Archive-name: Casual/arla.mf

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: Arla





        It was three o'clock in the afternoon and it had started to rain. Wet 

leaves stuck to  the glossy red trunk of the Jaguar, beaded with droplets, 

and a hazy sun caught the rear  window. Bobby opened the door and sat 

down heavily, breathing in the leather. So that  was it. The end of Arla. He 

looked across the passenger seat to the lawn through the  streaked window, 

the lawn that led up to the house. The canopied street curved away  before 

him, its houses and hedges and willows and mimosa trees dripping and 

green. He  looked down. Suddenly he felt her legs  around his head again 

and his face pressed so deep  into her pussy that it was stopped by her 

pubic bone.  Her fragrance was overwhelming,  so close, so closeI



---------------------



       Arla was sitting beside him as they raced along the 101. The ocean to 

their right  appeared and disappeared through the hills. The wind swirled 

into the Jag. He shifted  gears. She seemed pleased with how he did that.  

They drove up through the hills and it  got cooler.  It started to rain, or was 

it mist?

      "Hey, we're driving through a cloud" he said.

       The car felt  snug and strong, and he  looked over and what he saw, 

what he saw, was Arla slipped down below window level with her skirt 

hoisted up and her legs wide open and her panties pulled to the side...

       Smiling like the sun and moon, she seemed to fill all the space in the cabin.

       But Bobby was cool. He kept driving, as the wind tore at her skirt

in the corner of his eye.



      Another time he had overstayed his welcome--probably--on her sofa. 

He knew how to do that, and he knew what Arla would do about it. 

"Bobby," she would say,  "aren't you tired yet?" There was a lamp to 

either side of the sofa, making the light in the  room ever so soft and the 

quietness of the house ever so loud.

     "Oh, I dunno," said Bobby, "I feel kinda tense, you know." 

     They'd had a really nice night, all in that room. She had rattled on and 

on about her girlfriends' faults and life mistakes--all nineteen odd years of 

their various lives--and he  had pumped her for lascivious details as though 

he could creep into her friends' rooms also  while they undressed. She 

knew this and she fed him tidbits, but mainly she was listening  to her own 

voice.  Six times at least, Bobby's penis inflated and deflated.  And now he  

was "tense."  What that meant was that he wanted to be rewarded for being 

such a damn  good listener. This was not going to be a Platonic relationship 

if he could help it!  And  Arla was mixing things up.  He was the only 

person she could trust.  That didn't sound  good at all.

     He had no need to worry.

     "What's that in your pants, Bobby?" she asked. "Your flashlight? Did 

you bring  your flashlight? Let me see it. Its so dark in here." And she 

clicked off a lamp.

     Sweet  talk. 



--------------



        Arla, your name is your lips around my dick.  Arla, I smell your hair 

rising off  my lap.  Arla, your fingernails are perfect and your hands are 

cool. Arla, your sweaters are  spun from New Zealand sheep. Arla, you 

sucked me into you and swallowed me into your  head and hair.  I did not 

see your face until you  turned over and said, as you laid on my  right 

thigh, "I'm just going to rest a minute; and then you must go."

       Bobby's fingers were drumming on the wooden steering wheel. The 

rain was  coming down hard now. He should go.  He pushed his keys into 

the slot and twisted. Nothing.  A click.

       Oh jeez!  Now what?  He could go back in, try to speak to her, make 

her  remember. Or he could walk off into the rain. That would satisfy 

something. But then he  would have to come back with tow truck and 

embarrass her and....

       He tried to start the Jag again, and was about to try for a third time, 

feeling more  rotten and stupid and panicked by the moment, when the 

passenger door opened.

      Arla!  Her hair was sprayed with drops but was not wet. Her face was 

shining and  damp as she tumbled into the seat beside him. She smelled of 

wool and chocolate and  everything good.

      "Let's drive!" she said. 

      Bobby prayed a prayer with the sincerity of an acetylene torch. He 

could have willed the car to fly, and kept it flying, on his desire and 

happiness alone.  He turned the  key. The Jag leapt to life. And the road 

crunched under his tires.



      From the house, Arla's sister called her to the window.

      "There's that creep, Bobby James.  I bet he's been parked there for 

hours again.  I'm going to get rid of him."

      "Hey, be nice" said Arla.

      She came to the window and watched Belinda cross the wet lawn to the 

little  Toyota.  She saw Belinda open the passenger door and start yelling.  

She watched the car  pull away, and Belinda walking quickly, almost 

running, back to the house.



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