Archive-name: SpecMome/stormchi.txt

Archive-author: Storm

Archive-title: Storm In Chicago





    We are more than just lovers, Miko and I. We are friends. Friends

who, in  few short months, has shared far more than most people manage

in a lifetime. That our love affair is imaginary, electronically

enhanced, doesn't matter. It is far more real and satisfying than either

could has imagined, or even hoped for.



    And now, after exchanging photographs and gifts and telephone calls,

a place -sort of- and a time -generally- has been agreed upon. We wait

impatiently.



    Our love deepens, expands, engulfs. No longer content with

exchanging, and collaborating in, online fantasies, we plan our meeting.

We will each come to Chicago and meet at a mutual friend's apartment. A

friend, hopefully, who will find important things to do elsewhere.



    I arrive first and let myself in with the key she sent me. The

apartment is on Lakeshore Drive overlooking Lake Michigan. It is warm

and comfortable. Feminine. It is just the sort of place I has always

imagined she will has. There are fresh flowers on the table in the

dining room. An accompanying note reads, simply, "Have fun you two!"



    I explore, pacing through the rooms impatiently, mind elsewhere. The

kitchen is modern, with a "well-stocked larder." I tend to think and

speak in a manner which was outdated at the turn of the century. The

bedroom is soft. Lavendar accents, the feminine smell of a woman sure of

herself, a large bed. The bed dominates the room. I sit on the edge, and

glance through the window. The failing afternoon sun reflects off the

lake.



    She will be here soon. I will surprise her! My one suitcase has been

placed in the hall closet. She shouldn't notice it. She will, I guess,

come into the bedroom first and put her things away.



    I have carefully planned the surprise. It was born that day on the

phone when she had said, "I has often dream of being at the mercy of a

lover. Of not being able to resist . . ." It excited me at the time. It

still excites me these months later.



    I hear the key turning, and the door opening. Ir footsteps! "God,

let it be her!" I pray. I slip silently into the large closet, hiding

myself behind the clothes. I am able to see a portion of the room.



    I hear her looking the apartment over. She moves with less haste and

more grace than I. Footsteps approach the closet. The door opens and she

is silhouetted against the sun's reflection. Ir opened suitcase is

barely visible on the bed. She reaches in and hangs up something. I

smell her perfume. It is the same scent I smelled on the flimsy bit of

lace she sent me. It overwhelms my senses. I hold my breath for fear I

will spring the surprise too soon.



    She turns and walks to the bed. She removes more articles from the

suitcase and puts them -I guess from the sounds- in a drawer.



    She appears without warning, and parts the hanging clothing,

exposing my hiding place.



    "You!" She backs away from me, startled.



    I move quickly then. One arm grabs her about her waist, imprisoning

her in an iron grip. My right hand rests on her left hip. The other arm

snakes under her left arm, and up across her breasts. My left hand

closes over her mouth. "Don't make a sound. Don't scream."



    She nods and collapses against me. Ir breath quickens. As does mine.

Keeping my left arm in place, I shift my right down and under her legs.

I lift her and carry her to the bed, where I drop her unresisting body.



    "Don't move!" I order.



    Her eyes widen. One hand flies to her throat. The other rises to the

buttons on her blouse.



    "Don't!" I order, and her hand stops, resting on her breast. She

stares at me.



    I have taken off my shoes and socks. My blue sweater and dark

trousers soon are discarded. I hear her sharp intake of breath.



    "Don't say a word! Don't move!"



    She complies.



    I sit on the bed beside her. She raises her hand to my thigh. Seeing

the look in my eyes, my frown, she drops her hand back to her breast.

Acting with a will of our own, against my commands, her fingers caress

her breast. I smile then.



    "I said 'Don't move!'" I take her wrists in my hands and move them

above her head. Ir breasts, her distended nipples, threaten to tear

holes in the silk blouse she bought just for me.



    My hands move to her breasts. I caress them. I tease her nipples

into almost painful erections. She arches her back, thrusting breasts

and nipples into my hands, trying to thrust them through my hands. I

grasp the edges of her shirt and, in one quick motion, tear it open. She

lays exposed to my eyes. She shudders.



    I distance myself from her imperceptably. My eyes never leave hers.

My left hand touches her just below the hem of her skirt. I slide the

skirt up. Up, across her thighs. Up, to her hips.



   A silken barrier vainly tries to protect her, to hide her charms from

me. The dark blue of her panties only emphasizes them. My left hand slid

across her thigh. My fingers scratch lightly across her mound. Her

breath quickens. Her hips rise imperctibly.



   "I said 'Don't move!' I meant it." I firmly press her hips down into

the bed, increasing the pressure on her. My right hand joins my left. I

slide the panties down her legs and off over her feet.



   She whimpers deep in her throat. She moves her hips insistently. I

benb and kiss her. She arches and thrusts herself at me. I move my lips

up across her abdomen, and to her navel. I run my tongue around her

navel, and trace a path upward to her breasts.



   First one nipple, then the other, receives attentions  from my tongue

and teeth and lips. Her eyes glaze, and she bites her lip to keep from

crying out. She doesn't move, though. She will not have me stop now.



   I move my body across hers. My hands seek and hold her wrists. I look

down into her half-closed almond eyes and slowly, gently, insinuate my

body into hers.



   She shudders. Her hips thrust upwards against me, permitting my

access.



   Our love making, for a first time joining, is amazingly slow and

tender and complete. The game ceased the moment I entered her, and I

welcomes her movement, her responses.



                                 * * *



   She nestles happily next to me, head on my chest, hand curled around

my manhood, gently stroking, as I caress her.



   "That was wonderful!"



   She nods. Love and contentment shines in her eyes. "It *is*

wonderful, my Warrior!" She sighs, and laughs. "But next time, *I* get

to hide in the closet! And *you* will be the unresisting victim!"





                                 * * *





    "Miko-san?"  I don't raise my voice. There is no answer. "Probably

got tired of waiting for me," I muse. "Oh, well . . ." I kick off my

shoes, and hang my jacket in the closet. "She's probably gone shopping."



    I walk into the bedroom. "Miko-san?" She is on the bed, asleep, one

arm across her eyes. From the way she is dressed, she *had* been waiting

for me. Her shoes have been kicked off, but otherwise she is dressed to

the nines. She wears a high-necked white, nylon blouse - long sleeved,

tight at the wrists and forearms - buttoned up the front. Her soft,

black woolen skirt has risen to just above her knees, exposing her

stocking-clad legs. A long strand of pearls falls negligently across her

breasts and onto the bed.



    I stand over her, drinking in the beauty of this Ilpless child-like

woman. This beautiful woman, so trusting that even in her sleep she

smiles. My eyes caress her hair, spread over the pillow, raven black and

soft, very fine. I search her face, half hidden by her arm, until my

eyes come to rest on her lips. Of all of her features, this is the one

which captivates me most. Full, sensuous red lips. Half-parted in sleep,

and half smiling. Through them, I can see her teeth and the tip of her

pink tongue. My breath cautches as I remember the actions of that tongue

the night before. Questing, licking, arousing me to Iights I had never

before thought possible. And those lips, caressing and capturing my

manhood. Paying homage to sex and love and lust.



    My eyes travel further. Down her neck, half hidden by the tight

collar of her blouse. I remember the pulse at the base of her neck. How

it throbs with her passion as I run my hand down her cheek, her neck, to

her breasts.



    Fitting action to thought, my eyes travel to her breasts visible in

outline against the sheerness of her blouse. Such wondrous, breasts.

SMall, rounded and perfect. Soft, warm, smooth. Capped with nipples,

quiescent now as she sleeps, which swell with delight and passion when

we make love.



    Down, down. My eyes continue their journey. Across stomach, and

pausing to enjoy the fullness of her hips. Resting only briefly there,

then searching out that magical nest between her thighs. Her skirt is

draped gently across her vaginal mound. It is visible -to me- outlined

in soft, clinging wool. It rises gently in the valley formed by softly

rounded thighs.



    With a distinct effort, I force my eyes away from that lovely

rounded altar where I long to worship this night, and make them continue

down her legs. Her smoke coloured nylons hug her legs, outlining their

roundness, accentuating their softness. It takes all of my will to keep

my hands at my sides, though my right hand does seek out my groin and

begins a slow, insistent rubbing of which I am but half aware.



    I become aware of the warmth of the room. I remove shirt, and

trousers, and socks. In my shorts I feel much cooler, although the

warmth never quite leaves me.



    I sit on the edge of the bed, then. She doesn't stir. My eyes repeat

their journey a second time. And a third.



    I find it getting warm, again, and my breath catches in my throat.



    She stirs, shifting slightly, and resumes her sleep uninterrupted. I

extend my right hand and touch her hair. I lift the ends and let them

slip through my fingers. "Lovely," I whisper. I caress her head, and her

hair, gently so as to not disturb her.



    My hand moves of its own accord, then, down her cheek - deftly

avoiding the arm across her eyes. My fingers seek her lips. Lightly,

with forefinger and middle finger, I trace the shape of them. I trace

them a second time. To my amazement, she parts her lips. Her tongue

protrudes and follows the path previously traced by my fingers.

Hesitantly, I touch the tip of her tongue. It stops, as if waiting.

Emboldened, I toy with her tongue. Pushing it gently, roiling it between

two fingers, stroking it. Bending, I lightly flick my tongue across

hers, then trace the outline of her lips with my tongue, as had she

moments before.



    I feel, rather than hear, her intake of breath. I withdraw. Waiting.

She doesn't awaken.



    I gently bury my face in her neck, just above the blouse's collar. I

inhale the heady scent of White Shoulders. I press my face against her

neck, contenting myself with her warmth and her scent.



    My left hand, my right remains against her cheek, lifts and brushes

across the front of her blouse, across her breasts. Gently, my fingers

seek her nipples through twin thicknesses of blouse and brassiere. I

touch them, gently teasing. She shifts, lifting her breasts towards my

questing fingers.



    I pause again. Waiting. Not wanting her to wake. I want to insinuate

myself into her dreams, make her smile in her sleep. I want to raise

both of us to the absolute brink before she awakens, and I make love

with her.



    So I wait. Gradually, her breathing slows, and she settles back into

sleep. Deeper, if possible, than before. Her breathing steadies, and I

resume my gentle ministrations.



    I raise myself slightly, and watch my left hand slide slowly down

her stomach, across her abdomen. My hand seeks and finds her love mound.

I stroke it gently, fingers lightly scratching against the inside of her

thighs. I increase the pressure of my palm upon her mound. Her hips rise

to meet me. A sharp intake of her breath. I cup my hand around her then,

fingers gently massaging the unseen slit through skirt and panties. She

almost wakens, her arm is flung outward from her face. She half sits up,

then.



    "Shhh. It's only me, Sweet Heart" I whisper. She calms, lies back,

smiled, and murmurs something unintelligible. But she doesn't awaken.



    I slide my hand to the hem of her skirt. Slowly, ever so slowly I

inch it upward, toward her waist. Up, across the tops of her sheer

stockings. A pause. My eyes drink in the contrast between dark stockings

and ivory thighs. My hand moves the skirt higher, higher. Up above her

white satin panties, up to her waist.



    And again I stare at her.



    Arms outflung, face relaxed, almond-shaped eyes closed, lips parted,

skirt above her hips, panty-covered mound beckoning me. Evidences of

moisture at the junction of her thighs. I know she is ready for me. Even

in sleep her lust, her readiness, is evident.



    I reach for the buttons of her blouse. One by one, gently, slowly, I

unbutton them. I lift the string of pearls out from under the collar, as

I slip the halves of the blouse away from her breasts. She is wearing a

white lace bra. The kind I love. Push-up, firmly embracing her breasts,

and fastening in front with a catch even I can master with the fingers

of one hand. I place my left hand on her right breast. I feel her heart

beat, hear her intake of breath. Her breathing becomes heavier,

laborious. Her lips part further. Her dainty tongue licks her lips, and

her head rolls back and forth. A low moan escapes her lips as my hand

tightens on her breast. Fingers slide under satin cup and seek the

distended nipple. My other hand finds and opens the front of her bra.

Her breasts are bared to my gaze. She still sleeps, but seems aware that

she is being made love to.



    I bend and gently lick an exposed nipple. My tongue traces the

outline of her areole and then flicks lightly against the nipple once

more. A sharp intake of breath. I turn my attention, briefly, ever so

briefly, to the areole and nipple of her left breast.



    Again, I withdraw. My hand gently caresses her brow, her cheek,

"Shh. It's just me, m'Lady. Just your Lover." And, once more, she

sleeps.



    I rise quietly, so as to not disturb her, and remove the last

article of my clothing. Naked, I sit at her feet, satring at her

panties, at the mound which marks the entrance to my Valhalla. My hands

glide up her legs. Up, slowly. My fingers curl around the waistband of

her panties. Slowly I draw them down her legs. Her hips lift slightly to

ease my sweet task.



    Is she awake?



    "Miko-san?" I whispers.



    "Ummmm?" sleepily, not quite awake. Aware, perhaps, but not awake.



    The panties reach her ankles. I lift first one leg, then the other.

Her panties join my clothes on the floor.



    And, again, I stare. Skirt above her waist, nothing but stockings

beneath, she lies there. Blouse open and spread to either side of her.

Bra unfastened and open, breasts bared. Her nipples are erect, and

moisture glistens at the entrance to her vulva. I bend, once more. My

tongue gently licks the moisture from those nether lips which hold such

promise, such joy. The taste of her excites me fully. She truly is a

"Sweet Heart!"



    My tongue gently insinuates itself between her labia. I probe deep

within her, then gently seek her clitoris. A sharp intake of breath as

I find her "bush button" as we have come to call it. I gently nip it

with my teeth. Her hips rise of their own accord. One hand seeks the

back of my head. She presses me into the cleft I so deeply enjoy. Her

other hand seeks and finds her own nipple. She is still asleep, as she

massages breast and nipple.



    I continue to pay homage to her with teeth, lips, and tongue. My own

hand seeks my manhood. Slowly I stroke myself to full erection, stopping

just before I climax. I raise myself over her. Stop. Poised at the

threshhold of her sex. With my right hand, I guide my penis gently to

the lips of her vulva.



    Slowly I lower myself until I barely penetrate her. Her hips rise.

She moans. Her mouth opens. I lower my head and cover her mouth with my

own. As I do, I thrust deep within her.



    She is fully awake now. Her eyes are wide open and focus, briefly,

on my face. Then glaze and focus somewhere quite beyond me. I feel her

smile form beneath my mouth, and then her moan. The "click" deep in her

throat as she relaxes and permits my tongue to rape her mouth. Her

screams are silenced with my mouth and tongue. Her hips match mine in

rhythym and intensity. Rising when I thrust, falling as I withdraw. Yet

never letting my penis quite escape her warm, moist tunnel.



    She climaxes a split second before I do, arms banding my hips and

pulling me into and through her. I hold my mouth on hers, swallowing her

screams and gasps, until she lies shaking beneath me. I gently roll onto

my side, pulling her body with me - never withdrawing from her, never

losing contact from within her. My hand strokes her face and lips. I

smooth her hair back away from her face.



    "I love you, my Sweet Heart! Oh, how I *do* love you!"



    And I hold her like this until she falls asleep.



    Even then, I remain within her for long minutes, until I, too, fall

asleep.



    In the morning, we make love with one another again.



--