Here's a wonderful new piece by the equally-wonderful, Jay Lawrence. I think you'll all agree with me that she needs to send us more. Bravo, Jay!Between the Rhythm and the Bass Line
By
Jay Lawrence
If we’re lucky, we experience a moment in our life, a time that captures the essence of what it means to be young and free. For me, it was 1969, the summer Vancouver went crazy. The population was swollen with Vietnam draft dodgers, hippies built bonfires on the beach and sat in circles about the flames, playing guitar, singing the latest protest songs, espousing love not war, baby. And love, apparently, was free.
I was working as a junior reporter for a major west coast paper, a job I loved with a passion. I had a live-in girlfriend, quiet and Japanese, with soulful eyes like burnt almonds. I also had a drink problem. Everyone was into something and the acrid scent of pot hung on the air. So I liked a few beers. At least I didn’t snort coke.
It was a hot August evening. I’d been out chasing some stray dog story, interviewing old ladies. The office was strangely deserted then I got a call saying that the gang was at a party at a house in Strathcona and to get my ass over there. I can smell that evening, taste it. Heat-softened tar, my sandals sticking to the sidewalk, leaving tacky patches like black chewing gum. Summer city scents, dusty boulevards, the overpowering oily odor of a cheap Chinese restaurant. The sun setting, a mass of orange and scarlet over English Bay. I ducked into a liquor store and bought a case of beer then swung on over to the address on West 7th.
Inside, the sitting room was filled with couples dancing to Desmond Dekker’s “Israelites”. There was something surreal about the way they stretched their arms in the air, their swaying bodies illuminated by the glow from a streetlight. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, a blend of tobacco, pot and incense. I put the case of beer on a table and realized that I did not have a partner to sway with. As usual, she was left behind in our apartment, waiting for me to stagger home in the small hours, full of cheap rum and charming fairy tales I couldn’t recall in the morning. I cast my eye over the feminine contingent of the gathering, hoping to find someone pretty and unattached. No such luck. I cracked open a bottle of beer. One of my colleagues thumped me on the back, already under the influence of a large joint.
“Hey, Peter. Any luck with the stray dogs?”
The pot smoke made my eyes nip and I blew it back at him.
“You’re a funny guy, Lou. I hear Rowan and Martin want you for their Laugh-In.”
“Wouldn’t mind if it meant getting a crack at Goldie Hawn.”
I laughed at the mental image of short balding Lou McGrath and the ditzy blonde Hawn.
“You murder me, McGrath.”
“Talking of which, have you heard about that Sharon Tate business?”
The conversation was turning less than festive. I drained my beer and reached for another. The music had changed, from the heavy bass and reggae rhythm of Desmond Dekker to the chaotic guitar riffs of Hendrix. “Purple Haze”. I moved away from McGrath, declaring that I needed to find the washroom. I climbed the uncarpeted stairs, stepping over several entwined couples. The bathroom door had a large psychedelic poster pinned to it. Turn on, tune in, drop out. I pushed it open and was surprised to find a girl inside.
“Hi,” I said, always one for a creative conversation opener.
She wore a long Indian dress, the kind with tiny bells sewn into the hem. Her feet were bare and she sat on the side of the bath tub gazing up at me. Jimi’s guitar reached a frenzied climax and she smiled.
“I like Jimi Hendrix. Isn’t he bisexual?”
An interesting rejoinder, preferable to the one about my zodiacal sign or whether I came there often. I tried to look intelligent as the effects of strong beer and second-hand marijuana kicked in. The girl had an accent of some kind. Scottish, Irish.
“You’re not from round here are you?”
She laughed at me, as if delighted at the stupid question and held out her hands. They were covered with rings, ethnic-looking, some vaguely occult. I wasn’t sure what to do so I took her hands in mine and stared back.
“I’m not from anywhere, really. I was born in Scotland. But it doesn’t matter, you know. All that matters is here and now.”
I wondered what she was on. The pupils of her eyes were dilated but the room was dim. I recalled my reason for being there and murmured would she mind if, etc. She rose to a delicate accompaniment of bells and wafted past me in a cloud of patchouli.
“I don’t mind. In fact, you’d be amazed at what I really don’t mind…”
She slipped outside and I wondered if she’d be there when I’d done or enveloped in the arms of another who really didn’t mind. She sat on the top step of the stairs, playing with a strand of her hair. It looked as if she had braided it when damp then let it dry that way. Lots of tiny crinkles. It looked soft as did her smooth pale skin. I sat down beside her, sensing the potential to become engrossed and entwined like all the other couples in the house. I put my arms around her and kissed her. Kissing the girl felt like a trip. I kind of dived in and swam, down, down, down into the very essence of her, swirled around and span. The music was there but distant, a throbbing pulse to our embrace. The house, the stairs were there but somehow detached. We were in our own world and I knew. I knew the moment I kissed her. She was the one.
Finally, we came up for air and I looked deep into her eyes, blue like my own but a different kind of blue. I thought of myself as the sea and her as the sky and then I wondered why the hell I was having these thoughts with an odd little girl I had only just met.
“I’m your nemesis,” she said, smiling, as if it was a gift she was bestowing on me. “You know that, don’t you?”
Like a fool I nodded and agreed with her. She smelled good. It wasn’t the patchouli but the natural scent of her body, her smooth skin, her hair. I buried my face in her neck and had a sudden sharp urge to nip her with my teeth.
“You smell good.”
My thoughts issued from her mouth. I watched her lips moving and I realized she was saying everything that was going through my own mind. She loved the scent of my body. I smelled good enough to eat. Kissing me was like falling through space, timeless and gravity-defying. For a silver-tongued devil I was speechless, lost for words. Her strong little fingers were in my hair, winding strands as if she might never let me go. Something in me welcomed that thought.
“You are beautiful.”
It should have been my line but, again, she spoke the words. I glanced up at a nearby mirror and saw only a familiar guy with a beard and a broad set of shoulders. Maybe it was my shoulders she liked. I turned her head to one side and kissed her neck, savoring the shiver that ran through her, the way her flesh ruffled with goose bumps beneath my lips. We had to go somewhere quiet.
“We can’t sit here.”
I rose, pulling her up with me. She clung to my waist, her head lolling as if drunk or stoned but I wasn’t convinced she was either. We began to play hunt the empty bedroom, coming up trumps on the third landing door. Inside, we didn’t bother to turn on the light. The girl was a soft warm shape in the sandalwood-scented darkness, leading me on, drawing me in. I took her in my arms and it felt as if she simply melted into me. I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began.
“Are you an acid trip?” I murmured into her ear.
“I’m a time-traveler. I’ve come from the future to change everything. It was the only way.”
“Of course.”
Silly me. Well, I didn’t care if she was crazy. I wanted her. We kissed again, more intensely than before, tongues exploring each other’s mouths, and I fondled her bottom through the cotton skirt. Instinctively, she arched her spine and ground her hips against my cock. I needed to be deep inside her moist heat, fucking her hard until we both saw stars. I rubbed myself against her stomach, letting her feel how much I wanted her. The driving beat of the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” filtered up through the floor. Freedom was just a shot away. Her warm hands cupped my erection through my jeans, stroked its length and then unzipped my fly. She sank to her knees and took my knob between her lips, delicately swirling the tip of her tongue in a tiny figure eight at the top of my shaft. I felt my balls tighten, an almost uncontrollable urge to come in her mouth. Her hands cupped my ass, squeezing rhythmically as she licked me. And then she stopped.
“What are you doing?”
I tried to keep my voice from breaking as I felt her move away from me, the entire universe centered in my cock. There was a rustle of clothing being discarded and she pulled me onto the bed. I could see her naked body, white and yielding, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her hands were between her thighs, touching herself.
“Make me come first. Before you fuck me. Lick me the way I just licked you.”
Oh Jesus. Of all the things the girl had to ask for, it had to be that.
“Make me come. I want you to kiss me down there. Please.”
Her voice changed, the whole mood of the moment altered perceptibly, like reality rushing in as an anesthetic wears off. The girl writhed before me, her creamy thighs parted, a surprising insistence honing the edge of her to something sharp, almost venomous. My wraith-like nymph had turned into a snake. Mick Jagger sang on, the bass line pulsing beneath my feet. Freedom was just a pussy-eating session away.
“What’s wrong?”
She sat up, her question a dainty steel stiletto that caught me somewhere in between my stomach and my crotch. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her arm, an ineffectual gesture of appeasement. Her flesh felt firm, the boundaries between us intact.
“I’m sorry. I don’t like it. I’ll do anything else. Well, almost anything.”
I laughed sheepishly, a hollow sound in the uncarpeted room. I could make out Che Guevara, staunchly gazing down from the ubiquitous poster pinned to the closet door. There was a long pause. I wondered what she was thinking. The scent of sandalwood seemed poignant rather than exotic and arousing. I’ve never been able to smell incense without thinking of that night. She spoke, her voice a whisper, dry as dead leaves
“You’ll never change. What do you want to do with me? What really turns you on?”
I caressed her shoulders, relieved to feel her respond with a jolt. A thought came to me. Hell, I knew what turned me on. I’d known that since I was in short trousers. I patted my thigh.
“Over my knees.”
In a moment she was there, her bottom thrusting up to meet my hand. Had she been spanked before? I ran my fingertips down her spine then bent to kiss the nape of her neck. She shuddered and ground her hips against my thighs. I placed my hand on her silky cheeks and she pushed her wet pussy towards my fingers. I rewarded her with a sharp smack. She cried out but I knew it was more in pleasure than pain. I began to spank her, firmly and fast, first on one cheek, then the other, covering every inch of her lovely skin. I felt the warmth start beneath my fingers, then intensify and spread like wildfire in her smooth cool flesh. I imagined her squirming scarlet ass cheeks, her flushed face, her lips parted in that delicious blend of shock and desire. She writhed over me, spreading juice from her swollen pussy and I slapped the backs of her thighs, making her gasp. Pre-come oozed from my cock as her frantic movements massaged it. I loved having her naked, acquiescent body over my knees. Breathless with lust, I began to lecture her, punctuating each stern phrase with a swat near her slick cunt. She leapt like a fish and I grasped a handful of her hair.
“This gets you hot, doesn’t it? A good bare bottom spanking from Daddy.
I was only old enough to be her brother but she nodded and moaned. My God, I thought, I’ve found her. My naughty little girl. A stream of adolescent fantasies flashed through my brain, images long-suppressed for fear of being branded a pervert.
“Fuck me, Daddy!”
Christ, if I was twisted then she was deviant too. I pushed her onto the bed. She crouched on all fours, head down, hot bottom raised to greet my bursting cock. In a few seconds I was deep inside her, shafting her hard from behind, swiftly draining my balls in a shouting climax. Fuck! What couldn’t I do with this girl? We were a kinky dream come true. Visions of depravity danced in my head. Breathing hard, I turned her over and held her close. To my surprise, she was sobbing quietly, her face damp with tears.
“What’s wrong? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She shook her head . I kissed her softly on the nose. Suddenly, she seemed small and vulnerable. Had I stirred up some latent father complex with my Daddy routine? Or was she simply coming down from a trip?
“You won’t understand. I’m not even here, not really. I just came from the future—”
“To change everything. So you said. Was it a success?”
Her eyes gleamed faintly in the darkened room.
“I don’t know. I won’t know for sure until we meet again. I’m like a silent note, you see, caught between the rhythm and the bass line. You can’t hear me but I’m there. I will return.”
I stroked her hair, breathed in her scent. She seemed calmer. Downstairs, the Doors were playing “Light My Fire”. Was my world ablaze, thanks to an odd little Celtic girl who seemed to occupy an alternate universe and willingly called me Daddy as I spanked her bottom to a rosy glow?
“I’ll wait for you,” I said and, strangely, I meant it. She was mine.
Miss Jay Lawrence is an expatriate Scot who currently hangs out near Vancouver, Canada. She is the author of various erotic novels and short stories which have appeared in publications on both sides of the Atlantic.
