memories and illusions by Katherine T.


Siesta in Firenze. We're in the Grand Hotel in the Piazza Ognissanti. Tomorrow we go to Paris. The hotel window is open, the shutters pushed out, the afternoon heat pervasive. Her name is Flor. We lie naked on the bed, sweating in the heat and hardly touching. But I have one knee raised and she has her finger inside me, the finger slowly moving in and out, sliding, occasionally twisting. I'm wet and I want more, but I say nothing, because if I ask for it she will deliberately tease me until I tremble on the edge of madness. Instead, I just lie there. She wants me to come on her finger. Which finger is it? No doubt her middle finger. Her thumb sometimes grazes my clitoris, but not often enough. I lower my knee, then raise it again. I moan.

She says:

-- Tell me what you want.

-- You know what I want.

-- Tell me.

-- I want you to make me come.

-- Hah.

-- I hate it when you tease me.

-- No, you don't hate it, you love it.

-- I hate it.

She suddenly pulls her finger out of my vagina and slides it into my ass.

-- How's that?

-- You're a bitch.

-- And this?

Another finger in my vagina, probably her thumb. She moves both fingers at the same time, working me. My hips move as I try to get more penetration.

-- How is it?

-- I don't think I can come this way.

-- It's too hot to do anything else.

-- I know.

Her fingers stop moving, but they remain inside, one finger in my cunt, the other finger in my ass.

She says:

-- Go to sleep.

I drop my leg and close my eyes. I'm tired anyway. At least I have her fingers.

So I sleep and the afternoon passes. In the evening we drink wine in the hotel garden. Flor wants to talk about the frescoes we looked at this morning. She's an expert on frescoes. I know hardly anything about frescoes, so what I do is listen and sip my wine and look at her. When she likes to talk, I like to look at her. I wonder if the hotel people who see us know we're lovers. We've been here five days. Flor is forty, tall and thin and elegant, and I'm twenty-seven and look much younger. At least when my clothes are casual. This evening I'm wearing a simple black dress and a necklace of Milanese beads and high heels and I look my age. Flor is in pants and a silk blouse. Yes, I suppose they do think we're lovers. What they see is a forty year old woman with a thin and rather hard looking face and a much younger woman who seems to dote on her. Probably lesbian lovers. But what difference does it make? This is Florence. In Rome, in the cafes in the Via Veneto, half the people in the evening were of ambiguous sexuality. Men dressed as women, women dressed as men, men kissing each other, women kissing each other, tourists staring, hookers cruising, a crazy circus with seventeen acts in play at the same time. Castro Street looks like amateur night compared to the Via Veneto. Flor had seen it all before, but I hadn't and I was fascinated. Well, that was Rome. This is Firenze. I like Italy.

Flor says:

-- What are you thinking about? You look like you're dreaming.

-- Rome. The Via Veneto.

-- Of course.

-- What do you mean?

-- You're thinking about the dyke couple, the two dykes who propositioned us.

-- No I'm not.

-- Yes you are.

-- They didn't proposition us anyway. They just invited us to a party.

-- A party of four, wasn't it?

-- I didn't hear that.

-- Your Italian is rickety. But so what? I don't care. You think about the Via Veneto all you want. Do you know what I'm going to do when we get upstairs?

-- What?

-- I'm going to fuck you.

I quickly turn my head left and right to see if anyone heard her.

-- You don't need to let the world know.

-- Why not? I want to stand up and shout at them.

-- Oh Flor.

In our room again, she wants the lights on and me on the bed and she tells me how she wants me. Our last night in Firenze. No time for romance because Flor is in one of her hungry moods. Maybe that's why she excites me so much. She has hungers. When she's like this it's useless to expect tenderness or romance. I'm just the woman she wants to fuck. So I'm kneeling on the bed still dressed, even the shoes, with my dress raised over my hips to uncover my ass. I'm still wearing panties, black nylon. I know what will happen now. She'll eat my ass and cunt through the panties and make me completely crazy. Then she'll pull the gusset of the panties aside and she'll push the cock she's wearing into my vagina and she'll fuck me senseless. Is it too predictable? I don't care. Just thinking about it makes me tremble.

But I'm wrong. She wants the panties removed.

-- Just the panties.

-- Don't you want to close the shutters? The window's wide open and anyone can look in.

-- Are you crazy? There's nothing out there but the river. Come on, show me your ass.

-- You're impossible.

But of course I do whatever she wants. I pull the panties down to my legs and she helps me get them off my feet. Then I resume the pose, my hips in the air, my legs apart, waiting for her. I know all about it. It's my favorite position to get fucked and she's not the first to take me this way. But I don't want to think about the others. All I care about at the moment is Flor fucking me. At this moment I belong to her completely.

I feel her hands sliding over my ass.

-- Nice... And you're dripping, aren't you?

-- I'd rather have the lights off.

-- I want to look at you.

What does she see? My pussy is shaved, so I suppose she sees everything. I think I can feel her eyes boring into my cunt and it thrills me. If I were really brave, I would reach back and pull my buttocks apart. That would be so lewd. But I'm not that brave, not with Flor.

I don't know what she's doing now. Maybe she's putting lube on the cock. Yes, that must be it. She never asks me to suck it, which i would do if she asked. I've done that before. I'm such an agreeable little femme. Not quite fluff but almost. I do whatever she wants. Now I feel the tip of the cock pushing in. She has one hand holding my hip while the other hand guides the cock. I can see it in my mind. I wish I could see it in a mirror. I feel the thickness of the cock as it slides in. Flor's cock. I love it. I moan. Oh God, I'm so bad. I move my hips and beg her to fuck me.

* * *


A desert somewhere, white sand. I lie on the sand naked, on my back, my right hand running the tip of a dildo over my belly. Just an ordinary dildo. I don't like vibrators that much. A vibrator is an insidious machine, a machine that eats your soul. You put the machine on target and you wait until your nervous system turns into jelly. Guaranteed orgasms. Do we really need guaranteed orgasms? Half the fun is finding them, searching them out with reality warps, skewed images, bizarre fantasies, crazy imaginings. When I have a vibrator near my clit, I can't think of anything but the relentless machine. At a meeting, a woman barks into a microphone that vibrators have orgasm-enabled millions of women worldwide. Bravo. I still dislike vibrators. I'll give the women my fingers. To all those women worldwide, I offer my fingers. And if my fingers don't work, they can have my nose, my chin, my tongue, my elbow, my thigh, my nipple, and even my big toe if I get drunk enough. Anything, but not a vibrator. Today a vibrator, tomorrow a pair of electrodes. They'll call it the Jazz Machine. Really. Two electrodes, one on each labium near your clit, push the button and you start shaking. Adjust frequency and intensity to suit your mood. No distracting noise. Completely personal. Guaranteed satisfaction or your money back. If you don't like a smooth sine-wave, you can switch over to a long-ramp sawtooth that will make you feel someone is fucking you. Close your eyes, lift your legs, and get fucked. The Jazz Machine will fuck-enable millions of women worldwide. The box that holds the transformer and wave-shaper is about the size of a soup can and comes in iridescent pink or aqua blue with electrodes included. A Target special. The deluxe version comes with a Betty Dodson video. Don't delay. We sell out every new shipment. Want one? Or would you rather have my tongue?

Too bad I'm in a desert. All I can do is lie naked on the sand and dream.

* * *


I meet Heather at a dyke party in Chicago. Everyone is whacked out on either pot or booze or both. Tonight I'm drinking nothing but Diet Cokes because I may need to drive home alone. I'm too young to die in a wreck on Lake Shore Drive. The upstairs flat has a rear balcony, and since it's summer and balmy, I'm sitting on the balcony and enjoying a respite from the noise inside. Suddenly a woman comes out on the balcony, leans over the railing and throws up into the garden below.

Fucking marvelous.

After she finishes, she turns and she sees me for the first time.

-- I'm sorry, I guess I had too much.

-- Are you okay?

-- Feeling better. Do you mind if I sit here awhile? My name's Heather.

-- I don't mind at all. I'm Katherine.

-- Hello, Katherine.

Her name is really out of sync with her appearance. Or at least I think so. The name Heather has always evoked images of sylph-like shy little girls with pale skin and long reddish blonde hair. This Heather has blonde hair, white-blonde, but it's cropped short close to her skull. She's not short, she's tall and lean, wearing black jeans and a black tank top, and under the top she has hardly any breasts. Her face and body are tan and her bare arms show muscles. She wears silver arm bracelets and she looks exceedingly tough. I imagine her working out in a gym, huffing and puffing as the sweat drips off her collarbones. She doesn't seem at all disturbed that I just watched her throw up into the garden. She has attitude. She stares at me with a poker face and I know I'm being checked out.

She says:

-- I haven't seen you around.

-- I'm visiting.

-- From where?

-- From New York.

-- I'd like to fuck you.

Fucking marvelous, she is.

I stare at her. Finally I stand up and I say:

-- Okay.

Do you see how easy I am? Is life a dream or what?


Copyright 2002 by Katherine T.