DISCLAIMER: The following musing, though very
mild, could conceivably roil unseemly stirrings in
the developing loins of the immature. So, if you
are under 18 or unable to discern the distinction
between erotic and pornographic, please read no

By Volponia

Aquacize © 1998 Volponia
Comments are welcome.
I am blessed. Thanks to an early release from the
bonds of matrimony due to bad behavior, I have the
freedom to do as I please. I am doubly blessed:
Since the bad behavior wasn't mine, I have the
means and the time to indulge myself in my chosen
role of (dermatologists be damned!)

I am also cursed: Having gotten through the dark
night of divorce and come into the light, I
located Mr. Right . . . in another country. So my
freedom is enjoyed, most of the time, alone. I
worship the sun in solitude, and although the
climate is warm enough, I warm myself even
more by the twin flames of memory and

Each sunny day, I float in the deep end of my
apartment complex's pool, my head tilted back on
the ledge below the pool's rim, arms spread
cruciform, pink toe-tips punctuating the aqua

No doubt I look blase, but as in a Peter Benchley
sea-creature novel, much is moving below the
surface. Rhythmically, repeatedly, I clench my
thighs. The tightening of long sinews provides the
bass line to accompany the percussion of my sultry
heart thumps.

This clenching motion, not so coincidentally,
presses together the pouty lips beneath my purple
bikini bottom, squeezing, tweaking, awakening the
little finger of flesh that is the source of so
much delight to me and to my man.

Thud, thud goes my heart, and its magisterial
tattoo is echoed by the smothered thump! thump!
within the apex of my triangle. I dream of *him*,
the sun around whom I orbit, and my body grows
warmer and wetter still as my mind spins in the
familiar, well-loved groove.

The sun above me is no hotter than my passion.
I access recall, resurrecting the sensation of my
lover's hands, his beautiful hands with their
square, cushioned palms and stalwart fingers -
so clean, so carefully manicured, dusted on their
backs with freckles and gilded with red-gold hairs.

I squeeze my thighs together and imagine those
fingers, those sturdy ivory probes, carefully and
with a master's knowledge separating each plump
bulge, every pleat, each fold of warm and willing

In my mind, those warm and knowing digits slide
home, traveling the well-known and -loved interior
pathways that lead to the heart of my desire, as
one thumb -- oh! how can so blunt an appendage be
so artful? -- traces loving circles around the
rosy site of ecstasy that crowns and guards my

All unheeding, I begin to draw circles with my
hips as I float, alone and unremarked, in happy
solitude at the empty end of the pool. The engine
of my desire stirs the limpid water like a slow,
sensuous, soft propeller. Discreet little waves,
sent northward by my sinuous writhing, lap at my
barely covered breasts like lovers' tongues. I
sigh, and arch my back.

I raise my chin so the sun that burnishes my brow
may kiss the pulse now pounding in my throat.
Inside my eyelids, all is at once dark and rosy; I
imagine that I am gazing into my own interior

I arch my back; my nipples arch themselves,
breaking the surface and straining the spandex
bonds that confine them. On I dream, of him who
has no equal. A tuneless yet compelling hum
vibrates in my throat, which longs to be filled
with something more palpable than song. I rotate
my arms so that they lie palm down along the
ledge. Heedless of my manicure, I etch my
frustration into its concrete surface.

On I dream of various things . . .

. . . of long-held prejudice against hairy backs,
now replaced by a longing to entwine my fingers
in that manly fringe and hang on for dear life;

. . . of the rosy incongruity of his tiny, hard
nipples rising like miniature twin suns at dawn
among the clouds of soft hair on his chest;

. . . of the unparalleled beauty of dainty apricots
in a smocked rose-velvet carrier decorated with
the finest tracing of red-gold silk;

. . . of the fine-grained, milky skin that sheathes
the hard, masculine muscle of his inner thighs.

Still humming to myself, I cross my legs at the
ankle to increase the pressure on my center, now
soaked by the water of the pool and by the liquid
of life within me.

I dream of our reunion, mentally ranking the
decorum of various welcomes.

Shall I limit myself to a big hug and brief,
businesslike kiss? Or will I drop his jaw with my
thumbs and set my tongue to dancing with his?
Dare I slide my fingers under his shirt, over his
ribs to flutter above his heart? May I, secure in
his arms, wrap one tanned leg about his waist to
suggest my enthusiasm?

Smiling to myself, I shake my head at my own
appalling imagination. I return to dreaming and
the slow, rhythmic tense-relax of my solitary,
horizontal dance.

Suddenly, a shadow falls across my sun; a voice,
startlingly near my shoulder, whispers, "Having

I do not know the source; I do not recognize the
voice; I do not care. I am tuned to but one
pitch, and the instrument that plays it is far, far

"Mmmm, hmmm," I reply, close-lipped, and return, a
shade more discreetly now, to my aquatic reverie.
Aquacize © 1998 by Volponia@aol.com. Do not
distribute, by any means, privately or publicly,
for profit or for pleasure, without the author's
prior written consent. If, however, this memoir
has the intended effect, feel free to masturbate.
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