Fingerdreaming #1

May 17, 2007 Danae Klimt
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A Tale of Nouveau Montmartre

You would think that, when I have time off from work, sex would be the last thing on my mind. Surely even a courtesan needs a day without orgasm.  However, you would be wrong. Sex is both my play as well as my work, my wine as well as my bread and butter; the first thing on my mind when I wake and the last as I fall asleep, no matter how long my last shift was.

I wake on my first day off in three with my cock pressing against my belly, urgent as if I hadn’t had three clients the day before.  Fionn snores heavily beside me; he worked a later shift than I did yesterday and came to bed far into the night.  A few well-placed kisses on the back of his neck and his shoulders don’t make any change in the rhythm of his roaring, so with little regret, I resign myself to fingerdreaming.

That’s what we Courtesies call masturbation, or self-pleasure: fingerdreaming. No one knows why, now; the origins of the word have been forgotten. I suspect one of the Founders simply made it up, and it was thought better than the common words, more poetic. We love to be poetic, we do; “Courtesy”, after all, is so much lovelier a word than “courtesan” or “whore”.

My cock doesn’t feel poetic in my hand, which is still half-numb because I was lying on it. It feels dry yet silky, hot against the coolness of my palm. A dab of pleasure cream from the jar on the bedside table softens the tight skin and makes my hand glide smoothly as a tongue and sets me free to dream.

I rarely have a specific fantasy. I spend my days and my nights enacting other people’s fantasies, absorbing their desires, living their dreams. When I seek my own pleasure this way, I tend to remember things I’ve done, heard, read, and dreamed, a montage of fragments on an inner screen.

My last client yesterday, a newcomer to the City. A sweet auburn-haired girl with a soft, overripe figure and a core of white heat in her belly.  Younger than I am, pretty, intelligent, unsure of herself in this new environment, but eager to taste its pleasures. Her yoni is a fat peach that I split open with my thumbs so I can find the hard pit of her clitoris and probe it with my tongue. I lick her hot flesh and suck up all the juices; I slip one finger into her hole and wiggle it around till clear juice gushes down onto my hand. She’s never come more than once with a lover, if at all, and cries out with astonishment as I make her climax again and again.

I reach for another dab of pleasure cream with my free hand, not for my cock, but for my greedy bum.  My arsehole grips the tip of my finger and sucks it in.  Good little Dermot, every man’s bottom, every woman’s top, or her bottom if she wants it. All things to all people,
both top and bottom to myself.  I do rather wish I could wake my lover up, but I’m not selfish enough, not quite, to take him away from his sleep.  Whoring for a living can be quite tiring.

A fresh image comes to mind unbidden as I slip two fingers into my arse.  Fionn is sheathing his favorite wooden flute in a shimmering condom that covers about half the instrument, covering the rosewood with sheer pink. He pours on lubricant in a long white drizzle, like icing on a pastry. I whimper with anticipation, hearing the sound come out of my throat. He smiles enigmatically and presses the flute slowly into my arse.

I shift position restlessly, probing myself with three fingers now, my other hand moving faster on my leaping prick. A lovely fantasy, oh yes, good, but that is all it is–he would no more fuck me with a flute than I
would copulate on top of a piano. Abuse of instruments, my secret kink. Yes, lovely, lovely, as I squeeze the head of my cock and my anus tightens in response.

More memories or fantasies, each one a flash of light on a dark screen. My body a bridge between two men, a cock in my arse, a cock in my mouth, two currents running through me from two different directions. My body enclosed between two women, my cock in one tight pussy, the other fucking me with a strap-on.  Fucking, fucking, fucking madly, some warm hole that doesn’t go away, a cunt, an arsehole, a woman, a man, it doesn’t matter, and the screen goes white in my mind as the pleasure surges up and out and through.

I lie still, panting, my hands still before and behind, my come half on my belly and half on the sheets. And I hear behind me a warm chuckle. “Randy little boy.”

Laughing, I roll onto my belly and waggle my arse.  “Fuck me, Fionn.”


Entry Filed under: Nouveau Montmartre

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