!!!!” The intensity of the image of Laurel with huge and colorful butterfly wings, kneeling over me and ramming her fingers deep into my pussy, was so undeniable. The colors of her wings were woven from the melodies in counterpoint inside my head. The handle was slipping from my hand, and suddenly, the force of the contractions was shooting a raging torrent from my spout. I cried out, unable to hold it in any longer, singing the sweet song of freedom and release. Finally, I lay there quietly for several minutes, watching the colorful image of Laurel melt like crayons in the rain and letting the sweetness spill forth from my insides as the music faded down the drain. I had hoped the stream of water would finish off the remaining embers and cleanse the madness from my head. But it was no use. The whispered words continued to smolder, and the handle was ready to be tipped once more. So, with a new found feeling of wild abandon, I eagerly tipped it again and again and again. The thick string was strummed with greater fury, as the colors reassembled themselves into more dazzling and fantastic wings fluttering over me and drenching me with showers of greens, blues, purples, golden yellows, fiery pinks, . . . I remember myself next sitting curled up on the couch in a bathrobe with my hands wrapped around a cup of chamomile tea, when Jeannine unlocked the front door and entered. “Hey,” she said. “How was your walk?” “What do you think about sunbathing in the nude?” I asked. “Are you serious?” asked Jeannine. “Someone might see us.” “And tattoos,” I said. “We should get tattoos. There’s a place downtown, next to that bar.” “Are you crazy?” she said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that neighborhood.” “I want mine to be a rose,” I said. “Yours can be whatever you like.” “I am not getting a tattoo,” said Jeannine. “And no sunbathing, except in a bikini, of course.” “I wonder if they’re open on Sundays,” I said. “Elise!” said Jeannine, “don’t you dare go down there alone!” “I’m not,” I said. “You’re coming with me.” “No I’m not!” she said. “Yes you are,” I said, setting down my cup. “We’re going to go get tattoos put on our butts, Jeannine. Then we’re going to go get drunk and drive down to the lake and sunbathe in the nude. I want to see you naked, Jeannine.” “Elise Richardson!” said Jeannine, “what have you been drinking this morning, girl?” “Just tea,” I said, picking up the cup again, “with a little honey, of course.” “Oh, silly!” she said. “We’re out of honey.” “I know,” I said. “I substituted something just as sweet. Would you like to try some?” Jeannine chickened out on the tattoo. Just as well. The tattoo parlor was closed. So was the bar. So I picked up a cheap bottle of Chablis at a convenience store and returned to the apartment. Jeannine was watching TV and refused to share the bottle with me. After sipping a few glasses on my bed, I began to fill heady and decided to flip on the computer. I wanted to find the raunchiest, most decadent porn site on the Internet, preferably one showing women with women. But before I could get going, the inbox was showing me a new message being received. It was from a “lady_grey.” Laurel! Sweet, sweet Laurel! Her subject line read, “under the oak,” and the message read, “they say that there’s nothing more delicious than love in the rain.” It was signed, “TGB,” and the words of the postscript read, “let it pour.” Suddenly, my heart began to pound mightily in my chest, and my hands shook uncontrollably. I set down the glass and curled up in the chair, staring at the screen. Not since the morning shower had I been so scared to death. It was as though I had been driving recklessly at 100 miles per hour, then had suddenly found myself just 100 feet from the edge of the Grand Canyon. I was almost ready to bale out, to delete the message and let it vanish from memory, when something re-ignited deep inside me. I could feel Laurel’s fingers being chuffed up my pussy again, stinging me, re-intoxicating me. I was breathing heavily, and my whole body was now shaking. I could feel the handle tipping once more, and I was so ready to floor the gas pedal. “Elise?” said Jeannine from the bedroom door. I jumped in the chair and frantically tried to cover the screen. “Sorry about that,” she said. “So what were you looking at anyway?” “Nothing,” I said. “Just an email.” “Secret admirer, huh?” she said. “So that’s what had you acting so strange this morning. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I noticed something wrong with the AC earlier. I called Mr. Potter, but he said it’ll have to wait till morning. So I thought we should . . .” I was staring at the screen, oblivious to what Jeannine was saying. I was still shocked at what had come over me, drinking heavily and thinking of tattoos and porn sites and sex in the rain. Oh, god! Had I actually told Jeannine that I wanted to see her naked? And what had possessed me to flavor my tea with . . .? But it was so wickedly delicious, and I wanted more. I really did want to see Jeannine naked. She looked so delectable standing there in the doorway in her nighty. And I really did want a tattoo, a rose for Laurel’s butterfly to play with. And I wanted more than anything to have delicious sex with Laurel in the rain. Never having had sex before in my life, I wanted it wet and wild and with none other than the Grey Butterfly herself fluttering over my rose as it blossomed in the rain. So that is how I came to stand in the middle of Fellowship Square at two-thirty in the morning, waiting and watching the branches of the oak sway in the breeze, as the thunder pounded at the door of my brain. And then, it came. I began to feel cool drops on my legs and hands. Next, heavier drops were pelting my shoulder and cheek. Soon I was under assault from the sky, as drops were coming down faster, more numerous, stabbing me like a million darts. My t-shirt and panties were clinging to my skin, as the water streamed down my arms and legs and between my thighs. The branches of the oak swayed wildly, drunk with the new rain. I ran under them and leaned my back against the trunk, then sank down and sat between two huge roots. Sparkling beads covered the lenses of my glasses. I removed the frames, and the world became a blur of shifting lights and shadows. Then, I heard a voice calling my name. Looking up, I saw the blurred image of Laurel standing over me wearing what looked like a leather vest and short denim cutoffs. I stood and threw my arms around her neck. Our lips locked together, and we kissed each other madly, held each other tightly, sheltered each other warmly. The rain softened. The wind lessened its force. Laurel leaned me against the tree and wiped the hair from my face and smiled. “I waited all night for you,” she said. “I knew you would come.” “I want you, Laurel,” I said. “I know I don’t deserve you, but I want you so badly. I’ve wanted you ever since I first met you, but I wasn’t sure of what I was feeling then. You once asked me what I wanted, and now you know.” “And so you came to the oak,” she said, “to stand in the rain and give yourself to me. I think that deserves something, Elise.” She unsnapped her vest and spread it open, then she laid my hand within the warm space between her bare breasts. The rapid pulse inside her chest pounded at the floor of my open palm. “Feel my heart, Elise,” she said. “It beats for you. For you’ve set it free by your coming here tonight and giving yourself to me. And tonight my love, you will sing to me more of your sweet poetry.” In the shifting shadows of the swaying branches, I felt Laurel’s warm breath on my face as her lips neared mine. I puckered for her, molding my lips to her lips, but soon her sweet tongue had parted the doors of my mouth and was swelling up inside me. I felt the tree trunk hit the back of my head, as she probed more deeply and forcefully. I was unprepared for such wildness and tried pushing her away. But her fingers were all in my hair, and her body was leaning and pressing mine harder against the rough trunk. One of my hands was still trapped with hers between our chests, while the other was clinging desperately to her shoulder. And the longer her tongue played in my mouth, the more I came to relish its taste and feel. Suddenly, she broke away, and we stood there within inches of each other breathing heavily. “Sing to me, my love! my beautiful!” she said. Laurel then took my hand and hungrily sucked my fingers one by one. Then she pressed them hard against her breast, rubbing them into the supple flesh and over the stiff nipple. “I can’t find words to express what I feel right now,” I said, finding it harder to breath again. “Say anything,” said Laurel, “anything that comes into your mind.” She was sucking and licking my fingers again and moaning. The sensation was sending delicious signals to my brain, electrifying it. Words began to flow from my mouth like the rain water dripping from the branches overhead. “Sunlight kisses the tips of my petals in the morning,” I said. Her lips and tongue rolled around in the palm of my hand. “Through the furrows of my leaves the summer breeze slips.” She kissed my wrist with a smack, then her lips lightly bounced down my forearm. “And dew drops trickle down my stem.” She placed my arms over my head and held them against the trunk, breathing heavily. “More, Elise,” she grunted. “Tell me more.” She kissed me again and again, trying to re-energize my lips, as her hands slid down my arms, down my chest and to my waist. She began frantically peeling the soaked t-shirt from my body, lifting it higher and higher. My arms were stretched upward and letting the dripping shirt slip off and away. “Mmm, the breeze lifts the wings of my leaves high into the air. I feel my petals starting to unfold.” I laughed uncontrollably, feeling a swelling and a tingling build between my thighs. Laurel then caressed my sides with her fingertips, while sucking on one of my breasts. Little charges followed in the wake of her fingertips along my rib cage. She took the hardened nipple between her teeth and gently tugged on it, then let it go with a snap. I felt a sudden tightening in my belly. “Aah! Yes! How it tugs at my petals and caresses my stem.” The tip of her tongue circled the nipple and flicked it rapidly. “Playing with my sweet bud, coaxing it to open further.” I felt delirious, not even paying attention to the babble coming from my mouth. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the rain. Or maybe it was just Laurel’s mad lovemaking that had me so intoxicated. I squealed as my panties, soaked with more than just rain water, were peeled away from my swollen labia. Laurel kissed my knee, then her lips strolled up my thigh to my hip, my waist, then all over my belly. Her tongue twirled inside my navel, as I played with her slippery hair and pressed her face harder against me. “The wind bores through my tight petals, trying to force entry.” Another tightening inside me, but lower than before. Her lips followed it, sucking their way down my belly, over the wet patch, then trying to wiggle between my thighs. I lifted a leg for her, and her mouth was all over my pussy, sucking it, licking it, pressing through and spreading the labia. My head hit the trunk, when her lips pushed back the fleshy curtain and found the exposed and highly sensitive knob. Words then became useless. All I could respond with were deep moans and breathy squeals. My fingers were pulling my hair and clawing at the tree bark. I felt a raging fire burning inside me. The rain continued to come down in a steady stream. The thunder rolled away into the east. The wind blew less. My body shuddered as the electric buzz shot through me. When I felt like I could take no more, Laurel released me with a suddenness, and I slid down the bumpy bark. In the darkness at the base of the oak, I sank naked into the soft mud and puddled water, oblivious to the filth of it. Laurel stood over me, silhouetted against the distant street lights. I heard the snap and zip of her shorts, then saw them drop to her ankles. She then placed her legs on either side of me and, holding onto the trunk, lowered herself close to my face. My fingers quickly slid over my slick and sensitized labia and softly touched the exposed live wire of my clitoris. I tilted my head back and parted my lips. I felt like a baby bird ready to be fed for the first time. Her warm scent enveloped my face, as I stretched out my tongue in anticipation. And there they were, her inner labia hanging just within reach of my tongue. It was so incredible to finally taste them. I licked the sweet drops that dangled from her honeycomb, while rubbing my own more vigorously. Sitting up, I ran my mouth all over it, slurping and swallowing. The taste of her mingling with that of the rain was sensational. And her moaning excited me even more. I ran my tongue inside her, and the deeper I probed, the louder she moaned. The power I had over her was thrilling. I grabbed her thighs and pulled myself up to devour more of her sweet orifice. I dug my fingers into the soft flesh of her buttocks, as her hips gyrated, smearing my face with more of her stickiness. The harder I lapped and sucked, the more seemed to come out of her, trickling down my chin and neck. The protrusion of her hardened clitoris had just penetrated my lips, when Laurel cried out and her body jolted suddenly, causing her to lose her grip on the tree. She slipped from my hands and fell backward, sliding across the wet and muddy ground. I knew her most sensitive spot had been just within my grasp, and I was not ready to let it go just yet. I scrambled to crawl between her arched legs again, but my feet slipped and I slid sideways in the mud. Before I knew it, she had me pinned down on my back. Her dark figure was kneeling over me, just as I had imagined it in the shower. “Now my darling, it’s your turn,” she said. We playful fought with each other in the mud. I was giddy with delight at the contest, but felt helpless to free myself from her hold. She inserted one of her knees between my thighs, while her hand attacked my pussy and started rubbing hard against the fleshy labia. She then arched two fingers and sank them deep into my burning hole. My muscles uncontrollably flinched and clinched her invading fingers. She rapidly stroked the inner lining as if stirring thick syrup, while the tip of her thumb ground against my tender tusk. I screamed with pleasure, submitting to the sweet torture, but I would not give up so easily. I fought back, my hand groping up her thigh in search of her own soft fleshy mound. When my fingers dug into that sopping treasure chest, she screamed as well and arched her back. Bucking her hips against my probing fingers and trapping both our hands in between, she churned her fingers inside me with increased vigor. A flash of lightning, a crack of thunder. Another blinding flash and another ear-splitting explosion. We rocked each other in the mud, grunting and groaning like animals, more rain pouring down over us, heavier rain. The sky seemed to be draining itself of every last drop. We rolled in the mud, out fingers working frantically together, each of us battling with the other, determined not to release her hold until the other gave. And did it ever. My string was strummed to the breaking point and begin whipping my insides, throwing everything it could at Laurel’s ravenous fingers. I felt my own fingers being squeezed tightly as her warm juices overflowed them. When she finally collapsed on top of me, we both laid there letting the rain wash over us. Soon it slackened as the sky was finally being drained of its strength. After much panting and many rapid heart beats, Laurel pulled her fingers out of my aching pussy and brought them to my open mouth, inserting them. I sucked on them greedily. She then brought my hand to her mouth and sucked and licked it hungrily. Finally, our lips locked together and our tongues lashed at each other, mingling the taste of our shared sex. There was another flash of light, but this one lingered. I opened my eyes to see a blinding light enveloping Laurel’s and mine’s naked figures. I squinted at it and heard what sounded like a voice on a radio. Then a man’s voice behind the brightness. “Holy shit!” he said. “Come again, 18,” the voice on the radio said. “10-4, Central,” he said. “Looks like we’ve got a couple of dykes screwing under the tree out here. O.K. you two, get your clothes on. We’re going over to the station.”