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.