Ten years of this Spirit Bonding Day. How is this even a thing? When I look back on those days, I was an idealistic girl with the bit in my teeth. None of what I thought were reasons then makes any sense to me now. Posing what I did back then against what it's all become. It's the view through a funhouse periscope, if there is such a thing.
Your article was pretty accurate, for all that you left out. I have to wonder what intriguing little secrets the Spec has hidden away in those archived reporters' notes. If I owe anyrhing to the record, we'll call this my one and only test seating to fill in the blanks.
I still have the silvery-blue, thank you, "wrap" that I wore to Rhyanne's dorm room that night. That was fourteen years ago, not ten, and I can't account for the difference. Funhouse periscope, right? She played for Serbia for nine years, then I lost track of her.
It was just a hunk of material from a thrift store. I hung it on a broomstick over my window and hated the way it turned everyyhing in the room sickish blue. But I still kept it, go figure.
I wear my hair now in a bob. Romantic tresses are a pain when you travel more hours than you sit down to work.So I went to an AI for extensions. Pretty much, this was how I looked that night,walking across campus.
I'm no longer the frenetic, whittled-down herbivore who cheered for Varsity. Still, this is me, the lasting part of the girl who stood naked and challenged a giant to do me her worst. I'm not worried this picture will become public. In this partof the world, a wardrobe malfunction will get you into more hot water than joining the show at a topless beach. Just ask Jenny frost.
That, by the way,is the reason I don't work in the US. The last thing I need at a negotiation is for some Ivy League frat bro to drop a reference to my days at LaMarr while we're talking schedules and ship bottoms.
That is my house. The air of the Neapolitan hills is the breath of life to me.
Finally, I suppose you want to know what "actually" happened after I dropped my wrap. I don't know that I can tell you, strictly.Now and then, I think about it.
Have you ever stood at the base of a tall building, knowing it's not even about to fall on you, but imagining what it would feel like to be crushed? Rhyanne said to come and she got to her feet and I knew that she could crush me then and there.
She took me off of my feet. She sat, slowly. My weight was nothing to her. She held my eyes and told me, "I'm going to take you apart now." My breath stopped, and a tingle started in the base of my belly. I'd never felt so strong a blend of fear and excitement. She squeezed my side and I could breathe again, if I sounded more like I was barking.
She teased me. She laid my shoulders against the arm of her chair, wide enough for two, a "loveseat". She traced my hairline, toyeed with my ears and squeezed my lobes almost hard enough to hurt, making me gasp. She ran her hands into my hair and massaged my scalp. All the while, she locked me in eye contact. I felt as though she were reading from me, the Instruction manual for Owners of Jane.
She toyed with my nipples, teasing them base to tip, drawing them out further and harder than I ever had myself. L let out a little squeal, but held a moan deep in my throat. I felt I might know what was coming next. If she wanted to do that to me, I knew I couldn't stop her. I didn't know that I would want to.
She counted down my ribs on my left, making me squirm and giggle, then counted them up on my right. When she reached my underarm her eyes sharpened, and I knew she was done with gentle teasing.
the next twenty minutes were all one to me for years afterward. I twisted and writhed as her adamant hands probed my flesh. She made me helpless as I had never been in my life, even when I was first bullied at recess. Her hands started searing bolts of sensation running up and down in me, even colliding on the same pathways. I raved and swore and begged and prayed. I forgot the word "uncle". I lost control of my mind, abandoning my body to the immensely powerful woman who had taken it from me.
When I came back to myself, I was crying. Rhyanne held me and rocked me and crooned nonsense to me in the tone a mother uses to comfort her foolishly distraught child. She had drawn my wrap over me. preserving the dregs of heat in my core. I was demolished, and I felt utterly at peace. I cried with release. I knew that I had won.
Flashes of that time out of mindedness come in sleep. I dream that she probes my thigh, working her hand up into the joint, driving desperate gouts of laughter from the depths of my gut. I turn against the hand clamped onto my buttock and push hard against the hand in my crotch. I rolled my hips once, twice ... once more. An explosion deep in my center races up my spine and blows my mind completely from my forebrain. The screen of my dream, like the climactic moment of an old color cartoon, explodes into stars.
I can't say whether these are recovered memories or spontaneous fantasies spawned by a mind desperate to fill a void in identity. Rhyanne and I never discussed that night in any detail. We never repeated the encounter. I'll make it plain. It was no seduction. We ended it like boxers fighting to exhaustion, leaning on one another, coming away with a split decision on a coin toss.
We are only the total of all that we have seen, heard, done and learned from it. My sum is that I'm [retty much a vanilla girl. I like men. I'd rather have a pillow fight than a tickle fight.
I will go back to LaMarr. I'm thinking 2029, my fifteenth. But not for this Spirit Bonding thing. I cringe a bit at the mental image of me in my blue wrap, strutting around campus like some Statue of Sexual Liberty.
There's still the story of the dare I enforced on my Varsity girls. Go dig it out. Maybe while you're at it, you can find the con artist who turned my late adolescent stunt into a yearly event. Set your bullshit detector to pissing-on-my-boots.
Good luck.
Your article was pretty accurate, for all that you left out. I have to wonder what intriguing little secrets the Spec has hidden away in those archived reporters' notes. If I owe anyrhing to the record, we'll call this my one and only test seating to fill in the blanks.
I still have the silvery-blue, thank you, "wrap" that I wore to Rhyanne's dorm room that night. That was fourteen years ago, not ten, and I can't account for the difference. Funhouse periscope, right? She played for Serbia for nine years, then I lost track of her.
It was just a hunk of material from a thrift store. I hung it on a broomstick over my window and hated the way it turned everyyhing in the room sickish blue. But I still kept it, go figure.
I wear my hair now in a bob. Romantic tresses are a pain when you travel more hours than you sit down to work.So I went to an AI for extensions. Pretty much, this was how I looked that night,walking across campus.
I'm no longer the frenetic, whittled-down herbivore who cheered for Varsity. Still, this is me, the lasting part of the girl who stood naked and challenged a giant to do me her worst. I'm not worried this picture will become public. In this partof the world, a wardrobe malfunction will get you into more hot water than joining the show at a topless beach. Just ask Jenny frost.
That, by the way,is the reason I don't work in the US. The last thing I need at a negotiation is for some Ivy League frat bro to drop a reference to my days at LaMarr while we're talking schedules and ship bottoms.
That is my house. The air of the Neapolitan hills is the breath of life to me.
Finally, I suppose you want to know what "actually" happened after I dropped my wrap. I don't know that I can tell you, strictly.Now and then, I think about it.
Have you ever stood at the base of a tall building, knowing it's not even about to fall on you, but imagining what it would feel like to be crushed? Rhyanne said to come and she got to her feet and I knew that she could crush me then and there.
She took me off of my feet. She sat, slowly. My weight was nothing to her. She held my eyes and told me, "I'm going to take you apart now." My breath stopped, and a tingle started in the base of my belly. I'd never felt so strong a blend of fear and excitement. She squeezed my side and I could breathe again, if I sounded more like I was barking.
She teased me. She laid my shoulders against the arm of her chair, wide enough for two, a "loveseat". She traced my hairline, toyeed with my ears and squeezed my lobes almost hard enough to hurt, making me gasp. She ran her hands into my hair and massaged my scalp. All the while, she locked me in eye contact. I felt as though she were reading from me, the Instruction manual for Owners of Jane.
She toyed with my nipples, teasing them base to tip, drawing them out further and harder than I ever had myself. L let out a little squeal, but held a moan deep in my throat. I felt I might know what was coming next. If she wanted to do that to me, I knew I couldn't stop her. I didn't know that I would want to.
She counted down my ribs on my left, making me squirm and giggle, then counted them up on my right. When she reached my underarm her eyes sharpened, and I knew she was done with gentle teasing.
the next twenty minutes were all one to me for years afterward. I twisted and writhed as her adamant hands probed my flesh. She made me helpless as I had never been in my life, even when I was first bullied at recess. Her hands started searing bolts of sensation running up and down in me, even colliding on the same pathways. I raved and swore and begged and prayed. I forgot the word "uncle". I lost control of my mind, abandoning my body to the immensely powerful woman who had taken it from me.
When I came back to myself, I was crying. Rhyanne held me and rocked me and crooned nonsense to me in the tone a mother uses to comfort her foolishly distraught child. She had drawn my wrap over me. preserving the dregs of heat in my core. I was demolished, and I felt utterly at peace. I cried with release. I knew that I had won.
Flashes of that time out of mindedness come in sleep. I dream that she probes my thigh, working her hand up into the joint, driving desperate gouts of laughter from the depths of my gut. I turn against the hand clamped onto my buttock and push hard against the hand in my crotch. I rolled my hips once, twice ... once more. An explosion deep in my center races up my spine and blows my mind completely from my forebrain. The screen of my dream, like the climactic moment of an old color cartoon, explodes into stars.
I can't say whether these are recovered memories or spontaneous fantasies spawned by a mind desperate to fill a void in identity. Rhyanne and I never discussed that night in any detail. We never repeated the encounter. I'll make it plain. It was no seduction. We ended it like boxers fighting to exhaustion, leaning on one another, coming away with a split decision on a coin toss.
We are only the total of all that we have seen, heard, done and learned from it. My sum is that I'm [retty much a vanilla girl. I like men. I'd rather have a pillow fight than a tickle fight.
I will go back to LaMarr. I'm thinking 2029, my fifteenth. But not for this Spirit Bonding thing. I cringe a bit at the mental image of me in my blue wrap, strutting around campus like some Statue of Sexual Liberty.
There's still the story of the dare I enforced on my Varsity girls. Go dig it out. Maybe while you're at it, you can find the con artist who turned my late adolescent stunt into a yearly event. Set your bullshit detector to pissing-on-my-boots.
Good luck.
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