Two by Two 
 mf


The scene opens on the picture window of a spacious lounge. Outside in the
garden, it is a lazy, bee buzzing summer afternoon. Inside, the air is
cooler but heavy with the scent of roses.

The camera pans right, past an ornate oil depicting a sloe-eyed rubenesque
nude, past a black stereo tower supplying the soundtrack's lazy background
beat, past a settee containing a tidy pile of clothing -- the top item of
which is a pair of black briefs. Finally it stops on a large autumn toned
single armchair.

Naked as the day he was born, a black haired and tanned athletic young man
sits in the armchair. With knees bent and legs apart, his pose is relaxed
but expectant. Both arms rest on the high roll sides of the chair. Across
one thigh his penis lies thick veined and partially erect.

Off camera the sound of a door opening is heard. The young man turns to his
left and smiles a lean and hungry smile. He does not utter a sound, but his
penis proclaims his thoughts by raising itself from his thigh to a full,
flared head erection. In close-up the camera lingers on this swaying
signpost of things to come. Then, seemingly reluctant, it pulls back and
pans to the right.

Framed in the doorway is a full-bodied young woman. Lighter in colouring
than the young man, she has a mass of ringleted blonde hair cascading over
one shoulder. Her eyes are large and her lips full and curved in an
enigmatic smile. Unlike the man she is not naked but wears a white g-string
and a matching white bra. Bold against the wild honey of her skin, her
minuscule garments are totally inadequate for the task of concealment. But
for display!

With the feline grace of youth she moves towards the centre of the room. At
each footfall her breasts do a slow, bra stretching bounce. The camera
follows her mobile charms until both she and they come to rest, then moves
to take up a position as if it were the young man's eyes.

Standing in profile and with one knee bent, the young woman turns her head
and smiles heavy lidded into the camera. She lifts her hands to her hips,
drawing her elbows and shoulders back and tilting her pelvis forward until
her body is a taut, deeply undulating curve; unmarked except for the two
white strap lines. A flick of her head sends her hair sliding from her
shoulder to fall in ringleted waves to the small of her back. Slowly, she
pirouettes.

Diffused by curtains of screening lace, the light seeps into the room and
paints a compelling picture; tracing every sweeping line, accentuating every
swelling curve, outlining every secret crevice. The lazy soundtrack dies as
the CD player shuffles to another track. In its place the young man's
breathing is heard to deepen as the woman stops with her back to the camera.

The soundtrack returns. An earthy, tribalistic score now, it has the subtle
cadence of the human pulse. As if the young man has leaned forward in the
chair, the camera zooms closer. Like an inverted lover's heart and deeply
divided by the g-string, her cheeks are fluid symmetry in motion as she
begins to sway in time to the music. Her thumbs ease the straps over her
hips, down and down, inch by inch, swing by swing, until the garment falls
to her feet. Without interrupting her motion, she hooks it with a toe and
flicks it onto the settee.

Now her movement is from side to side. Flat palmed and splay fingered, her
hands slide up and down on the outside of her thighs. With each move her
feet shuffle apart until the swelling mound of her sex appears in
full,fluffy silhouette. Like her swaying cheeks, it, too, is deeply divided.
She folds at the hips, sliding her hands down to her knees. Her hair falls
in a golden cloud, giving the light between her legs a soft, dreamlike
quality. But there is nothing dreamlike about the young man's breathing, now
clearly audible above the pulsing, throbbing soundtrack.

She adjusts the position of her feet, finds her balance, then slides her
hands round from her knees and begin to caress the inside of her thighs. Up
and down, up and down, closer and closer, closer and . . . The young man's
breathing catches as her hands come to rest and her fingers extend,
spreading, slipping, sliding, stroking.

Then her head drops into view, her eyes focus on her fingers and her tongue
describes long, lazy circles around her open mouth. Her smile is deep,
almost narcissic, and her breathing becomes audible beside that of the young
man.

The camera angle widens, moves to one side and falls, revealing in the
foreground that the young man is also stroking. With a brown hand circled on
his erection, he repeats the woman's restless rhythm. A drop of clear
viscous fluid oozes from its tip and spreads towards the shaft. Soon, more
drops appears and join the first. Glistening now, the head of his penis
seems to swell and darken in colour. A human sound is heard. It is a low,
inarticulate moan.

With a last regretful caress the young man's hand leaves his erection. For a
moment it stands rough ridged and rigid, then, like a beckoning finger it
twitches, and in the background the young woman ceases her
self-ministrations. She lifts her hands to her thighs, thrusts out her
lover's heart and backs towards the summoning shaft.

The camera moves around her, dwelling for a moment on her swelling, white
cupped charms, watching as she unfastens the centre catch of her bra. Like a
tiny waistcoat, the cups spring sideways and her breasts swing berry tipped
and free. Sinking to near floor level, the camera moves to frame the man's
legs within hers. Springy hair within satin smooth, marked muscle within
comely contours, male within female. Again the soundtrack pauses for breath.
When it resumes, the music has the erotic touch of an exploring hand dipped
in warm body oil.

Now, she reaches behind her, grips the arms of the chair and lifts herself
high, knees bent and thighs spread to take her weight on the high roll arms.
The young man slides forward under the bridge of her body. Scant inches
below the pink pouting lips of her sex, his erection is a quivering, purple
headed spear. The woman lowers herself. Their choreography is perfect. No
guidance is needed. It is if they have done this many times before.

At first it doesn't seem possible for the woman to accommodate all of the
man, for he appears at least the span of two hands in length. But down she
goes and in it goes, inch by glistening inch, ridge by glistening ridge,
till at last she is filled, gorged, impaled!

The camera rises. Past the subtle swell of her belly with its sculpted
button navel, past the arch of her ribs, past the tight, berry tipped mounds
of her breasts, follows the curving stem of her neck to her face. Her head
is thrown back, blonde ringlets cascading onto the young man's dark curls.
Her eyes are closed, her face an etched mask of exquisite pleasure. Then,
slowly at first, her shoulder muscles tighten, lifting and lowering. She is
on her journey.

Up and down in the frame, she moves. Her eyes flick open but are unfocussed.
It is as if she is looking inward, downward. The camera tilts. The young man
has reached over her right thigh and is stroking her clit with a moistened
index finger. Long and brown against the little pink shaft peeking from the
fluffy apex of her sex, his touch is gentle but insistent, and unceasing.
The camera returns to her face.

Her expression is finely drawn now, and she has slowed her movement and her
breathing, perhaps to delay her orgasm, to prolong her ride on the rippling
wave. This hot and oh so addictive, honey sweet wave that her body aches to
roll in, to tumble in, to drown in.

Suddenly she loses control of her breathing. It comes in singing little
gasps. Now, she can no longer hold her orgasm at bay. Now, with the joy of a
child reaching to claim an ice cream, she welcomes it. Her mouth snaps wide
and her breathing catches, fractures, then whoops in long whistling, breast
heaving gasps. Fixed on the ceiling, her eyes are wide but unseeing, her
attention still directed inward, and the dewy beads of exertion spring to
speckle her cheeks. Like the child with its ice cream, the young woman
devours her orgasm.

For a time she stays unmoving, her arms locked in support. Slowly her
breathing returns to normal and her eyes open and focus. Smiling, she lifts
herself, and behind her the young man breathes a long, hair stirring sigh.
It is not one of regret. Perhaps the best is yet to . . . come?

The camera slides downward. Slick and hard, the young man's penis pops free
and jumps to kiss the parted lips just below her tiny penis. Both his hands
appear. With forked fingers, he eases her clit from its hiding place, then,
by touch alone, he takes the head of his penis and fits the eye over her
stubby pink shaft. Like a miniature mouth over an equally miniature
erection.

At once the woman's thighs twang drum taut and quivering. It is as if her
body is fighting to move but her mind has commanded it to be still, for to
make anything more than the slightest of motion will dislodge the provider
of her ecstasy. The young man strokes his erection, and each time his hand
arrives under the flared head, he gives the shaft a squeeze. The young woman
begins to sing. It is a panting little tune, incoherent yet unmistakable;
like the strident mewing of a hungry kitten, but lower pitched and more
urgent.

Perhaps spurred by her melody the young man's movement quickens. His
breathing catches, stops, and his thigh muscles ridge hard. Suddenly a white
flower blooms around the head of his penis, and the woman twitches,
convulses, then collapses whimpering on his chest. Unhindered now, he paints
her breasts and belly with long ribbons of glistening white. For a minute
they are one.

Then, carefully avoiding his sinking erection, the young woman turns in his
lap, folds her legs and clutches him tight. Her singing fades. The kitten in
her is hungry no longer.

The young man tucks his penis between his thighs then returns her embrace,
easing her head beside his on the high back of the armchair. The camera
moves to frame their faces. Ringleted blonde on curly black, wild honey on
chestnut brown, smiling, dew speckled female on grinning, sweat streaked
male. It is as if they are made for each other.

Their breathing mixes, blends, slows. After a while the young woman lifts a
hand and tilts his sweaty face to hers. They kiss, and it is long,
wet-mouthed and loving. When they part, her eyes are bright and laughing;
two gold flecked, tawny pools of innocence. Her mouth curves in an impish
smile, her lips part to . . . Then her eyes flick to the wall behind the
young man's head.

"Hey! Look at the time!" she exclaims. "The kids'll be out of school in a
minute. In this heat, they'll both want to go swimming. We better get
respectable!"

She bounds out of his lap, scoops up the clothes from the settee and makes
for the door, calling, "Race you to the shower!"