Cinema Sin

It was one of those unpredictable, tormenting delays, finger-drumming irritation behind half-reflecting sunglass-lenses in the sweltering sauna of summer, the sticky sweatfulness of global warming that fanned to a white ember the single eye of the sun glaring down from the zenith, watching the guzzling humvees huffing and puffing by on the cement city street ugly with buglike shiny vehicles spewing heat and fumes into the atmosphere, while standing in line at the drugstore awaiting the cashier’s attention to complete the purchase of mouthwash, held up by the insufferably inept fumbling of a dumpy middle-aged woman with angry dark circles under her eyes as she rummaged for a dogeared checkbook with which to pay for her cigarettes and tabloid, across from the sweet sycophantic beautifully adorned teen girl in braces behind the counter, who patiently waited with no complaint.

Yet, minus the delay, I might never have met Ozzia. For it was the exact timing of arrival that determined my position in line immediately behind the group of girls she was with, and the chance glance in impatience and anticipation of blindingly splashed summer escapism in the cool darkness of the theatrical mindlessness that caused her to turn, smiling, and say “Hi.”

It caught me by surprise, the simple word. It blew apart my reverie, severing my solitude with the sonic insertion of a simple syllable, forced me to remember that others existed apart from me, and in particular a very beautiful other standing in line in front of me, slender in her tenderness of time, breasts yet unformed on her young skinny torso clad in white Bob Marley T-shirt and draped with shiny Mardi-Gras beads, grinning with the carefree glee of youth as the threads of our lives briefly connected.

“Hi,” I said back. Her grin widened even further at my response. “What are you seeing?” impulsively I blurted, immediately regretting my forwardness.

“Spy kids,” she replied. Her friends glanced askance at our unconventional conversing.

“Me too,” I mumbled, aiming to drop the subject before it strayed to the sexiness of the female lead.

“Kewl!” she semi-spoke, semi-squealed, then turned back to her friends, as they exchanged a few words and chattering giggles.

I fidgeted, bumblingly fumbling through my pockets for the dollars I would soon need to surrender.

I thought our conversation was done, but she turned back and popped her soft, smooth innocent moist smile back into intimate presence inches away from mine. “They want to know if you’ve got a date?” she asked.

Right. The perfect movie to take a date to, with a sexy pre-pubescent female lead any reasonable adult female would be sure to scorn.

“No,” I replied, then foolishly blurted “Do you?”

“No,” she said, turning back to her friends, nervous giggling now with a more pointed edge.

The line moved, the gears turned, a conversation with a uniform-clad teen girl inside a glass box, barely audible responses strained by the funnel of a little speaking-hole as she sat lazily, nonchalantly behind her cash register and punched buttons on the console in front of her to spit out little pieces of colorful paper, and money changed hands in exchange for paper tokens of entertainment value with logo on front and words of disclaimer in tiny print on the back, which no doubt would have informed me (had I bothered to read them) that the theatre would not be responsible should someone disrupt the intense silence of the climactic scene with some bit of crude inane gossip, nor would they refund my hard-earned cash should the dialog fall flat, or the plot lines induce somnambulism.

Meanwhile, a database tallying the totals of millions-sold silently acknowledged the transaction, collecting statistical news eagerly awaited by director, producer, and CEO. A handful of numeric digits to be gloated over or mourned next morning while scanning the internet over gleaming espressos in home-offices by robe- and slipper-clad bitter rivals from opposing corporations.

Glancing at the slim margin of minutes remaining before the film, I strode with brusque impatience to the next obstacle standing between me and my escapist entertainment, the queue awaiting the tearing of tickets by a bored teenage lad outfitted once more in the inevitable conductor’s uniform composed of fabric somehow reminiscent of a sofa lining.

At this juncture I would like to clarify a particular point in defence of my innocence, namely that when, in my impatient stride I overstepped slightly, and gently bumped into the tender pre-teen girl with whom I had been conversing, it was entirely an accident. Now, it is only fair to mention that a psychologist inclined to Freudian analysis might argue that the so-called “accident” had some overtones of Œdible aggression, or that some stage of left-toenail obsession had not been fully met during my infantile years, analyzing fully the oral or otherwise fluidly directed libidinal forces governing the dark recesses of subconsciousness dwelling in the deep temples of psychic catacombs. But one should not waste a tiny moment lending any credence to such overblown absurdities.

For a fraction of eternity, I felt the soft gentle curve of her buttocks against my upper thigh. Hastily regretting my unintended incursion on her personal space, I withdrew by a half a pace. She turned, smiling, and leaned towards me, as if the tsunami of my touch had unleashed an undertow in the opposite direction, and she had fallen into the orbit of my gravity in the microscopic nano-space of milliseconds, and she fell briefly brushing her chest against my upper arm as she emitted a charming little sigh.

Marley’s ghost gazed with Reggae pensivity under shiny beads, from over her untouchable and unnecessary brassiere, amid the sensory assault of mixed aromas of popcorn with the brassy scent of fresh ink on larger-than-life cardboard standups, mixed with the dusty smell of cheap washable nylon carpeting, which fused into the timelessly accidental perfume that universally triggers anticipation of clicking sprockets and flickering images flitting across the great silver screen.

Amid that tumultuous fusillade, my subtle psychic sensibility detected faintly another element, the sweetness of her budding rose, a deliciously driving scent of young femininity, accentuated by the black underliner as she gazed, eyes moist, sadly smiling in my direction, oblivious of her friends’ oblivious chattering.

“Come sit with us,” she chirped, as the tearer of tickets tore mine, returning the mutilated stub with a mumble of “third door on the left.”

Noncommittally I followed the gaggle, hurriedly making our way to the entrance, and hesitated once more as we plunged like rolling stones into the mossy artificial air-conditioned blackness of the already-begun trailers ahead of the main feature, in a split-second making the critical decision that would shape the future for aeons to come — should I now part ways with this awkward interaction, or sheepishly follow in hopes of. . . in hopes of what? The whole thing was pointlessly absurd. I would find my own seat on the other side of the theatre, and in a few hours the girls would lose themselves in the mingling crowd swarming the exits, and that would be the bittersweet end of it.

She glanced back to be sure I was following, and beckoned with an encouraging smile.

I sat down next to her, hesitating for a moment in decision whether or not to leave an empty seat between us, but finally sitting in the seat immediately adjacent to hers.

Eyes glued to the screen. Doors of perception connected through the air-tight runway tunnel of Dolby and Technicolor to universes of emotion and sensation controlled by bloated executives in the gleaming skyscrapers of Hollywood, the human being reduced the function of a single battery powering the dim lightbulbs of corporate attorneys’ minds.

Like Neo in “the Matrix,” I felt a tug gently unplugging me from the mindlessly scripted roller-coaster — the gentle touch of a slender hand resting lightly on top of mine on the armrest. Was she unaware of our co-occupation of the shared chair-space? I sat still, observing.

Thin fingers gently clasping between my own. I glanced over, and sensed the batting of eyelashes invisibly in the darkness.

Intuitively, I turned over my palm facing hers, and we were holding hands. My heart raced. Once more I heard her sigh almost inaudibly.

In the meantime we held hands. She seemed unfamiliar with technique, so silently, with loving gesture, I became her guardian angel. I instructed her with my tender caress in the subtle art of imparting tacit tactile messages of lust and trust. Trysting digits, touching fingertips, the miniscule skin-surface contact carrying urgent missives of longing, and silly Cinderella fantasies of lifelong happily ever-after, flitting imaginings of our bodies lost in the entwinement of absurdly mismatched but seamlessly united abandonment of passion, playing in deep-running underscore to the proscribed dramatic projections before us, as we let our fingers do the talking.

Euphoria crept up from behind with the stealth of a comic-book superhero, a caped sensation striking unseen and overwhelming with giddiness while I watched my onscreen heart-throb — Spy-kid Carmen — endlessly plummeting in the manner of the Carrollian Alice. . . falling down, down, down . . .how deep does the rabbit hole go? How tiny, (the hole) yet how fulfilling would it be to fill it with my fullness?

Carmen — my heroine, my true love, my larger than life, onscreen preteen supermodel darkskinned beauty (and her naughty little evil twin robot — ah, to think of having the two of them together. . .) looming gigantically projected above us, entwined with the fingers of my tiny true-to-life lover in the sofette adjacent, as flaming imaginary bodies merged and parted like clouds in the moonlit sky of my burning imagination.

In the darkness I felt a moment of panic — I tried to remember the face of my real-life beloved with whom I was manually entwined, and it was just a blur. The dreadful thought of losing her in the summer movie-theatre throngs caused me to grip more tightly the precious softness of hers, like downy feathers or a tiny squirming newborn dove cupped in the palm of my loving hand.

She squeezed back, perhaps sensing my fear of loss, and pulled me over to her side of the armrest, so that the back of my hand now rested on the soft skin of her hot slender tender upper thigh.

At this point that I noted that she was seasonably attired in skimpy white hot-pants. In the periphery of my vision her skin flamed luminescent against the darkness, pulsing with the flush of innocent lust, and my fingers collectively dreamed of wandering the few short inches up the cute little thigh now flush against my still and silent extremity. If her girlfriends next to us noticed our intimacy, they discreetly averted furtive glances.

As the beautiful Spanish Gypsy Carmen loomed over us, dark curly strands of hair wisping gently in the breeze, my love like a little bird leapt out to soar the skies to the sensuous tune of Bizet’s Havanaise. Only except, in place of the fatal love-triangle of the famous opera, my insanely fanatic fetish fantasy placed me between the two beautiful vixenettes, (one real, the other onscreen) the two of them loving each other with tongues inserted between lips, me inserted in and between them.

And rather than ending in death, we reincarnated to climax in countless diverse postures of multiple orgasms, re-inventing ad infinitum the Kama Sutra, in our own particular edition yielding to inflation in body-count (factoring in the onscreen evil twin as desired) as we drifted off into the fading sunset, living happily ever-after in the naked golden starlight of carefree summer meadows.

She sighed yet again in the dark beside me, clasping my hand tighter still, skin between them now oozing with sweat, drawing me closer by a dangerous half-inch to the edge of her precipice, as the ocean waterfall cascaded over the end of the earth, thundering in my ears as my eagerly pounding pulse, and my clipper-ship sailed forward toward its unknown destiny, sails straining the lines as they fully puffed out with brisk fresh ocean breeze across still waters captain with spyglass straining to envision what calamity or wonder might the future bring.

Sails straining the lines, which brought to my attention another member straining its bounds, brought standing to attention by the euphoria of petite femininity adjacent in the mossy nylon cavern of darkness surrounding.

Soon the world was saved, the onscreen pop-tart did her sexy little dance, and credits were rolling to the customary contemporary exit-music beat. With the impatience of youth, her friends stood up to leave, and my little friend and I reluctantly parted our tender grasp. The sudden void of touch left orphan endorphins aching in its wake, she with a shy glance my way before she turned back to her friends.

I discreetly wiped the sweat from my hand onto my shorts, too bashful to stand immediately, lest the change in posture reveal my outstanding response to the theatrical experience.

“Guys, let’s do mall,” I heard one of the girls say.

“’K,” said my sweet-heart next to me, perking up.

“Do mall?” I mused, thinking of mal as bad, or perhaps naughty. The girls were going to get naughty? Cool.

“Come on,” my sweetheart pleaded to me, leaning in close, then whispered in my ear: “I’ll meet you at the waterfall.”

“The rainforest mall?” I asked.

She solemnly nodded. Then I looked around and they were gone.

As I emerged into the harsh light of summer sun reflected off of rough pavement, I saw families, harried-looking fathers and mothers being dragged along by children in inanely sloganed T-shirts. Normal people, nobody I knew, but people with ordinary lives and marriages that they loved to complain about.

The haste of eagerness to pursue this absurd tryst made me fumble and drop my keys on the griddle-hot pock-marked pavement outside my car door. Waves of heat blasted upward as I bent over to retrieve the jingling metal, kicking up another layer of sticky sweat into my already damp clothes, melting any remaining shred of my ambition into a fused a solid useless mass like a murky puddle of mud-brown candle-wax.

Soon I had parked once more and was pondering the irony of the “Rainforest Mall.” It was all done up in faux-Frank-Lloyd-Wright, featuring indoor atria of live plants decorated with tiny Christmas-tree lights and wacky stuffed rainforest animals (donated by one of the department stores which also featured the same for sale as souvenirs). The central thematic object was a recirculated chlorine-smelling river that ran through it, the headwaters of which was an enormous waterfall overlooking the food court, which the river ran on both sides of like a moat.

As I sat at the foot of the falls, inhaling the atomized droplets chlorine and washed-off grime from the pennies tossed into the fountain, I gathered that I had been the more impatient of the two parties.

The girls were yet nowhere in sight. Perhaps they had changed their mind, altered course, and bounced like mirrored silver pinball-machine marbles off into some other direction, with the fickleness innate to young girls.

Still, it was peaceful in the wake of the artificial plashing sound, as I wondered how many forests had been drowned by hydroelectric dams needed in producing the wattage that kept this enormous place so cool and refreshing.

Or how many acres rainforests had been decimated so that fat slovenly Sunday-afternoon shoppers could gobble their greasy burgers and fries at one of the fast food chains conveniently located here at the center of the mall.

A thin, familiar softness embraced my hand.

My heart skipped a few beats ahead, like an erratic needle on a bumped record player. My poor circulatory pump pounded so heard I was afraid it would drown out the gentle horrid music that trickled echoing through the waterfall crashing. It thudded with such alarming clamor that I was afraid everybody in the mall, skateboarders, sales people, real-estate agents, janitors, all alike would stop what they were doing to look around in astonished bug-eyed wonder to determine what thunderous booming, shook cracks into the walls, causing the earth to tremor and the heavens to rend themselves silly.

Then all eyes would fix on me, and I would stutter fumblingly: “I-i-it’s only my heartbeat, same as in either a sappy old love song, or an Edgar Allen Poe story.”

I looked around, and immediately her presence of perfection overwhelmed me, as she slid closer and our bodies made contact. The touch of her soft, pliant slenderness filled me with the ache of delicious longing. Stealing a few glances around, I determined that she was alone.

Her face engraved itself into my memory, the lovely dark blonde curls gathered in a white headband, the Bob Marley T-shirt stretched across with shiny golden beads resembling pinball marbles, the white hot-pants, the white stockinged feet in sandals, something casual yet formal.

And her beautiful unending smile, her perfect, soft smooth skin, glowing with ephemeral youth.

“Where are your friends?” I murmured.

“Oh, shopping.” It wasn’t important.

The gentle warmth of her unknown beauty calmed me. Complete strangers, absurdly mismatched, yet it felt so natural, so right.

“Let’s go shopping!” she exclaimed, jolting upright, standing in front of me.

“Shopping? I’ll just follow you.”

“Come on!” she eagerly bounced, eyes alight, grabbing my hand and dragging me to standing.

“Do you have a name?” I asked as I followed the simmering skipping steps, my ordinary pace seeming ponderous by comparison.

“Ozzia,” she turned and said.

I made her spell it.

“Do you have a name?” she asked.

“No.”

“Uh huh,” she argued. “Everybody has a name.”

“Not everyone,” I replied.

“Alright then, who? Who doesn’t have a name?”

“I would tell you, but I can’t remember. . .”

“. . .Remember what?” she demanded.

“His name.”

“Silly. How could you remember it if he didn’t have one in the first place?”

“Pretty difficult,” I agreed. “But not impossible.”

“How could you remember something when it doesn’t even exist in the first place?”

“You just have to concentrate really hard, like this. . .” I pretended to concentrate.

“So what’s your name then?”

“I’m trying to remember.”

“What does it say on your driver’s license, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“So just look at it!”

“I forgot how to read,” I said.

“Psh. So tell me your name?”

“Hal.”

“Really? Hal?”

“That’s it, I’m afraid.”

“Hal. . .” her face lit up. “Halleluiah!”

“Thank you,” I replied. (better than ‘halitosis,’ though I was having second thoughts about the all garlic I had on my sandwich at lunch).

“Like the HAL 9000,” I offered.

“What?”

“You know, the talking computer in the movie 2001.”

“I might have seen it once at my Dad’s house.”

“So how did you get a name like Ozzia?” I asked. We were entering a typical generic shopping-mall clothing store, and the smells shifted from chlorinated penny-grime to neatly pressed synthetic fabrics and dyes.

“My mom’s really weird. Plus she’s always gone at her boyfriend’s, so she leaves my dorky sister in charge of babysitting me.”

I liked the sound of that. “Do you have many brothers and sisters?” I asked.

Her tone belied typical sibling annoyance. “Just one sister, as if that isn’t enough. And she’s always bringing her dorky highschool girlfriends to sit in our hot tub, as if she were miss ultra-cool super-dyke or something.” She had led me over to the swimsuit section, and was impatiently squeaking coathangers around the circular rack, in search of something she found appealing.

I filed a mental note to pursue this line of inquiry in a more private location. “Need a bathing suit?” I inquired.

She grinned, making eye contact and winking. “Sure.” She pulled out two or three hangers of fluorescent skimpy little string bikinis at random.

A girl approached in official-looking apron. “Can I help either of you find anything?”

Ozzia swiveled toward her. “Padded bras?”

The girl smiled, as secret gears started spinning inside her head. “Sure thing. Right over here,” as she led us to rack further inside the store.

“Is Maureen working today?” asked Ozzia.

The girl fidgeted. “Um, she’s in back right now.”

“’K.”

The girl half curtsied, excusing herself. “I’ll be over at the counter if you need me.”

When she had left, I asked, “Why padded? I like yours just the way they are.”

Ozzia gave me a look, pulling out a frilly black thing. “You’re not one of those perverts, are you? The kind that likes flat-chested little girls?”

I blushed. “My goodness, no. Not one of them. Those darn perverts!”

She leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “Too bad. I was starting to think you were kinda cool.”

She leaned back and grinned, beckoning me with her eyebrows.

I followed her to the dressing rooms in back. The counter-girl appeared once more. “Need any help with those?”

“I’m fine,” replied Ozzia pulling me along by the hand, “I can’t decide, so he’s going to help,” she explained.

The girl stepped back silently, with a curious glance.

Ozzia led me to a spacious little mirrored room in back, and set down her things, (both her and her twins reflected all around) closing the door.

As I sat down on the bench, she executed a flash disrobing, and by the time I leaned back was entirely naked, facing me, coming closer and widening her legs to straddle my lap.

As her mossy-soft buttocks settled on my bare knees (I was wearing shorts) she asked: “So, which do you want me to try on first?”

“Um,” I couldn’t help but find my eyes fastened to her bare tiny labia, lower lips that had been invisibly present all along, now visible, were now casually resting in full vivid color and sweet softness only inches away from my swelling desire.

They were just kind of interesting to look at. After all, how often do I get to stare at such features up close?

“Outfit,” answered. “Actually, I kinda like just what you’re wearing right now.”

The presence in the mirror of her evil twin felt real, and with big-brotherly love, in the multitude of mirrors, I watched her doppelganger, (quadroppelganger?) reflected from behind, the sexy twitching of her tight little buttocks as she did a little rock-and-roll dance in my lap, as she closed in on my heightened member.

I reached up and caressed her peachy-soft cheek.

“You don’t mind garlic, I hope?” I asked.

“Love it,” she said, breathing heavily.

I leaned forward and brushed my moistened lips against hers.

She reacted with a foolish grin, then leaned back towards me and returned the favor, only more slowly, luxuriatingly.

I held her to me with both hands feeling enormous on her tiny back, crushing her hot, naked body against my clothed one, as our tongues eagerly sought out each other, eagerly engaging in passionate play.

She leaned back again, now my soaring angel, indescribably beautiful in the love-light that filled my eyes, burning with the ache of longing to complete the gesture, my pelvis involuntarily twitching, pressing my clothbound stiffness against her soft naked lips, as she responded in rhythm.

That went on for awhile, then she leaned back again, reaching over to get the frilly black padded bra from the nearby coathanger. She put it on around her, and to be a good sport I helped her fasten it. (That was a challenge — for some reason, I find it much easier to un-fasten. . .)

“What do you think?” she said, picking her nose.

“Lovely,” I replied. “Still, I simply adore your breasts just as they are.”

“Pervert,” she lovingly grinned.

“Why, thank you.”

Suddenly there a rapping-against-glass from behind the mirror startled me nearly out of my skin. I heard a girl’s muffled voice: “Ozzia, you slut. Get your tiny little butt back here this second. And don’t forget to bring your friend.”

She smiled, leaping up. “Maureen.”

To my alarm, she leapt up and opened the dressing room door, half-clad as she was, and I followed her behind a curtain to another door, slightly ajar, held open by a darkskinned hand for us to pass through and close behind.

And lo and behold, from dimly lit, tiny room we now found ourselves in, we could see through half-mirrored glass the very dressing-chamber we had recently occupied, only a few seconds ago.

And there she was right in front of me, in real life — resembling in almost exact detail my heroine heartthrob Carmen! My poor heart raced yet again.

The two girls immediately sprang together in a juicy embrace, kissing with nearly violent vigor. In the meantime, Ozzia’s naked buns pressed against my fullness, rhythmically rotating against it. The aroma of feminine longing sprang up to fill my heart with craving.

“Keeping an eye out for shoplifters?” I guessed casually, once they came up for air, following the example of keeping my voice quiet.

“Yeah, our boss is really paranoid, so he makes one of us sit back here on weekends. I wish he’d just get cameras”

“So much for civil liberties,” I murmured.

Her eyes kept wandering below my belt, until they just stayed there. She must have been about thirteen, breasts in the pert springy perfection of recent emergence.

“What have you done to this poor man?” asked Maureen, placing her hand on my stiff upright.

“Maureen likes to give head,” explained Ozzia, grinning.

“Mind if I take a look?” asked Maureen, slipping her fingers between my elastic waistband and the skin. The whites of her eyes flitted like tiny ghosts in the darkness below me.

“Um, I guess,” I replied, too stunned to think.

Before I knew it, she had my shorts down, and was kneeling in front of me.

Meanwhile, I watched through the half-mirror as two girls, both about twelve years old — and each one cute as a button — enter a dressing room next to the one we had been in, and begin to disrobe. Then they began to kiss.

“Um,” I motioned in their direction.

Maureen shrugged. “Oh, those two. Yeah, they’re in here all the time like that.” She turned back to me, gently stroking underneath my testicles with loving attention.

She reached out her tongue, and I watched the tip close in and make contact along my shaft, as she gently ran up and down it, triggering a surge of trembling longing.

The girls in the dressing room were making out now, taking turns putting fingers inside the other’s panties, as the one being stimulated tossed her head back in oblivious abandon.

Maureen’s mouth closed around my tip, and I could hear little smacking sounds inside her mouth as she began in earnest, continuing with the hand-stroking beneath.

I let out a moan involuntarily, reaching down to hold her head, pull her to me.

Ozzia watched in fascination, as I lost touch with reality. Now I was a monk climbing up harsh rocky precipices, making my way up the mountain to the temple of miracles, braving chilly breezes that cut like icicles through the thin fabric.

I looked across the chasm of darkness at Ozzia, spaced out with rapture. “Kiss me,” I whispered, reaching out to her.

She drew closer, until her tiny naked labia were pressed gently against the back of Maureen’s skull, vaginal fluids moistening the roots of her friend’s luxurious curly black hair, and she could feel my thrusting against her, into her girlfriend’s mouth.

Ozzia leaned forward and we gently pressed lips again, she still adorned an that silly black frilly bra, except its silliness faded into erotic beauty, as did every elegant fold of her soft skin, as our kisses gained in passion.

Periodically I would catch a glimpse with Orwellian delight at the two girls through the mirror, now both lost in passion, both having lost their panties, taking turns tickling clitorii with tongues.

Meanwhile, the monk made his way up the steep path carved into the mountainside, surrounded by patches of snow. The first sparkle of the gleaming golden temple came into sight, nestled amid the formidable slopes, opening into an embrace as he drew closer.

Intricate designs of tantric sculpture and inlaid sacred gold writings and patterns, eternal knots and twinings of signs grew as he approached, until he stood at the foot of the stone steps that led up to the enormous threshold, gaping upward in awed amazement at the spectacle.

My lips and tongue once more roamed with loving sensuous longing the beautiful lips of my thin beloved, while my member rested comfortably in the merciless grasp of her friend, the two girls’ mouths on me both busily exploring, tenderly loving.

One of the girls behind the mirror let out a whimper of lustful ecstasy as her friend meticulously tongued.

Ozzia’s lips against mine drew forward my desire, as my nasty member in her friend’s sweet mouth began to vibrate with larger, growing waves of the building eruption.

The monk ascended the stone steps, one by one, the doors opened, and he entered the welcoming warmth and musty hush of spiritual stillness, vibrations of compassion and profound peace cultivated through centuries of devotional chanting. The air was thick with the scent of incense and flickering butter-candles. Holding the end of the long taper to the flame, he watched it catch fire, and carried the fire to light his own candle, where he watched the wick slowly come alive with flame, deep in the inner recess of the temple.

The sexual waves grew and grew until finally the end was inevitable. Maureen sensed what was about to occur, and renewed her grasp, right about as I sailed over the edge of the world, thrusting deep and hard into her face as the drops shot through me onto her eagerly waiting tongue, one after the other in a seemingly endless series of pulses, like shiny mardi-gras beads, until they gradually faded away. I heard her lips smacking as she swallowed.

“Ah! I love that taste!” said Maureen, circling the tip once more with her tongue to be sure she had gotten all of it.

Ozzia grinned, moist pussy straddling the back of Maureen’s head. “Isn’t this romantic?” she whispered.

Ozzia read aloud the civically syntactic sign on the playground fence, as we both tottered, tightrope-walking along the curb alongside the path.

“Why ever do you suppose it says that?” I asked in mock innocence.

Her ever generous smile widened. “’Cause you old guys need us to show you how to have a good time. Otherwise you just blow it and make everything dull, dull, dull.”

“Ok, you’re on,” I replied. “I think you better show me.”

“OK!” and she was off running. Next thing I knew, she was swinging around inside a geodesic half-sphere constructed of metal bars, each one painted a different circus-color. “Come on!” she yelled.

“I can’t squeeze through there,” I protested, instead climbing up to the top of it.

I watched her swinging around below me, until finally she popped up her head and shoulders next to me, holding onto my thigh for support. She smiled, panting sweetly, face flush aglow with exercise endorphins.

“Uuup. . .” she said, swinging the rest of herself up to join me, and collapsed against me, hand deliberately placed in my lap.

“On top of the world,” I remarked.

“Yes,” she sighed, kneading my lap with her palm. Now my endorphins began to kick in.

“The meek shall inherit the earth,” I remarked.

“The meek, or the merry?” she replied.

“Ozzia, ambrosia,” rhymed I, ever her fan as she kneaded, fanning my need.

“What?” she said blankly.

“Ambrosia, elixir of the Gods,” I explained.

“Who licks who?” she replied.

“Elixir. Like Nectar, you know, or 7-up.”

Her charmingly frequent grin returned to lighten up her face as she shrugged. “You sure know lots of words. Oh! Swings!”

In a heartbeat, she had leapt down from geodesic multihedron and was bounding across the grass.

My pursuit was less adept, but inspired by her youthful energy, mine surged as I ran to catch up. It felt good to remember the exuberance of carefree careless love, to re-immerse in the tingle of exertion. By now, the day had cooled somewhat, though there was still enough heat in the air to draw forth a layer of sweat. . . but I didn’t care.

Her miniscule nipples stood as two scenic hilltops, the countours of which were clearly visible through her shirt. As my eyes traced the elegant line of her long, slender legs, it was impossible not to follow the graceful curves to where they were obscured by skimpy little shorts, imagination carried by the momentum of such a delightful sleekness to extrapolation of what lay beneath the thin tiny layers of fabric.

When I arrived huffing and puffing, she was already swinging back and forth. “Sit on my lap!” she exclaimed, breastless chest heaving with in- and exhalation.

I panted as well, catching my breath. Cold daggers of unexpected exertion knifed into my lungs, a wholesome kind of feeling as if shaking a fallen-asleep limb.

I chuckled. “Don’t you think it would be better the other way around? You sit in my lap?”

She sniffed the air, insulted. “I’m strong enough,” she said, skidding to a dusty halt at the bottom of the arc and proffering beautiful, slender thighs.

“Ok,” I approached, and her eyes widened as I began to sit down.

“No, wait.” Before I knew what had happened, she had squirmed out from under me.

“I sit on your lap,” she said, as I gripped the jingling chains to lower myself onto the swing.

I laughed again. The sun was still above the horizon, lighting the hilltops nearby, though we were in the shadow of friendly trees that surrounded us. In the stillness of birdcalls I could hear the distant roar of rushing water.

She put her legs over the chain on either side, sat facing me, on top of me. “Oof, ugh, uf, God, you’re heavy,” I protested.

“It was your idea,” she said quietly.

“I guess so,” I replied, feeling the comfortable weight of her soft flesh pressing down on me. Passion flowed like bitter wine to drown repressive taboos as sparks flew between the hearts of me and my beloved.

We swung casually, in tandem. She leaned forward as I leaned back, then I leaned forward as she leaned back, then she leaned forward, then I leaned forward and planted a kiss in the center of her chest.

I raised my face to hers with the ache of desire, my eyes reaching up with longing into the lofty angelic heights from which she gazed down. “I’m dying to make love to you,” I softly spoke as we continued back and forth. The arcs of our pendulum co-created pelvic motion similar to that which I longed to investigate under more intimate circumstances.

Her gaze down upon me told the same story, eyelids half-closed as her face flushed once more with the hypnotic trance of lust.

My eyes devoured every detail of her beautiful body as if it were sweet porcelain white chocolate dusted with the aura of powdered sugar. Every curve seemed shaded with sexual allurement, each motion as we gently swayed together drew me deeper into the warmth of our togetherness.

Our synchronized motions grew in unison, and the arc swung higher and higher, until our suspension at each apogee seemed surreal, the distance to the ground increasing with each swoop, to rush again toward us with alarming celerity only to be swept to safety by the creaking chain above us. Momentarily soaring, only to fall and then once again take off to enjoy the ephemeral sensation of weightlessness, only to fall once again. It seemed almost perilous that we might fall from such a height, even though I knew it unlikely.

“Whoa,” I yelped, adopting the boring rôle, older responsible member of the party, “Let’s slow down a bit.”

As the level of our arc asymptotically diminished into random chain-jingling tremors, she gently reached down and kissed me on the lips. The sensation soared into the center of my consciousness, as I reveled in the soft sweet pliant texture of her forbidden mouth so gently loving me.

Our kisses traveled back and forth to each other, crossing and intersecting like telegraph wires through the window of a train in motion, weaving together the fabric of our two lives into a single thread.

Again and again I trespassed shallow social taboos, by penetrating her sacrosanct oral chamber with my tongue, tasting her teeth, palpating the whispering kindness of her lips, eliciting now and then a little whimper of pleasure mingled with yearning. In the space of a few centimetres, our mutual lovemaking set fire to the shallow mindless knee-jerk puritanism that holds our culture in its death-grasp.

With the simple innocence of our yearning for each other, we set free every prisoner unjustly rotting for the sake of honest heartfelt passion, smashed into dust the walls constraining the expression of God-given desire, celebrated the unrestrained exuberance of Divinely Created sexual bliss.

With honeyed sweet caresses of her eager lips with mine, I saw the dead dry husk of stuck-up holier-than-thou religious extremism burst into flame, watched the crumbling skeleton keel over and collapse into white ashes, swept away into the black abyss of nonexistence by the winds of cleansing truth.

As our passions burned brighter on that midsummer afternoon, I felt more alive than ever before. My ship sailed onward, sails filled with the wind of true purpose, ready to conquer the world with my love.

Together we tumbled to the ground, rolling laughing through the water-like mountains of sand as its grittiness crept inside our clothing, then onto the grassy hillside as we rolled over and over, the stars in her twinkling eyes sailing straight into my heart as we rolled over and over and over, both laughing uncontrollably until we reached the bottom of the hill, to lay there still laughing and breathless with exertion.

Again she lay atop me, and again we kissed, her lips like taffy, tantalizing, hypnotizing, tranquilizing, soliloquizing, dually energizing. Our clothes were wrinkled, grass-stained, sweaty, sand-filled, and the ghost of Bob stared askew from her sweet plains, gold Mardi-Gras beads somehow still miraculously intact.

“Have you ever made love to a boy before?” I asked.

“Never,” she replied.

“Ever made love with a girl before?”

She giggled, no reply.

Again stillness, the sound of two human beings still breathing a bit heavily, the birdcalls of late afternoon, and the slightly closer roar of distant rushing water.

“What’s that sound?” I asked.

“Waterfall,” she replied, leaping to standing and running back up the hill we had tumbled down.

Again I followed, paying the price of neglected physical exercise, but not to be outdone by my young accomplice.

Not enough to ascend the hill, once at the crest, she dove into a ladder/tunnel of the towering wooden structure that loomed on the playground above us, a sort of tree-house without a tree, with an enclosed cupola observation-tower watching overhead.

Enjoying the panty-shots, I followed her giggling up the passageway, and soon we found ourselves in the observation tower high above the ground. Around us on all sides was green space, trees grass and flowers.

As we surveyed our realm, a couple of little girls rode up on pink bicycles and dismounted, scurrying over to the swings still restless from our recent encounter.

The space was enormous, large enough for a whole harem of orgiastic pre-teen girls. I looked around to see her completely naked once more, clothes tossed into a crazy little heap on the wood floorboards. I stared in fascination at her beautiful little rosebud. The scent of pure femininity was driving me crazy.

“Ozzia, are you nuts? Someone might see us!”

She shrugged. “Who can see?” she asked.

She had a point. Aside from miniscule cracks between the planks, there was no line of sight for visibility, unless someone actually climb up here with us. And no adult in their right mind would do so, aside from which no other adult was around to think of it.

I attempted to say something as she undid my belt and yanked my pants down, causing the upright totem-pole to bounce comically.

The magnetism drawing us together swelled to an irresistible peak, as she lay back legs-spread open towards me and worked her finger vigorously in the mysterious crack between universes.

“Oh!” she moaned.

My ship surged forward, sailing boldly with the new found confidence of unbridled passion, the figurehead pushed into the soft tightness of yet unexplored territory.

“God, I’ve been wanting to do this all afternoon,” I murmured.

“Me too,” she replied.

Finally we met in the sloppy wet naughtiness of sexual neurology, and the ache of anticipation joyously dissolved into the moist slippery trembling fulfillment of connection, as I worked my relentless growing solidity into her chamber of delights. Tissues tore and strained with ecstasy as she shifted and switched her hips with the reckless urge to work my shaft deeper inside of her.

At last I was sturdily engulfed by her caring caress, and we both sighed a collective flood of relief as we fucked frantically, contentedly.

Canvas whipped crackling in the wind as the ship sailed swiftly over the sparkling waters, crashing through the waves in refreshing sea breeze and sunlight on the journey to a new world free from oppression.

Eyes closed and mouth open in whispered sighs as she surrendered to the force of physical stimulation. “Could you squirt that stuff inside of me? Please?” she whispered between thrusts.

“I’m working on it, dear,” I replied, kissing her on the lips, gently biting and tonguing her earlobes, and lovingly caressing her beautiful soft hair, hair the color of pure windswept beach sand.

She place one slender arm up beside her head. Around her wrist she wore a little-girl bracelet of brightly colored plastic charms held together with elastic.

I took the wrist of her other hand and placed it over her head as well, then leaned forward, firmly but gently pinning down and gripping her arms to brace against my thrusts.

She sighed with intense emotion of submissive surrender.

The waves sweep up as the ship plunges forward to the edge of the world, bravely approaching the cascading waters falling through the star-studded skies into the uncharted dimensions of interstellar freedom.

Our hips press together as I push between her open legs, and penetrate deeper and deeper her darkly delicious and delirious secret mysteries, until finally the ship sails over the edge, crosses the boundary, rips violently through the fabric of space-time, and the bright rays of the future new day shine into view.

She twists coaxingly as with one final thrust the dam bursts, exploding forth a million multicolored flower petals as the swollen reservoir rushes in waves of forbidden sweetness.

My misstep over the threshold triggers my beloved little miss to step into her own blissful paroxysm of convulsive release, I feel the faint tingling pulse of her repeated contractions around me as her pelvis twitches with eagerness, at each one of the seemingly endless series of drops that I place ever so caringly inside of her, tiny teardrops of life falling into her barren delectability, until finally the energy begins to subside and dissolve into a contented tranquility and peace that passes all understanding, as we both collapse into the pleasant friendship of each other’s arms, both lustfully listening to the two giggling girls teasing and playing on the swings below us.

And we sailed over the valleys of countless rainbows into a beautiful world beyond fear, a universe of light and love and harmony beyond imagining.

“Where did this waterfall come from?” I mused. “It seems out of place here.”

“Maybe it’s a preview of the next story,” she replied, as we gazed out over the moonlit plains before us, and spied the silhouetted shadows of a Wizard and a Princess, making their way along a perilous ridgetop trail.