19 comments/ 39516 views/ 4 favorites Bird of Paradise By: neonlyte I feel thoroughly embarrassed... and somewhat uncomfortable, and I notice my hand is trembling as I carefully place the cup and saucer on the bedside table. I know ought to get up but I don't want to confront him in the bathroom, the faint strains of his singing filter into the hotel bedroom through the bathroom door; I imagine he's happy with his nights work. Why doesn't he have the good manners to leave, give me some breathing space, we can sort out this mess later. It occurs to me I could do just that, quickly dress and leave, and I've half a mind to leap from the bed, but then again this is my room and I'm damned if I'm going to be driven out because of last nights indiscretions, and in any case I'd promised myself a 'pampering day', a session in the hotel spa and a massage, some shopping, a personal reward for all of my hard work. He's bound to be leaving soon, he'll need to go to work. I pull the duvet tightly under my chin and sit up in the bed surveying the room, wishing he'd get a move on with whatever it is he's doing in there. The room offers evidence of the duplicity of our supposed professional relationship, clothes left where they fell, a half full bottle of champagne, two scarcely touched glasses shimmering golden in the sunlight streaming through the window... and the damned flowers, a bouquet of Stretlizia, commonly called Bird of Paradise for the erect and obvious brightly coloured bloom resembling the crest feathers of the exotic bird. The bouquet is unceremoniously standing on the side table in the sanitary waste bin from the bathroom; it was the only 'vase' to hand. The flowers had been a very clever choice, flattering to a degree, and a display of intelligence stirred with guile marking his obvious intent and impossible to ignore if one has knowledge of my work and the motivating forces in my life. Daffodils would have missed the mark by a country mile. It bothered me that he clearly understood this... and it irritated me that I, just as clearly, fell for his cheap trick. I listen to the faint sounds of other people's lives, of people moving in the hotel corridor outside my room and their passage alerts in me another disturbing thought, how long before our escapade becomes common knowledge to our work and professional colleagues. I usually have no interest in other people's lives or in the gossip, rumour and intrigue of relationships and courtships and lovers that seem to fill the daily hours of my co-workers. I can but imagine the glee with which this 'news' will be received and my memory jumps almost thirty years to the undying shame and betrayal as the tale of the taking of my virginity spread across the university campus like a hot summer breeze. It was easy for me to imagine the expressions of my work colleagues, feigned shock hastily followed by mirth. It would be news enough that I'd even slept with a man, let alone a colleague... a colleague fifteen years the junior to me. The ramification of the difference in our ages and the now obvious silence from the bathroom herald renewed anxiety; he'll open the bathroom door momentarily and walk into this room. I pull the duvet tighter hiding the sun freckled wrinkles on my upper chest, my weatherworn skin, a chimera rendered real with the dawn. My confidence ebbs to join our clothes unceremoniously pooled upon the floor; it is far too late to realise I should have dressed. - - - - - - - - - - I'd given my lecture yesterday to the Royal Horticultural Society and received the acclaim of my peers for the long awaited re-creation of the Kewensis hybrid of Stretlizia; though in truth none of us really know if the Kewensis I've re-created is identical to the one last seen almost a century ago, but it has been my life work and the plaudits were both deserved and welcomed. Only a fool or someone with deep understanding would give me Bird of Paradise as a gift. The flowers were on the bed when I returned to my room, pinned with a simple note, 'Congratulations! You are triumphant. Dinner?' They were not the finest of specimens, Reginae, a common species typically sold by florists, and these were distinctly past their best. My initial irritation became replaced by curiosity in the elation of my success. The gesture intrigued me and I called the room number on the card foolishly intent on making amends for the summary rejection I'd given him three years previously. Last evening his eyes stripped away my legendary inhibition, overwhelming me, shedding the nagging doubts instilled from childhood and puberty, revealing my desire. His hot breath inflaming my skin, lips plumped bruised from kissing, my heart wildly beating, pumping blood, engorging tissue. My nipples rigid snagged, suckled, sending lightning bolts through my body, blanking out all reason other than the need to be touched. I felt the cold wall against my back, I'd retreated until I could only surrender... wanted to surrender; I remember twisting his hair in my fingers, looking down on the top of his head as he pried with lips and tongue and opened me, separating the petals of my sex. And when he'd wetted me and entered me I could taste myself on his lips, smell my sex on his breath and I shuddered uncontrollably, legs gripping his hips, biting his shoulder to stifle my pleasure, my bottom pounding the wall with each impaling thrust. My eyes had been fixed on the Stretlizia, petals sprung back; we are both opened to the core, willing to receive. His timing was perfect. I don't know how it started... we were talking, then he kissed me. We missed dinner. And now? All of the old and familiar doubts cloud my thinking. Was I simply a conquest, a canteen wager between the lads? He could surely not be seriously interested in me, not at my age. - - - - - - - - - - - Puritanism was drummed into me through childhood and adolescence. My parents, Catholic with a large 'C', never discussed sex other than in cautionary tales of shame and dishonour. My father and brothers did their best to dissuade boyfriends, I stopped dating once it became obvious I was to be 'chaperoned' on every occasion and bided my time until university when I at last was able to give free reign to my curiosity only to have it dispelled by a wholly unsatisfactory and distasteful single sexual encounter; I had no desire to repeat the experience. Work beckoned, I became a plant geneticist and have spent the last twenty odd years mating plants, creating new and stronger species through a process of cross fertilisation. In the quiet cul-de-sacs of my mind I liken my career to 'fucking with plants', you see, I'm not entirely without a sense of humour despite external appearances. I grew to be tall for a girl, willowy, short chestnut hair and no breasts to speak of, the effect renders me slightly androgynous to strangers particularly if they are approaching me from behind. I've lost count of the times when a visitor seeking information has come up behind me in the greenhouse at the Gardens with the phrase 'excuse me Sir'. It is not that I'm unfeminine, I deliberately 'dress down' more comfortable in jeans and tee shirt than a skirt and blouse, wearing a dress for yesterday's presentation was very definitely an exception. I know they have nicknames for me at work, 'coir' is one, it's a planting medium - one part grit and one part bark – an in-house joke, it's more or less in character, at least the one that I choose to reveal. I prefer not to become embroiled in the familiarity of friendship, my loving is restricted to my plants; my babies in the propagation room receive all of my attention. We have worked as colleagues for five years, different departments, his research field is nymphaea – Water Lily's – he's developing, with some success, commercial strains for Northern European latitudes. We've been out socially on a couple of occasions, mostly on work-orientated junkets, celebrating someone's success, or a baby, or promotion, the form of occasion where failing to attend would be regarded as out-and-out rude. He once clumsily attempted to ask me to dinner, it was three years ago; he came into the greenhouse and asked me what I was doing that night, could he buy me dinner. He chose a bad day. My longed for Kewensis had flowered with flawed coloring. My mood was like thunder, I told him where he could take himself. When he left I sat at my bench and cried, partly frustration with the plant and the remainder anger at myself for dismissing him so contemptibly. That is why he raised my curiosity last night, he'd waited three years, waited until I'd proven my ambition, he'd understood what was important to me. I'd started over with the failed plant, it was one of many raised from seed, the first to flower and I hoped some of the others might yet reveal what I sought, but starting over would occupy my mind, keep me busy and away from prying eyes and the canteen gossip of my latest failure. Plants were safer, they might fail you, you might fail them, but they couldn't talk about it. It was weeks before he visited me again though we saw one another in the normal course of the day and on my occasional brief forays to the canteen. I'm not sure how I might have reacted if he'd pressed his case, but he didn't, and he left me idly speculating. He'd stirred notions long since buried. Sex. What was that about? Ridiculous! My working life revolved around sex – plant reproduction – yet my personal life was a sex free zone. It was as if my body and mind had long since mutually agreed to coexist without sex. My body performed the only function I required of it, that is to get me to work and back home, and in return I kept it clean, fed it and exercised it. Even my periods virtually stopped in my mid-thirties, I can only imagine my body decided periods were simply not worth the effort or diversion of resources. That one violent encounter at university laid the foundation for a wall constructed to avoid further sexual humiliation. I share no intimacy with my body; I scarcely look at myself, and never 'touch' myself. I have no desire... and yet, when I see him taking his long strides across the lawn toward the Water Lily House I can't avoid thinking what harm it would do to have supper with him. I lacked the courage then to make amends and whilst part of me wanted to be taken out, wanted to be treated as a woman, the greater part counseled caution, he was a boy compared with me, someone who could stoke the fires of my discontent and snatch away the dreams I scarcely care to acknowledge; infinitely safer to bury myself in my work. Genus Stretlizia is one of a handful of plant species fertilized by birds, Sunbirds in their native Australia. The Stretlizia is protandrous, it cannot self-propagate, the Sunbird performs the task with the minimum of fuss alighting on the bract and hopping onto the blue arrowhead where two lateral petals enclose five pollen-laden stamen. The Sunbird holds the arrowhead against the bract and opens the petal sheath with his beak, stepping inside to reach nectar that flows from a vulva like gland at the base of the arrowhead. The stamen release their pollen coating the bird's breast and feet and when the bird moves to the next flower his pollen-dusted breast brushes and fertilizes the style - a central stamen blocking access to the nectar - and the pollination cycle is complete. I do the trick using a sable haired artists paintbrush. The fertilized plant develops a bright orange head the size of a small hen's egg, not a small hen, a small egg, each seed head can hold sixty or more seeds, when the case splits the seeds are revealed covered in oil the perfume of which attracts a different bird from the Finch family whose digestive tract fails to consume anything but the oil. The seed is defecated and new plants eventually grow. They can take anything up to seven years to flower in the wild; in our controlled climate propagation room we can coax them to flower in the second or third year. I suppose I know more about the technicalities of sex than most people but my field of reference is too small to be of any consequence outside of a few professional colleagues. Twenty-four hours ago I'd never have dreamed of having my knowledge drawn so explicitly into focus. The trick I use to open the sheath is to squeeze the arrowhead between finger and thumb at its base, the blue petals which form the sheath separate and the action coaxes the vulva like orifice to ooze it's sweet nectar at the petal base. The plant mechanics that make the vulva secrete its fluid are little understood. It is not required knowledge for the task I perform, just a device to attract the Sunbird. I've heard male colleagues describe the appearance as closer to the sex organ of a woman than a plant, I really wouldn't know about that. I apply the sable brush in turn to the stamen and the style, and move on to the next flower cross-pollinating as I go. One has to use a variety of plants, pollination is rarely successful if restricted to a single family of Stretlizia; this makes my ambition of re-creating the Kewensis hybrid tricky, unwanted genes invariably sully the process producing unwanted colouring. I admit to quite a skill in handling sex organs, miniature ones. Last night I discovered I could handle larger ones and just as easily get them to spew their seed. The bathroom door opens. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Any tea left Ally or have you guzzled it all?" I wish he wouldn't call me that. "Please, don't call me Ally." "Why not? Alexandria wears my tongue out." He's standing at the end of the bed, a bath towel around his waist. He looks divinely... young; and if he's going to use his tongue like he did last night, he can call me what ever he wants. That's what I should have said, instead... "Ally sounds too young, it's just not me." "Rubbish! What's that saying... you're as young as you feel, and you, my dear sweet Ally, feel positively youthful." Here we go; I feel crest fallen. I've never been anything but honest, except perhaps with myself, and I demand honesty from others, he certainly wasn't being truthful. I found myself thinking in spite of myself 'why doesn't he join me in the bed instead of making stupid jokes, what the hell does he think I'm still in bed for?' "Tim, I'm old enough to be your Mother. I'm not young." He had his back to me, pouring tea. He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not bothered, my Mother's older than me and I love her dearly." I can feel my face colour, my anger rising. "Don't be flippant!" I snap back, clear in my own mind he was only out for what he can get. "Don't turn around." I say, fully aware of my nakedness, "I'm getting out of bed." He gives me a couple of seconds - then he turns around. I stand like the proverbial rabbit caught in headlights trying to cover my exposure instead of running to the bathroom. We edge across the room, my legs heavy as if wading through water, his eyes moving up my body, intensely burning, I can feel their passage. "You know you talk a load of rubbish sometimes. Drop your arms. Let me take a proper look at you." "No." I reply. I'm two steps from the door to the bathroom, but I don't move; my eyes lower to the obvious bulge in the towel around his waist. "You want me to force you?" I wasn't sure if he meant his words to be a statement or a question, they confuse me. My mind floods with images of that awful first sexual encounter. No tenderness, just drunken brute force. Does Tim see that in me? I was willing enough last night, but I wasn't easy, I didn't throw myself at him; he had to make all of the running. Am I so transparent? "You wouldn't dare." What a stupid thing to say! I know I should take myself to the bathroom, my heart is racing, a jumble of thought tramples upon my instinct and I'm loosing control, no longer certain what I want, what he wants. He decides for both of us, loosening his towel. Exposing himself; his phallus challengingly erect. It is the focus of my attention and once more I'm not aware of moving until I feel the wall again at my back. My eyes remain fixed at his waist, and, as I lower my arms to my side, he smiles. "Good girl. Now come to bed." My head silently bawls that's not what I want. "No." I whisper, scarcely believing myself. "Here. Like last night. Make it real. Last night is a blur. Don't talk, just do what you want, use my body." He's standing close to me. I can feel his heat, smell his minty breath and yet I don't remember him moving. My body is tense, muscles tightly coiled like springs, though I know I'm shaking, fearful, not of him but of the desires he's unleashed in me. 'Touch me', I mouth, afraid to hear the words out loud. He doesn't move. He just looks at me, my face, for what seems to be an eternity. I can't read him, I don't have that experience, his face, his eyes, they look so open, and I pass beyond caring the truth of his intention. I want to re-live the feelings of last night, for the sex, yes... for the sex, but also to feel wanted, however fleetingly; I am willing to pay that price. I stretch out a hand and close it around his phallus, he shuts his eyes, his lips form the merest smile and I realize he wanted me to make the first move, that he needs me to want him. He's mumbling endearments into my neck - foolish nonsense - his lips drawing at my skin, the tip of his tongue scribing patterns, on the apparently sensitive skin behind my ears. He finds a spot that makes me shiver, explores, awaking every fibre in my body. My legs turn to jelly, only the wall and his hands clasping mine keep me upright. His lips move down my shoulder, I'm aflame now at every caress, willing him on, barely believing the undulations emanating from his touch. He moves onto my breast, teasing at a nipple inflamed, swollen, exquisitely painfully. I cradle his head like an infant, whilst he suckles my breast, his tongue playing, my nipple stretched to bursting, stirring my desire, rippling waves of yearning drive all doubt from my brain, I can hear my body scream, the roar of blood in my veins as his mouth continues its blissful assault. My sex is pulsating, demanding attention. I swear I can feel my labia engorge, blood surging to feed a frenzy of nerve ends awakened from hibernation. I push his head from my breast down to where I need his touch; my fingers replace his lips massaging his saliva across a nipple pinched twixt finger and thumb. I wantonly part my legs waiting for the brand of his tongue. He moves slowly, kissing gently across the span of my stomach sending tremors through my body, I can barely stand. His hands, hot on my thighs, move onto my bottom, bending my hips to meet his mouth. I know if he tongues me I'll orgasm, and I won't be embarrassed, or ashamed. His mouth covers my sex, his tongue parting the folds of skin, penetrating me, teeth grazing against my clitoris. I'm rocking against his mouth his hands cupping my bottom to match my rhythm, pulling me onto his face, fingers prying between my cheeks. It's a shock when he brushes the rim of the tighter hole, my whole body contorts and I move a hand and push him away, but he returns to the spot, his fingers laden with seeping moisture, gently probing, my hand covering his, ready to stop him, until a finger slips into the orifice and the outrage is enough to trigger my orgasm. I thrash wildly against his mouth, wanting to swallow his head, and his hand. I no longer care what he thinks of me. If today is to be all, it will be enough. We stay like that until my spasms subside and the sound of my secretions against his face ease into my consciousness. Now I felt faintly embarrassed, aware that my vaginal discharge is often thick, astringent. I try to move, to slide down the wall, he holds me in position and stays suppliant, kneeling at my feet, nuzzling my sex, gentle slow licks, each making me shiver. Bird Of Paradise He stepped out of the limousine and took the lovely hand that reached up to him from within the vehicle. She stepped from the darkness into the bright lights illuminating the parking garage. She of course did not see the light for the hood of her full length black wool cape was pulled down over her eyes and beneath it she was blindfolded. He led her carefully across the walkway and thru the double doors to a private elevator. Her body felt the pull of gravity as they were lifted the twenty floors to the penthouse. She had no idea where they were going but she wasn't worried because He was with her. She was where he wanted her to be and that was all she needed to know. The doors slid open and he led her out of the elevator, the sound of many voices alerted her. He spoke softly to someone who called him by name and it was those other hands that lifted her hood from behind and slid the cloak off her shoulders. Her Master released the knot at the back of her head and slipped the black kerchief into his pocket. She blinked several times to adjust to the light and then noticed a room full of people, staring at her. She promptly blushed and lowered her eyes. He snapped the leash on her slender black leather collar and lead her forward into the crowd. Her hands were at her sides and when He presented her to someone He called Charles, she knelt promptly. Charles lifted her chin with one finger, Exquisite, the beauty of this feathered creature puts nature to shame. Look at me, he commanded. She met his gaze and returned his kind smile. You had better keep this one close, or she'll likely be snatched away. Perhaps even by myself. The other man laughed cordially but the slack in her leash was tightened one twist around her master's hand. As they moved around the room and she was presented to first this one and then that, every eye noted her costume. While everyone present was wearing at least a mask, she was in a full costume. Her feathered mask of deeply vibrant hues echoed the red of her soft leather corset pulled tight with hot pink laces. The lacy cups that surrounded her breasts barely covered the nipples and accentuated the bright colors of the tattoo that arched over her right areola (a bright green half wreath of leaves with purple rosebuds). Her Master's initials perched at the top of the arch. Around her waist was a girdle of feathers to match the mask and her long legs were exaggerated by tall red leather boots, the heels of which raised her to nearly the same height as her Master. When a chime sounded, the entire crowd turned to a circular raised platform in the center of the room. It was wooden and stood nearly two feet above the floor. In the center was a table draped in yards and yards of white silk. He signaled and she knelt as did the other submissives in the room. Her eyes were lowered, knees slightly apart and hands resting gracefully on her thighs. She recognized the voice of Charles as the man making an announcement from the stage. Apparently a contest had been entered by every Master present to choose the submissives of choice for the evening. She wondered what it was all about. His hand slipped down over her soft auburn hair and lifted her chin, her eyes met his. He winked at her and mouthed It will be fun, pet. She relaxed knowing she was safe when he was with her. He directed her to watch the festivities and what she saw excited her, causing moisture to coat the inside of her thighs. Two submissive beauties were pleasuring each other but as they truly began in earnest, music erupted in the room and most of the crowd began dancing, not paying much attention to the stage. She was enjoying being held in her Master's arms as they moved about the dance floor when Charles tapped him on the shoulder and simply said, It's time, my friend. As he walked away her leash was removed from her collar and tucked into His pocket. He led her up onto the platform and she noted the table had been removed. Instead there were chains hanging from the ceiling. Her Master quickly suspended her, using the chains/small locks/a pole for her arms to rest on and a leg spreader. Within moments she was spread open wide and displayed for all to see, truly flying like a bright erotic bird. He slipped the lace down to reveal her nipples and removed the girdle of feathers from her waist leaving only the golden chain that encircled her lower abdomen. It was adorned only with a small golden disk displaying his initials. A thick horsehair flogger was handed to him and her body quickened. As the flogger was slapped across her nipples, inner thighs, ass, stomach she arched her back and her juices slid down her thighs and moistened the top of her boots. Her eyes slid closed and she began to concentrate on the heat from the floggers contact, which then traveled across her body. She had to slip into her subspace to keep from climaxing before His time and disgracing Him. When He saw that she had done Him great honor He tossed the flogger into the air a few inches, catching it by the other end of the phallic shaped handle and drove the leather covered penis deep inside her body. Thrusting one, twice then whispering to his prize pet, Now, now, NOW. she cried out in ecstasy as he continued to thrust into her deeply over and over. The room erupted in applauds and he dropped the flogger, released the chains and carefully caught her into His arms. That night He bathed her thoroughly and massaged her strained muscles. She was his treasure, His Bird of Paradise. Bird of Paradise "Why are you doing this?" He glances up, smiles with his eyes, mumbles into my sex. It tickles and I stifle a laugh. And slowly he increases the pressure of his tongue; I try to concentrate on what he's doing, try to ignore the feelings rising once more across my body. I thought I wanted his phallus buried deep inside my body but now I don't want him to stop what he's doing. Imperceptibly I began once more to rock my hips to meet the brush of his tongue. I want him to touch my bottom again but don't know how to ask and I shift position slightly, and my hands move to my bottom separating the cheeks, he doesn't appear to take the hint and I grow anxious until I once again realize he's waiting for me and reach for his hand and blatantly, wickedly, bring him to the darker cavity. The sensation of his finger in my bottom is almost unbearable, transcends all of my beliefs, my upbringing. I feel capable of anything, and relax to feel his ministrations, confident he knows where to steer me. He doesn't stop, his tongue now flicking at my clitoris, finding the right pace, working me up again. I'm moving against his finger, my hand over his pushing him deeper, I'm in control now... to a degree. I desperately try to prolong the onset of my orgasm, holding his hand still then thrusting him violently into me, the violation jerking my sex against his mouth. I begin to understand the unspoken balance of giving and receiving. My orgasm is completely different from before, slower, and I'm aware of every change in my body, a surge that begins to rise simultaneously in my brain and my sex, imploding, violently colliding and the euphoria of my release coating his mouth. I'm crying, my body wracked with spasm. I push him away, too sensitive for his touch and slump to the floor, head bowed, disbelieving, but without a shed of shame. He raises my chin; I feel his lips on my face cleansing my tears, the yeasty reek of my sex on his face assaulting my nostrils. He's holding me, kissing my eyes, my forehead, brushing the sweat-matted hair from my brow. I hug him tight, crushing him with gratitude. I kiss his shoulders, his neck, and hesitantly I kiss his still wet face, tasting myself, wanting to understand what it is he so evidently enjoys. I can feel his phallus hot against my stomach and wonder where I might find the courage to return his gift. He helps me to my feet and into the bathroom; I desperately need to pee, and more, but still find the time to cast a glimpse at myself in the bathroom mirror. I do not recognize wanton face flushed stranger who stares back and run my fingers through my hair, trying to create some order. "Will you give me a moment?" I ask, raising the toilet seat. I turn on the shower to disguise the noise as I pee and evacuate, the hot stream stings my vagina; my anus feels... sore, used and I fleetingly worry about infection. A lifetime of images of bacteria under a microscope lens adds needless weight to a mild discomfort. I flush the toilet and step into the bath, letting the water stream down my body, hot, refreshing, cleansing. I thought to be alone but he's in my mind and his touch lingers emblazoned on my body; rationalizing what just happened proves impossible, all my thought is upon sex, I imagine actions and scenarios drawn from I know not where, not my thoughts, not ones I'll admit to, but they exist and in them I'm impaled, my vagina, my mouth, my bottom... torrid scenes enough to make me blush anew. He knocks on the bathroom door. "Can I come in?" He asks. I soap my hair and hear him washing at the sink. "Are you ok?" He calls through the shower curtain. "Yes." What else could I say? "Can I scrub your back?" "Yes." I mumble before I have a chance to say 'no', the opportunity might never pass this way again. He enters behind me, removes my hands from my hair and commences massaging my scalp with his fingertips, he's both gentle and firm and I can't help but wonder on whom he's practiced. Taking the shower-hose he rinses my hair tousling to reach to the roots and washes the shampoo from my body. I'm trembling, anxiously wanting and apprehensive for what he might do next. He soaps my back, my buttocks, my legs, and my feet, one by one. "Turn to face me." He instructs. I turn and close my eyes, wanting to concentrate solely on the touch of his hands, not caring where he chooses to look. His examination under the pretence of washing is slow, thorough, and thoughtfully gentle. He kisses my closed eyelids and my lips. "Your turn." He whispers in my ear. I take a deep breath, immensely grateful that he thought to turn his back to me, and repeat his moves starting by washing his hair. My anticipation builds and as he turns to face me I kneel in the bath hypnotized with his phallus at my face level. I can't pretend ignore it and tentatively brush it with a finger, astonished by the involuntary quiver my action induces. It rapidly swells, elevating from where it previously hung. I watch, mesmerized until it begins to lower. "You can play with it." I glance up at him and say, "I know." I soap my hand and grasp him, he utters a low moan and I feel him stiffen, wrapped in my hand, the sensation empowers me but I don't know where to start and begin in the most obvious way by drawing my hand along his shaft. I'm clearly doing something right; I don't believe his moans are of complaint. It takes practice and a degree of dexterity from my position and I can't help but think this would be easier to do lying on the bed. With a few strokes he's fully erect and I release him to quiver inches from my face. I'm studying him intently, well not him exactly, the shine on the bulbous head is amazing, running a finger across the head causes him to jerk. "Did that hurt." I enquire. "No. It's very sensitive on the end." "I'm sorry." I say resolving how to make amends and close my eyes and lean forward kissing the end, lingering longer than I intended, feeling him shiver against my pursed lips. I touch the end with the tip of my tongue, he tastes salty and soapy, but the taste is not offensive, which is what I feared, and that works both ways, no excuse. I part my lips and bring my hand to his shaft and let him push into my mouth, he's very gentle, doesn't push too far, just the head, enough for me to work on with my tongue. It's immediately obvious that a solution has been found - for both of us - and after a few licks he suddenly pulls out of my mouth with a cry and sprays. He splashes surprisingly hot across my breasts and shoulder, his hand over mine guiding me to release the fluid. I'm surprised how it jets, small spurts, five or six, then dribbles. I'd rather expected more liquid given the size. I can hear him panting - feel him trembling. "My turn to be sorry," he says, "that all happened a bit quickly." "Sshhh. I'm not complaining. Can we clean up?" I ask, wanting to talk with him, wanting to know where this was leading, I'm already three quarters persuaded that I'll do anything to ensure a repeat performance. He turns away from me reaching for the shower hose and I scoop some of his spray from my breast and taste it, too embarrassed to do it in front of him. It's a salty but complex taste. I brazenly decide I will need more samples to perform a full evaluation, if he's willing. - - - - - - - - - - - I hurry from the bathroom and make a quick call to reception reserving the room for another night, abandoning my plans for the day and wondering if I can persuade him to stay. He comes into the bedroom, a little sheepishly in my opinion, while I'm sitting on the bed sorting and folding our clothes. "Alexandria... I got a bit carried away. I hope... " "Come and sit here beside me." I notice he's switched to calling me by my full name "Do you need to rush away?" I asked, fearing he had to leave for work. I desperately needed to talk with him and didn't want to do it on work premises or in a bar somewhere. "No. I took a day's leave. I'd rather hoped to spend the day with you. I noticed on the staff rota you'd booked today off." "Good, then let's go back to bed. Just to rest," I quickly added, "I'm a little tender for anything else just at the moment." Last night we'd climbed into bed sated on emotion. Now we were both a little awkward, a little shy. I even considered for a moment retrieving my nightdress from my travel bag and wisely thought better. I wanted to feel his skin against mine. Perhaps surprisingly I fell asleep spooned against him, his arms clasped around me. I was emotionally exhausted and sleep was probably better than talking, for the moment, talking might simply bring things to a head and I might otherwise miss this opportunity. I woke with his finger gently stroking the soft skin on the inside of my wrist and stirred against him. "Alexandria, we have to get up." He whispered. "It's nearly noon, we have to leave." "No. I've booked the room for tonight. We don't have to go anywhere... not unless you're anxious to get away." I'm wide-awake, waiting for his answer. "Can we book the room for a month, for a year. I don't want to be anywhere but beside you." I smiled inwardly, but remained barely convinced. Now I had to ask; I turned in his arms to face him. "What do you expect to come out of this? What is it you want Tim?" He looked extremely young, and vulnerable, I could see him trying the form of words in his mind before uttering them. I had an urge to hold him. I feel horrendously maternal, wanting to 'mother' him. "I want you, simply that Alexandria. I want you." I twitched my nose, unsure how to reply, desperately wanting to believe, but all of my research experience told me never to accept the first positive result, to push further and seek confirmation. "So this is not a stunt, not some kind of wager to see if you could bed me. Not that I'm not grateful." He pulled away from me clearly upset, sitting up in the bed and folding his arms across his chest like a petulant boy. I took all of my resolve not to comfort him, and not to laugh. "How could you even suggest that, I that is what you think then I'd better go." "My God Tim. You change your mind quickly. A moment ago you said you didn't want to leave my side." He looked grim, face set, and then he started to shake and burst out laughing. I smiled with him, not wanting to spoil the moment, but I need more, much more to convince me this wasn't some stunt. "I'm older than you, much older. This can never work... Listen to me. You'll soon enough tire of me. Find someone closer to your own age." He didn't reply immediately. "You don't understand." He began, "Have you listened to them in the canteen, women of my age. Probably not, you're sensible enough not to spend your time listening to the continual tittle-tattle and mind numbing dissections of last nights episode of the TV soap." "That's a bit judgmental Tim. There are plenty of young women, get out and meet a few, you don't have to restrict yourself to the ones you work with." "I've tried that. I don't find them attractive; not compared to you." I felt myself blush, I could measure the compliments paid to me in almost thirty years of adulthood on the fingers of one hand. "You've seen my body Tim. It's a middle-aged woman's body. It shows the wear of years." "Why do you assume I'm talking about your body?" I blush profusely, embarrassed at myself for reducing his desire to simple matter of sex and shift uncomfortably in the bed acutely aware, for perhaps the first time in my life, of the depth of my own sexual requirements. "I'm physically attracted to you." He continued, much to my relief. "That has never been in doubt since the first day I met you. You of all people should understand the mechanics of attraction. The plants we both work with go to enormous lengths to ensure they reproduce, often precisely matching the needs of another species to achieve pollination. At a crude level it is much the same with me. If I'm in a crowded place, a city centre, it is the taller, slimmer almost asexual woman that sparks my attention. It is simply a matter of preference. "Don't be misguided by what I choose to place on a pedestal. I've been accused before of selecting asexual partners to disguise a homosexual desire, that is not the case." He read my thoughts; as he spoke of asexual forms vivid images of his assault on my anal passage sprung into sharp relief, and I admit, the accusation he took pain to dismiss crossed my mind. "So," I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, "why pick out me? There are plenty of younger women who fit your ideal." "Hmm... well that is slightly more difficult to explain. I suppose you know I admire you immensely as a professional colleague. I don't say this in any way to flatter you; you don't require my approval. You have colossal stature as researcher, a role model for your peers and all of those entering the profession." This type of praise always made me uncomfortable, I didn't set out to achieve personal acclaim, I've only every wanted to be allowed to continue with my work with the minimum of interference. Nevertheless, I graciously thanked him, and told him how much I admired his work. "But my work is nothing alongside yours." Tim continued, "I'm simply pandering to a market, commercially valuable, sure, and that has its own importance, but your work, your passion and devotion, and your accomplishments, are truly admirable." I interrupt him, uncomforted by his praise, "Tim, where is this leading?" "I'm getting there, this is difficult for me. I grew up in a female household. My birth was very much a surprise to my parents; they had assumed their child rearing days were long past. I've three sisters, one is a few years older than you, and the other two, I would place at about your age. "My Father was tragically killed in a road accident when I was still a baby; I don't remember him at all. My Mother was a university professor, hugely talented. After my fathers death she threw herself into her work to cover her loss, she traveled a great deal; it was largely my sisters who reared me. Of course I was something of a novelty for them... the only male in the household, and I grew up with a good deal of healthy and entirely natural teasing about my masculinity." I listened fascinated, stroking his arm occasionally to encourage him to continue, and beginning to form an opinion as to where this was leading. "Our home was... shall we say, very liberal. My sisters would think nothing of wandering around in their underwear, or naked. They took my presence as completely natural. My two younger sisters continued to live at home during their university years, by then I'd begun to appreciate their sexuality and I acquired something of a voyeuristic tendency. Nothing awkward or immoral every happened. I had my fantasies as any young boy would, and fed it on their images." "What sort of girls were they?" I enquire already guessing the answer. He looked across at me, holding me with his eyes. "You know what sort of girls they were. Tall, slim, aggressively brilliant minds." "What do they do?" I ask, trying not to dwell on the obvious. "One is a linguist, ancient languages, the other is a barrister." I had to ask. "Are you suggesting I'm some kind of surrogacy for your sisters?" "No, not at all. I can no more imagine having a relationship with my sisters outside of the familial bond than I can imagine having a relationship with a man. They, the sisters, just happened to give foundation to my proclivity. They set a style of attraction, nothing more. It's you that feeds my desire, both sexually and spiritually. You have done so for these past years." I'm not sure what to say. All of this is new territory for me. I cast my mind back three years to when I rejected his overtures and wondered on what opportunity I might have missed. "Why did you wait all this time? Why didn't you ask me out again?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Fear of rejection. I thought it better to love you from a distance rather than lose all chance. I tried dating other younger women but couldn't shake you from my head." "Did you sleep with them?" I blushed at my forwardness. "I could say no, you might believe me. I slept with one." "What was she like?" "You mean in bed or physically?" This is becoming painfully blunt, like a wound needing cauterizing. "It doesn't matter." I say, trying to change the course of the conversation. "She was possessive. She assumed sleeping together implied an imminent proposal of marriage." "And that wasn't part of your plan. Marriage is not what you seek." "The relationship is what is important, marriage is just a tag; it won't make a relationship work." "So your idea is to bed me as and when and hold off on any long term commitment. Is this when I'm supposed to agree and gratefully open my legs?" "Don't be absurd! You know that's not what I want." "So what is it you that you do want Tim? I'm mystified. I'm occurs to me that you've had the best of me both last night and this morning and I'm not going to pretend that I didn't enjoy it or that I wouldn't want to repeat it. But I've managed perfectly well so far without the need for sex; I can go to my grave happy that I've had one night of sexual bliss. But I'm not prepared to resort to the occasional bout of sex just to satisfy your needs... or mine. What is it you want from me?" "I could give you a whole list of things I want to share with you. In the end it all comes down to the same thing, I want to share in your life. I want you to share my life. Simply that." I flopped back on the bed staring at the ceiling. My mind is blank, tired from arguing, tired of trying to latch onto any excuse not to follow his lead. "Life is never that simple Tim." "How do you know unless you take the chance? You have to want me as much as I want you." "And then what?" I ask turning on my side to face him. He reaches forward and brushes my hair back from my forehead. "We take things day by day at whatever pace you choose to set. Who knows, we might even grow old together." He's right in that. I don't want to grow old alone, and it is a thought that has been nagging away as I approach my fiftieth birthday. The reward, even in if only for a short while, has to be worth the risk. I roll across and rest my head on his chest, and feel his arms encircle me. "So I get to choose the what and when." "To a point Alexandria. It's about giving and receiving, the effort has to flow in both directions." I lay comfortable against him, warmed by his embrace, understanding him better, his needs, and his desires, reconciling where they mesh with mine. I have no idea how this is going to turn out but I know that I want to try. In the end the decision is easy, I've missed out on too much. I didn't give a damn before what anyone thought of me and I don't give a damn now, people can talk all they want, I only know I feel happier than I've ever felt before and I'm not going to throw that away. "I'm hungry." I unfold myself from his arms. "We can go down to the restaurant, or call room service." "No, everything I want is here. We can eat later." I straddle him and lay along his chest reaching between my legs to guide him, wanting the reassurance of feeling him move again inside me. He's very gentle, but I'm still sore from unaccustomed use and flinch from contact. He whispers in my ear "It helps if it's wet." "Hmm... I can only imagine." I turn around on his body and contemplate his phallus, he may not think this is all about sex, but for me that's all it is about, I want to be taken in all the ways I imagined whilst in the shower. And if he's good, I'll consider letting him stay. I feel his hands take my hips and guide my sex onto his mouth; I close my eyes, choose my moment and take him into my mouth. Bird of Paradise Copyright-neonlyte 2006. All authors appreciate feedback, yours will be gratefully received.