Halcyon Girl
The blood is pounding in my ears so loudly that I can barely hear what she is saying to me. I look up from the ground and I stare into her eyes. Those eyes. They’re boring into me like a pair of blue blow-torch flames, burning straight through me and out the other side, any steely countenance I put up melting under that beautiful, endless stare. Those eyes. She could melt the stars with those eyes, if she wanted, the black lashes fluttering gracefully, fanning the heat of her stare. The face that these seductive sapphires stare from is soft and round, and has not inherited any of the sternness of her mother’s, nor had she inherited her mother’s fervent unmerited snobbishness. My own guileless mud-brown eyes drift across her, seeing, observing, and approving of every nuance. Raven-dark hair cascades down around that perfect face in a waterfall of shimmering midnight, darker than the sky behind us. It collects at her neck, like sultry silk, riveting blackness that accentuates the wholesome perfection that is my halcyon girl. Her nose is petite, and pointed, slightly turned up, with tiny nostrils that flare like a bull’s when she is being stubborn. Her lips are full, and red, with the color and the texture of the petals on a long stem-rose. High cheeks, red from embarrassment, turn her face from a solemn frown into an enchanting, mesmerizing smile. Her smile is perfect, a timid thing that captures me in its simplicity. Her skin is pale like white light, which seems to glow softly against the pitch blackness of the moonless sky. As she turns her head away, the radiant sight of her face is obscured by her raven-dark hair. Her short, slender frame shivers in a sudden breeze that drifts across the summer night, and she pulls herself close to me in an embrace, holding me tightly. She is clothed in a long, red shirt that clings tightly to her body, and the fabric is a soft, soft material. Soft, yes, but not as soft as the feeling of her small, fragile hands on mine. She is so close to me, closer than I can stand after all the years I’ve spent pulling away from her. I can smell the perfume in her hair, a faint but unmistakable scent of pale roses shriveling in a chilled summer’s night. She’s staring up at me again, and my heart judders in my chest like a run-down car on an old dirt road when I force myself to meet her gaze. She looks at me, the stare of some beautiful, exotic predator. Her eyes, holding me in place, paralyze me with their hypnotic charm. She pushes herself up onto the tips of her toes, the old floor-boards of the porch creaking and the cold of the wind chilling my ears. Her kiss is silent, a swift interminable moment, embedding its brief life into the bedrock of my memories. Her lips are soft bliss on mine, and the brush of her raven-dark hair against my neck is exaltation made manifest.
I kiss back, my clumsy arms wrapping themselves around her lithe, agile body, holding her close to me. Her heartbeat against mine is the only sound in the night, and the heat from her body the only warmth in that breeze. The moon causes her skin to glow a strong, pale color, and the dead tree in her front lawn gives no shelter. The crickets chirping in the background give no relief from the torment of her heartbeats. Only, there is shadow under the red roof of her house. She tugs on the lapel of my white-shirt, leading me through the front door into her house. We come in under the shadow of her red roof.
Her hands are a soothing balm on the dry stubble of my cheeks, and I am only dimly, dimly aware of my own hands roaming her body. They explore and grab and squeeze her tender areas. My inelegant fingers caress the gentle swell of her perfectly proportioned breasts, and an instant later they dig their nails into the meaty, rounded expanse of her ass. I see nothing through my closed eyelids, and navigate by the sense of touch alone. Her hands are an invisible blur on my body, unbuttoning the fastness of my shirt in smooth, excited motions. I feel her tongue gently slip into my mouth, and I reciprocate her action. Our taste buds meet and greet, twirling and spinning around each other like fire-dancers, performing a intricate ballet in the confines of our mouths. My left hand moves and grabs her breast, the still developing mammary firm and supple beneath my yearning grasp. She moans into my mouth in what I take to be pleasure. She has just unbuttoned the last button of my shirt, and our lips part for the first time since they locked so that she can remove my shirt. I open my eyes. She is staring up at me. Her blue eyes are liquid, blue, fiery. There is a perfect moment where I understand that this is what she wants. That this isn’t just animalistic lust (but, oh, I do see the lust there, as surely as I can see my shadow in the morning striding behind me, or my shadow in the evening rising to meet me), but true, true passion. Maybe the one, last, true thing in the whole world. My undershirt, also white, covers the heaving muscles of my chest. She grabs a handful of the white cloth in each hand and, pressing her eyes shut and her lips to mine once more, tears the shirt in twain, leaving two twisted ruins of fabric hanging from my torso like a vest. I take a brief look around, and realize we’ve stumbled into her living room. The stairs behind her lead to her room. I grab the bottom hem of her red shirt, and begin to tug and pull on it, lifting it up over her head. We briefly part lips again so that she can slip her arms out. Then we are back into it. Beneath the red shirt she is wearing a pale blue chemise and a white bra. Her heaving breasts call out to the basest instinct of my soul, calling me to love, to breed, to desire. I grab her short frame and hoist her up into my arms. We are still kissing, and she wraps her blue-jeaned legs around me as I carry her upstairs. Somewhere, in the back of my mind where I’ve shoved the entirety of my higher-reasoning, I dimly recall fantasies of carrying her up the stairs just like this. Only, in my fantasies, she would be wearing a white dress, and as it dawns on me that that fantasy will never come to pass in its fullness, I am faintly saddened. We cross the threshold into her room, and I lower her, gently, oh so gently, onto the soft springs of her bed, which is the only furniture left in her room. She stares up at me, hungrily, and she is more primal than ever as we lock eyes. From her seat on the bed, her pale hands eagerly begin tearing at the belt around my waist, hunting for the prize beneath. I whisper sweet nothings in her ear, telling her how beautiful she is, how I’ll always love her. She smiles as the syllables pour from my mouth. Every word is horribly, sadly true. I stroke her black hair softly as she pulls my jeans down around my knees.
From the slit in my boxers, the significant bulge of my member springs outwards, like a pulsing, purple-headed tower. She rips my boxers down around my knees in a swift motion, my staff bobbing in the fierce motion. Her eyes are predatory as they look at it, and she wraps her hands around it and begins to pump in slow, methodic motions. I know she is a virgin. But she’s thought this through. She knows what she is doing. Her hands move in such a way as to elicit the most pleasure with the littlest of effort. One hand still stroking me, the other swings up, caressing the muscles of my chest, working its way down, until it is cupping the swollen, sweating sack between my legs. Oh, dear lord. My heart is hammering so loudly I think it might break out of my chest. I can barely keep my eyes open to focus on this ravenous, perfect, teenaged vixen. And then there is an explosion of pleasure. She’s taken me into her mouth. She sucks and works her hands and wraps her tongue in ways that men only dream of. It is euphoric. Her tongue is a whirling dervish and a sensual symphony of pleasure, working the knob of my shaft. I close my eyes, throw my head back, and moan. It is a primitive sound, more likely to be heard from a jungle ape than a human being. I know she’s still looking up at me.
As much as it pained me to do, I removed myself from her lovely mouth. She’s too much woman for me. But, after what she had just given me, I was duty bound to try and please her. Her clothes are gone in a flash, and she is left standing before me, free and nude. Her skin is even paler than I had imagined, and her mound is hairless. Her breasts are perfect B-cup handfuls that fit into my mouth perfectly as we fall into bed together. My hands move up and down her body, first cupping her ass cheeks and then grabbing her breasts. Finally, my fingers tease their way into the hot, dripping wet confines of her love-hole, and the moans I elicit from her when I enter would be enough to send me over the edge with even the slightest further stimulation of my erection. We roll around in the bed, playing with each other in a twisted game of cat-and-mouse where we switch positions every second. She bites down on my shoulder, and there is a slight welling of blood. The pain only stimulates me further. It is the greatest, most pure pain I’ve ever felt.
It is at that second that I grab her, pulling her close to me, and spin her around so that she is positioned directly over me. The bare, dripping mound of her pussy is hovering directly over my quivering staff. She looks down at me from above. The fingers of our held hands intertwine. Her blue eyes are enormous sapphires. I do not know what I look like from her position. She nods at me. I whisper her name.
She impales herself onto my hard-on in a single, swift motion, burying my member into her pulsating hole, all the way to the hilt. She howls in pain and pleasure, throwing her head back like some feral beast, her black hair flashing around her head like a black corona, or a lion’s mane. Her breathing quickens even more, to the point where her heaving inhalations and exasperated exhalations are almost simultaneous, her breasts heaving up and downward rhythmically, hypnotically. When she looks back at me, there are tears in her eyes, both of joy and of pain. She whispers her love to me. I want to cry. The warmth of her hole around my shaft is impossible to bear. She is so tight, too tight. The muscles of her glorious pussy pulse and squeeze my over-stimulated phallus. She grinds downwards on me once, and I can feel my head hit the back of her cervix. She winces again in pain. I stroke her hair. Somewhere in my head I can feel the irresponsibility of this action. We, two teenagers, having our first sexual encounter, completely unprotected. It’s horrible. It’s dangerous. It’s beautiful and perfect. Her body is so honed and perfect, with goddess-like curves in all the right places. She is so perfect in this moment as to make Aphrodite herself weep. She has a body like a battle-axe. The insanity of the situation sets into me, and it’s like I’m making love to a Viking woman as the ship burns around us. The stupidity of the action makes it all the more erotic for me.
She rocks her hips back and forth against my member, and soon I begin to pick up the beat as well, so that we are both engaging in the most powerful, mind-shattering loving either of us would ever experience again. Her left hands pulls away from my fingers, and she runs it through her hair. She is my primal goddess, my halcyon girl, my animal princess. She drags her fingernails across my chest, leaving bloody, parallel grooves across the right pectoral, all the way down to my abs. We rock in concert for what felt like an eternity, our movements in time so perfectly that we make love with Swiss watch efficiency, even the smallest shiver eliciting untold satisfaction from the other.
After twenty minutes, which was an all-too-quick eternity, I feel the churning of my balls as they prepare to spew forth my seed. I resist. I close my eyes and back down on my tongue and resist resist resist the feeling welling up in my loins. I open my eyes, and her hands are grabbing my shoulders. With animal strength, she grabs me and rolls me so that I am on top of her looking down. I continue to pound into her, the new position giving me the leverage to strike home every single thrust with the strength and passion of a wild mustang. She digs her claws into my back, and the pleasure-pain is indescribable. Suddenly, she screams, loud, long, and what starts out as my name degenerates into a wordless, toneless howl. Her legs clamp around my back, and she pulls herself into me as hard as she possibly can as her vaginal muscles contract and pulsate along my shaft as her orgasm overtakes her. Her eyes, bluer than any other thing on the planet, look up at me with desire and shock and love. Her mouth moves in an uncoordinated gasping motion. Her whole body bucks beneath me. Her tightening muscles finally send me over the edge, and I unload, pumping stream after stream of long, gooey, pearly-white seed into her belly. My entire body shakes as I am seized by the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever (or will ever) experience. I collapse onto her, embracing her body yet again. Five minutes later her shaking, moaning, howling orgasm is over, and she looks up at me with nothing but love in her eyes. She strokes her fingers through my hair.
“Jenelle…” I whisper, and we both begin to cry as we realize we will never see each other again after tonight.

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