Well, it was like this doc ...

03/01/2013 14:04

Well, it was like this doc...


It woke me sometime in the early hours, but that was a part of the unusual thing; what went on went on for a long time, so it was kind of outside of time, as if I were somehow transported to someplace else that wasn't where I'd left off living that night, at home in my own bed: yes, I wasn't where I'd thought I was, though I couldn't have been anyplace else, and I woke where I'd been before it woke me. That's what I'm trying to say, I guess; it wasn't a dream and it wasn't a nightmare: it was what I'd call extramundane. Not of our fabric. The picture not in our weave.


 At first I thought the disco lights on my rig had come on - I work evenings as a deejay at a local club - but I don't have a cool blue strobe, and I thought my eyes were open but they weren't. The ever colder blue was soon like an icy knife behind my eyes and I understood that I was experiencing this as an awakening from sleep rather than a vision from my lucid state. It was, I imagine now, something like surgery would be without the anaesthetist. One of my worst fears has always been that of the mental hospital lobotomy. I always remember that scene from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest where Big Chief Bromden puts a pillow over the face of Jack Nicholson's character. He'd taken the drugged-up and burned-out nuthouse guys on a fishing trip with wine and women - and'd become a lobotomized vegetable as punishment for his Christ-like sin.


 Then there was the cool blue flute music dancing through my agony like a sonic balm on my brain injury. How long would the lesions take to heal I wondered vaguely. I had an erection but it too was influenced by the cool hard blue flute music straining through the raw wound of my consciousness. I knew I had an erection but I couldn't feel anything down there. I had the sense of a numbness that seemed a part of the blue coldness of the flute, an icy magnetism that drew the single hole in my hardness to want to flow with its own contribution to the tune that was being pumped out into my psyche like soothing James Last hotel elevator music.


 I began to detect a lower, stronger tone in the flautist's opus benedictum, and soon enough I could make out that a woman's voice was intermingled with the fluid notes of the benison she was pouring out for me. I'd read Julian May so I knew about the Tanú - as an idea - and I'd seen Cate Blanchett's portrait of Galadriel in the big screen version of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, but it can't prepare you for the blue-blonde, blonde-blue fantasia of the reality. Imagine a young girl with long blonde hair and blue eyes playing a silver flute solo seated in the midst of an orchestra, and you'd have some concept of the expectations filling my head as the voice and music ceased to be intrusive while the blueness of the harsh ice at my brain's root became milkier as the sun of my soul emerged from behind the whitely clouds of a new blue sky of awareness. Forget expectations!


 Her eyes were silver. She was looking into me, and I use the expression advisedly; it was as if I were an esoteric subject over which she was casting an appraising gaze prior to burrowing more deeply - and one felt cosily - into the essence of the thing itself. Yeah, that was me, blink and you missed it, the 'thing' - itself. Her pupils were blue, of the colour that usually goes with Britney Spears' pink - and I hadn't opened my eyes yet.


 I understood from the sound of the flute that it was the one-holed instrument of mine that she was interested in; there were no words spoken by her mouth and I could see her features warmly smiling above the deeply centred love that I could now feel welling up out of that calm blue sun at my heart's seat. She wasn't alone I perceived without perceiving - and she wasn't there, this was just an inner projection. I was to calm myself over the operation, I wouldn't be hurt. Her helpers would bring me to where she was; it wasn't far; not to my time sense: but to my sense of distance, it could have seemed much longer.


 My eyes opened. Now, I didn't open them, and it wasn't the same as reporting the waking up one experiences in the morning. Without volition, but not automatically, I got my eyes back. That's the best description. I was given sight. And I felt like it was Heaven's blessing. Around me were several small silver suited grey figures with huge black slanted eyes and hands like children's mittens. You know, when you're a child and your mother gives you mittens rather than gloves so, instead of four fingers and a thumb, you had one thumb and one finger the size of four. These were her helpers. I was being abducted. Yum.


 They floated me off the bed, after floating the covers off first. I tried to laugh, and that was interesting too, seeing something funny and trying to laugh but not being able to. Then I saw how they were doing it. Several grey stiffies pointing at the ceiling, like orchestral batons directing me and the music that seemed to fill the room now, positioning me at a space in the wall that had been a blank opacity but was an arch with light beyond. So these were her flute, the penis holes of a band of silver suited ufonauts. I'd like to see them perform at the Albert Hall with Sarah Brightman. Pié Jésu! Oh Yeah.


 So they floated me on through while I listened half expectantly, waiting to hear someone from the pub shout out 'CuddlyToy!' But the white light I'd seen from the other side of the archway was somehow opaque at this side and I was hidden from seeing whomsoever might be there until I felt comfortably deposited on softness that seemed to cuddle itself to me and felt a little shocking coming from a mattress. She was naked, which was what I expected. Perfectly consciously. I'd known she would be, although she hadn't felt it to me. All our communications were telepathic, she only used her mouth for her flute. Ha ha. Putting the horse before the cart, aren't I? Most girls like to flirt, this one loved to flute. She seemed to gain substantiality as she emerged from the white opacity of her surroundings, and I'll never do justice to the way or the how she appeared. But I can manage an analogy. I was once in a café in Bródy Sandor street in Budapest and I went there because this Turkish girl had beautiful brown eyes, and one day I went in and she had blue eyes. It's that kind of mystery. Noone can explain to you how it is. I told the girl the next day that her eyes had been blue the day before and she said they'd always been brown. So, my advice is, don't try to explain. Who'd believe?


 So, then, we're surrounded by the conductors with their batons and she's floating over and above me with her nimbus of golden hair surrounding her face like the halo of an angel and my penis is aching up at her so hard I think its eye is going to water. And I decide to think up at her the dumbest question anyone would want answering at this point. What am I doing here? The blue pupil in the silver iris seemed startled for an instant but I softly understood that it was my wad, my load, the contents of my sack, that was what she wanted, but it was slightly more complicated, and it was the reason for the surgical procedure; they'd put my metabolism into reverse so that she could have the entirety of my every orgasm, that is, my whole wad, every spermatazoa ever created in my ever active balls and squirted out of my pud hole. It'll be like a hosepipe I thunked up at her while the little men in grey whistled and fluted silver notes of ecstatic abandon from Ravel's Bolero. Be brave I understood and you'll live through it. I heard the flute's tinklings that I now understand meant amusement on her part and braced myself for the onslaught.


 It was fun. She liked to float and balance. Like they do it in space, I guess: in weightlessness. It must've been hard on the little grey men too, orchestrating with their batons; her trajectory, her point of entry, the docking manouvere as our two spaceships came together. Until, there she was, massive blue pupils surrounded by a thin silver corona of iris showing pleasure to her lover, legs spread out behind her in a gymnast-style Victory-V, stuck on my plum-plucker, with her breasts, all creamy gooey from her lactating (no, I don't know  why) onto my lips and face, floating above my eyes as she arched her spine ceilingwards, her elfin face still framed by yellow tresses waving tentacularly in the way of a Medusa as she hung there, like an Irish Banshee waiting to scream and drive men's minds insane through their ears - as the flute played on while she rocked the cock.


 Flautism was clearly what it was all about for her. After a while she slowed her rocking, my dream topping, and lifted herself clear of my rocket and its engines, turning to present her arse cheeks, all the while floating and flauting, judging by the crescendos of sound that met each change in her orbit, and I was again made to understand that it was my hand and arm she was inviting to probe her whereas her offer was to fellate my pulsating pole until it was time to effect a re-docking after an extensive inspection of the outer mechanism. Who'm I to demur? Soon I was arm in up to the elbow, pistoning away like it was what I did for a living, watching to make sure her clitoris got as much of a good rubbing and plenty of traction as I could give it on my forearm while she, head bobbing off there in the distance, wanked off my pud with her gob, tongue wrapping itself around my shaft on occasion and teeth grating against my German's helmet; my balls, I swear, swollen to the size of melons as the floodgates prepared to burst open. Then,  bouncing her fist on my melons as she jacked the spunk up, I felt her pussy slide up and off my arm as, holding onto my cock with both hands, she guided herself into a mid-air sitting position where, in full lotus, she hovered for a few seconds, jacking my jerker, before splatting down onto me like a tub of lurpak.


 You've never had an orgasm until you've had a woman's orgasm, and it really is the greatest feeling on Earth to have a woman's ejaculate pooling around your penis' root, knowing that you've played some part in its achievement. If you've never had the pleasure, take a dekko at the way those girls love their sex machines on the internet sites that cater for such tastes. Whoooosh! 'And keep that bastard machine working!' scream the possessed devotees to their deus ex machina. I'd wondered if I could cope with an orgasm that came out like water from a hose, but it was the most incredible experience that I never wanted to end. I was laughing so much at one point over those guys that think of themselves as sex pistols that I pulled my knob out of my partner and sprayed her tits with jism for twenty minutes before plugging it back into her.


 She was a bouncer. To understand that you'd have to know something about those hot springs you find in New Zealand with the occasional gushing geyser onto which they throw teddy bears and so on to see them kept aloft there in the force of the water's upward spraying - sometimes for days. The toys look like they're bouncing there, and that's what she liked to do; bounce on the spray of endless semen that was my full wad splurting out and being splurged on her as if I were a spunk spendthrift that'd never have any tomorrows to think of. As, indeed, I didn't - think of. The pleasure was immense, like never being tired of eating ice-cream, always knowing you can afford it and that it'll never make you fat, and the knowledge that ice-cream eating is what's happening to you when you're squirting spunk out of your tube into a woman who's bouncing around and loving on it so much that she's become the ice-cream, you're just the cone it sits on, and that this is what is really meant by ice-cream eating!. Whoah! This is my perversion she finally communicated to me in the way of her as my balls slowly shrank to the size of peanuts.


 It began to rain. Gobbets of grey semen spilling out and up from the erections of our attendants as they finished pulling their puds, the flute music coming to a desperate coda, and my faerie lady settling magnanimously onto my penis, bringing instant sleep and peaceful oblivion.


 I swear I woke up to the strain of Gene Kelly tap-dancing to Singing In The Rain.


First published at Ruthie's Club ( https://www.ruthiesclub.com).