Amuse-Bouche

In the culinary arts, an amuse-bouche is a one bite sample of an entire meal, classically served in a spoon. In the literary arts, the relatively new format usually called flash fiction is a blog-length story of 1500 words or less. Liminal Realities Publishing likes to call these works the amuse-bouche of our authors and others' work that we admire. We hope you enjoy these little tastes of writing talent.

Whispers into the Past

Published by Liminal Realities

On a chilly autumn night, Lorece wondered why so many of her best bittersweet memories came into sharp relief in the dark, still, late hours when the world was quiet. She didn’t know, but she liked asking the unanswerable questions anyway.

Tonight she had discovered old school yearbooks were now online. Finding her own sophomore and senior editions, Lorece began hunting for herself and her teenage friends, some of whose names rang a bell, but whose faces had faded into oblivion. But she was startled by one photo in particular that catapulted her back to the days when her life had few bright spots.

It was Dillon Cooke’s smile and the sparkle in his eyes – both still burning into her heart all these years -- that took her breath away. His movie-star grin and laughing eyes looked like he was delighted to be keeping a secret. And that reminded her how being mesmerized by his tactile attentions was one of the secrets she had kept.

Oh my god, she said aloud, as memories of Dillon flooded her mind, and enlivened her body. She remembered how those eyes penetrated her soul back then. There had always been a kind of magic in how his facial expressions were both compelling and dazzling, so authentically earnest, commanding, and tender at the same time. I could never say no to him, she remembered. Then setting the laptop aside, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to float back in time 54 years.

Old sensations of excitement in her chest and arousal in her groin began to reassert themselves. She easily recalled memories of darkened, hidden corners of their school, where Dillon’s hands roamed her body freely. Unconsciously, her pelvis thrust forward, still feeling his warm lips on her breasts and hot vibrations of his hands exploring the limits of his permission between her legs. Sex ed hadn’t taught how direct, probing stimulation would feel. Lorece remembered how it had confused her to learn that her body had a will of its own that her mind had been taught should be resisted.

But resistance was futile. Nothing Dillon did with her matched what she had been told sexual contact would be like – mechanical if not selfish, predatory if not abusive. On the contrary, the way he looked at her while his thumbs caressed her stiffening nipples, just before his eyes would close to kiss her neck, looked like he was awestruck, as if encountering a marvelous treasure. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but now it amused her to recognize that he had touched her like it was a rare privilege to do so, as if she might evaporate under his grasp at any second.

Her mind couldn’t reconcile the contradiction between being told boys will take advantage of girls and ruin them -- whatever that meant -- with how reverential his touch felt on her skin. His energy had been gently assertive, his hands carefully unhesitant. She had loved those hands. More than any words that could have been said, it was his touch that made her feel really cared for. She craved that feeling.

For the first time in her life, and probably the last, if she really stopped to review other relationships, she had felt truly valued. Dillon made her feel whole, and fully seen, even though, she regretted, they had never had the chance to be naked with each other. She felt understood in a unique way by him in those days. Tonight she sighed and wondered if that feeling would have remained had they been able to develop a lasting relationship.

Of course, he was “taking liberties” with her body, but she wanted him to do so. The fact that he seemed to want to physically possess her, if only momentarily, made her feel acceptable – something she rarely felt otherwise, living as she did in the uptight pre-liberation era. She smiled remembering how much she had wanted to be possessed by him. Years later when she heard the term “urge to merge” she connected it immediately with how she had felt about Dillion. She wanted to experience their bodies merged, because their souls already had. For Lorece, this was a certainty as real as law of physics.

When Dillon looked at her with such a lighthearted but protective affect covering a sincere and passionate depth, she trusted him and his intentions totally, whatever those would be. He made her feel a sense of belonging that she’d never felt from her family, as if they had been bonded forever and always would be. I would have given him anything, done anything for him, she whispered into the dark night. I still would, she admitted, if only life had not been so against us.

Looking at the photo again, tears coming now for all that had been lost. How stupid I was to not tell him completely how much I wanted him, Lorece thought. Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, her defensive mind said, unsolicited. But maybe it would have, she argued with herself. Back then I didn’t think it was “nice” to tell him how he excited me, how much I wanted his passion, how much I needed him to unleash mine. Maybe, when his hands and kisses were unlocking my own desire for him, if I had just been able to say it out loud, he wouldn’t have let me go.

But let her go he had. Circumstances conspired against them – college distance, the draft, unspoken feelings, her need to escape parental control by marrying someone else. At least, she thought, I have this photo, and all the dreams and fantasies to keep Dillon alive in that drawer in my heart marked old secrets. I still want you, she said softly into the past.

'Twas the evening of Samhain, and all through the place

were pagans preparing the ritual space.

The candles were set in the corners with care,

in hopes that the Watchtowers soon would be there.

We all had our robes on (as is habitual)

and had just settled down and were starting our ritual

when out on the porch there arose such a chorus

that we went to the door, and waiting there for us

were children in costumes of various kinds

with visions of chocolate bright in their minds.

In all of our workings, we'd almost forgot,

but we had purchased candy (we'd purchased a LOT),

And so, as they flocked from all over the street,

they all got some chocolate or something else sweet.

Twas the Night Before Samhain

'Twas the evening of Samhain, and all through the place

were pagans preparing the ritual space.

The candles were set in the corners with care,

in hopes that the Watchtowers soon would be there.

We all had our robes on (as is habitual)

and had just settled down and were starting our ritual

when out on the porch there arose such a chorus

that we went to the door, and waiting there for us

were children in costumes of various kinds

with visions of chocolate bright in their minds.

In all of our workings, we'd almost forgot,

but we had purchased candy (we'd purchased a LOT),

And so, as they flocked from all over the street,

they all got some chocolate or something else sweet.

We didn't think twice of delaying our rite,

Kids just don't have this much fun every night.

For hours they came, with the time-honored schtick

of giving a choice: a treat or a trick.

As is proper, the parents were there for the games,

Watching the children and calling their names.

"On Vader, On Leia,

On Dexter and DeeDee,

On Xena, on Buffy,

Casper and Tweety!

To the block of apartments

on the neighboring road;

You'll get so much candy,

you'll have to be TOWED!"

The volume of children eventually dropped,

and as it grew darker, it finally stopped.

But as we prepared to return to our rite,

One child more stepped out of the night.

She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen.

Her hair was deep red, and her robe, forest green

with a simple gold cord tying off at the waist.

She'd a staff in her hand and a smile on her face.

No make-up, nor mask, or accompanying kitsch,

so we asked who she was; she replied "I'm a witch.

And no, I don't fly through the sky on my broom;

I only use that thing for cleaning my room.

My magical powers aren't really that neat,

but I won't threaten tricks; I'll just ask for a treat."

We found it refreshing, so we gave incense cones,

A candle, a crystal, a few other stones,

And the rest of the candy (which might fill a van).

She turned to her father (a man dressed as Pan)

and laughed, "Yes, I know, Dad, it's past time for bed,"

and started to leave, but she first turned and said

"I'm sorry for further delaying your rite.

Blessed Samhain to all, and a magical night."

A Quick Hello

By BlackMoon Lilith

Published by Liminal Realities

No part of this short story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For permission, email AuthorBlackMoon at gmail.com. This story is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living in corporeal form in the here and now or in an alternate Universe, dimension, or lifetime, exist mostly in the author’s mind and should not be construed as inhabiting consensual reality.

This amuse-bouche might be a bit spicy for some readers.

Available until Winter Solstice, maybe.

CELINA SILVERS had one regret in life. She had never let Murphy Duncan know how much she wanted to be his. She craved his hands on her body, but hadn’t wanted him to think her a slut. She had needed him to assertively, even aggressively, pursue her – in a nice way, of course. Did he really want her, or just to get in her pants? Murphy had needed her to tell him her true desires. Was she really interested in him, or just being polite?

Decades of doubting, missed and interrupted opportunities to engage in mutual passions had been their fate. Now, aged 69, she decided there was nothing to lose in sharing her secret. He couldn’t possibly want her now. Each had families, busy lives, were settling into retirement. Confession was safe now. Acting on it was surely out of reach.

“I want to tell you something,” she risked one day on a phone call. “I’ve always thought of you as the unrequited love of my life, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that we never got the chance to make love. You know, each time in our too few and far between meetings over the last 50 years, I had always hoped you would just take me. I wanted you so much.” Then she held her breath. There it was, all tumbled out in a rush, knowing if she filtered the thoughts, her courage would evaporate.

Without hesitation, Murphy surprised her. “I’ve thought of you often, fantasizing what it would have been like to fuck you. I didn’t know you felt the same way.” She didn’t mind his language, nor the raw emotion behind it. It was honest. She considered it a gift. If he said nothing else, Celina knew she could die happy. “One of these days I’ll come by for a quick hello. We should have a talk over a drink,” Murphy suggested.

“How about Friday?” she impulsively pushed. He hesitated. She could almost hear him thinking how to borrow time from the several places he’d committed to be that day. “Or, come over now,” she said, maybe a little too insistently. Just out of the shower, hair was as good as it would ever be, clothes were clean, she could handle an unplanned visit. She knew neither were thirsty. For whiskey.

They hadn’t been alone since the last century. Not since she’d been in his office, aware that one of his colleagues could come in at any moment. A brief, business-like farewell hug had given no hint of any secretly harbored longings. So. It’s over, Celina had told herself. The sexually-charged energy that had been between them most of their lives was gone. He was as kind and friendly as always, but she didn’t feel him wanting her anymore. She was heart-broken.

The previous time in her tiny hypnotherapy office she had wanted him deeply. But it was inappropriate. She was married, and so was he. The sexual tension on that day was thick between them, as it had always been for more than 50 years. She had hoped he would lock the door, take her on the office carpet. He had wanted to push everything off her desk and take her there. Neither trusted their instincts, nor voiced their desires that day.

Now, having finally learned to survive rejection and embarrassment, Celina was determined that she would never again withhold her desire for him.

After all the lost years, the misunderstood desires, she could barely breathe when he walked in, couldn’t believe he was really there. Without greeting or cursory small talk, Murphy pulled her body to his. She pulled his face to her lips. They kissed, and kissed and kissed, eager, hungry, lusting.

His hands fondled her breasts, and, snapping her tee-shirt up in a thrillingly aggressive move, he sucked her nipples. The feel of his mouth and tongue on her flesh was exhilarating. His sucking gave her goosebumps, sending tingles to her groin, just like it used to. She had never forgotten these sensations he had initiated in her, and the way it filled her heart with such longing to be at one with him. His touch had always been so electrifying. Her body responded to him like they were still 18.

The more exploratory his hands and tongue, the more nervous she became. She had clung to the illusion that if he didn’t see her naked, he wouldn’t notice she was overweight. She was afraid her extra curves would disgust him, half believing it had been the reason he had never outright claimed her as his in their youth. Yet, after his enthusiasm for her secret, she had almost talked herself into believing that her zaftig form would feel warm and cushy under his own tall, well-muscled body.

But when his hand started to reach between her legs, and his forearm encountered her belly, she wasn’t sure if he withdrew before she pulled away. He kept kissing and fondling her breasts. He knew he was on welcomed territory there. She sensed that he sensed her apprehension, not understanding it. She had to fix that. No mixed messages today.

Not wanting him to feel neglected, she started rubbing his thighs, intuiting he wanted to feel her hand confirm her desire to pleasure him. She wanted to very much. “Do you have time for a cuddle?” she whispered, preferring a less awkward posture than standing at her front door. She wanted to create the new sense-memory of lying with him on a bed.

“Not really,“ he said, but then let her lead him into the bedroom anyway. She failed to specify what she’d meant by cuddle, so he reached between her legs again. This time she luxuriated in his touch. It was vigorously arousing, exquisite, so long dreamed about that she wished she could stop time forever and indulge the sensations of it shooting excitement through her body.

She debated removing her jeans, uncertain if he would. He didn’t, so she decided not to use more precious time passively enjoying his stimulation, as wonderful as it was.

Knowing she had implicit permission, she boldly reached into his shorts. No more waiting, fantasizing about the feel of him in her hand. His skin was soft on taut balls, his cock marvelously stiff in her long awaited grip. She couldn’t resist taking him in her mouth, licking, sucking, kissing. If this was the appetizer, she wanted the feast.

As remaining minutes dwindled, she could tell he was enjoying it by the way his own hand momentarily paused in pleasuring her. She resisted ripping his clothes all the way off, for she was a Capricornian respecter of time, and they had way too little of it that afternoon. She didn’t want to be a tease, certainly not at this age, but it was in her mind to leave him wanting more of her. If it was remotely within her power, this quick hello would be only the first of many sexual senior moments with the love of her life.

Feeling in his energy that he was torn between wanting more and needing to be elsewhere, she tempered her passions, intending to only be a pleasure to him, not a problem. If it had been up to her, she never would have let him leave, but she knew the emotion of that moment would eventually clash with reality. She really did value her solitude. It gave her freedom to fantasize about next time.

At the door, shoes and shirts back on, she noticed a difference in how he kissed her goodbye, hurriedly, mind already elsewhere, like a long time significant other going off to work. And she noticed something else in it -- his confidence that she was his, and he’d be back.

The Delicious End

*~*~*~*

THANKS FOR READING this story. If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear what moved or interested you the most. Taking a moment to leave a post on my Facebook page could help shape the next story I write. And do let your friends know about this story if you think they are also looking for a fast, sensual read. Thanks! ~ BlackMoon Lilith

Genre Disclaimer

A QUICK HELLO is classified in the sensual seniors genre. As such it portrays adults aged 60 and up struggling with issues of insecurity and questions of morality in sexy encounters. The evergreen theme of BlackMoon Lilith writings is the feminist conflict between good girl ideology and sacred slut healing. The author and her characters take the position that love relationships have been severely compromised by millennia of repressed female sexuality, and that it is time for real liberation.