Here's a story I wrote AGES ago, back in college around 1992, which I originally posted to alt.sex.masturbation and alt.sex.stories newsgroups of the time. One of the readers who responded wound up becoming my e-lover for a time -- quite the feat considering that was before webcams, before IM, before the Web, when the 'Net was a text-only exercise in imagination, but that's a story for, perhaps, another time...

Speaking of time, has my writing stood the test thereof? I resisted the temptation to touch it up (not least because I know that would lead to a full rewrite!), preserving it intact as a snapshot from a certain point in my life.

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This is a first attempt, so comments and constructive criticism are welcome, natch. Feel free to redistribute and repost this story electronically as ye may please, provided you leave it *intact*, including this foreword. I reserve all rights to publication and profit. For private use, well, slice and dice to your wicked heart's content, O Ye of Little Patience, for this takes a little while to get truly steamy. Gentlemen, let the scene unfold before you. Ladies, you can play along too. %^} Forthwith, I modestly attempt to capture, self-contained, the magical erotic magnetism of...

THE REDHEAD
by Tye "Chaoboy" N.

She made her way along the hinterland backroad in long, smooth strides, seeming to glide magically along the ground despite the unbalancing weight of the picnic basket she swung blithely in her hand; her bell-adorned ankles jingled faintly, unseen within a long, flowing skirt of floral patterned, gauzy cotton. She was getting away, escaping to her cherished place among the thicket of trees that grew along a small stream traversing the fields, about a mile from her house.

In this free, escapist spirit, she wore only a minimum of unrestrictive clothing: that light, airy skirt, and her favourite silk blouse, a loose, boat-necked pullover of a vivid emerald hue. To merely say her hair was "red" would be daft; her tresses cascaded in thick, spiralling cords about her freckle-smattered shoulders, each lock its own subtly unique shade of blazing henna, like a hillside crowded with autumnal maples.

As she left the road and waded the tall grass of the field, her long, apricot lashes fluttered as she squinted her gold-flecked jade eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. She would surely leave with more freckles than she started with! Advancing upon the wood at the field's far edge, her every step contributed to the rhythmic dance of her breasts under their drape of silk, and to the gentle sway of her hips under the swishing skirt.

A single, ancient tree spread its branches over the top of a gentle, grassy rise, which then sloped sunward, down to the clear stream flanked by young, slender trees. She set down her basket somewhat downhill from that eldest tree, near the lacy edge of its shade. From the basket, she withdrew a folded, ivory linen table cloth. Grasping its corners, she flung her arms outward, the cloth exploding into the air as she crossed one ankle in front of the other to crouch, gently lowering the cover to the ground.

She placed her hands on the linen before her and sprang out from the crouch, the breeze moulding the thin fabric of her clothing to the soft forms of breasts, thighs, belly, as she swung her body 'round to land on the cloth. Splaying her legs with feet together, she reached for her ankles to undo the straps of her buskins, tossing each sandal in turn casually over her shoulder to land with a twinkle of Turkish bells. With hands tipped by short, well-filed nails, she caressed her pale ankles and calves, weary from the hike.

Folding her legs beneath her to sit upon her heels, she leaned over to the basket and fished her hand about under the lid to withdraw several items: an orange, a small bunch of grapes, a bottle of warm ginger-beer brewed by a local family of Jamaican grocers, a Mason jar of variously-coloured rotini, a small cruet of vinaigrette, and a small, tattered, hardcover book she'd bought months ago from a second- hand store. She grasped the Mason jar in her hands, squinching her pert, freckled nose as she turned the reluctant lid open. Once loosened, the lid spun off easily with a flick of her fingers. The cruet was quickly shaken and uncorked, and its contents drizzled over the pasta.

With long, deft fingers, she plucked a dripping twirl of rotini from the jar, quickly raising the slippery morsel to her pale pink lips, which had the subtlest hint of blue to give them a fleeting silvery cast. After sucking the coil in, her fingers paused to lightly spread the oil across her lower lip, which was fuller than the arcing, unpeaked top, with a slight squareness at the corners. This whole ritual she repeated several times, each with a different flavour of pasta. This finally ended when she leaned sideways to unfold her legs, which had begun to fall asleep. She rested upon her right elbow as she lay down on her side, still tracing her lips with oily fingers, enjoying this sensation with closed eyes as the breeze toyed with her fiery locks.

Breaking from her reverie, she opened her eyes and slyly grinned as her gaze settled on the book -- Anais Nin, and the steamy parts were marked. Her arm swung over to snatch first the book, then the bottle of ginger-beer, which she opened using the hinge of the basket handle. Taking the first spicy swig, she winced appreciatively as her fingers danced along the book's familiarly well-thumbed edge, seeking the first turned-back corner. She stretched out on her right side, with the hand supporting her head buried in rubescent curls as she slowly absorbed the text, absent-mindedly plucking the occasional grape or taking swigs of ginger-beer to savour along with the similarly sweet and spicy words.

The breeze continued to carress her with its feathery touch, sending ripples across her skirt and blouse and sporadically imposing a sweet, brief shiver of goosebumps across her freckled skin, coaxing her nipples into sharper peaks under billowing green silk. Generally, she was feeling warmer now, not only from the seductions of the book, but also from the sinking sun, which pushed the lace of tree-shadow back to midway up her torso. As she had been reading, her left hand would make its rounds of her body, pausing to smooth the fabric across her thighs, to rub her belly under the skirt's drawcord, to idly circle an appreciative nipple. This hand was now lingering just below her navel, fingertips gently stroking downy hairs through the gauze of her skirt.

Her breathing was now deeper and less regular as the words on the page seemed to lose import to the sensations in her body. Despite the cool breeze, there was a certain warm humidity under her skirt, where an expectant spring was trickling between pressed thighs. The book, which had been held open in her right hand, dropped to the ground. Her fingertips pressed more firmly into her mons, pulling upward as they did. With a groaning sigh, she now rolled languidly onto her back, still propped up on her right elbow. Her left hand, cool from the breeze, reached up to comfort her warm neck, sliding from throat to ear to scalp and running through her hair. With lowered eyes, she moved her hand down, between silken, verdant hillocks, to her waist.

Inching under the blouse, her touch caressed the warm skin of her soft belly in lazy circles. Slowly, her hand made its way back up under the blouse to her cleavage. An insistent plea from her nipples lured her palm, after a moment of indecision, to one side, turning to arc over the top of her right breast, then down along its outward slope, her fingers strumming up and over the alert peak. With her nipple poised between thumb and forefinger's base, she cupped the comfortably palm-sized lower contour of her breast and gently squeezed, pulling the yielding handful up slightly. The pinched nipple rewarded her accordingly, sending sunbursts of heat and electricity across her skin and down her spine, only to emerge again as a warm tingle in her pelvis.

Quickly, she withdrew her hand and sat up, crossing her arms across her waist to grab the hem of her blouse and pull it off. Her breasts rose and fell in this action, jouncing slightly as they came back to rest. Her tousled hair gained volume and vitality with this action, the loosened, fiery tendrils shooting wildly from around her face. A dense shadow of freckles started at her shouldertips, cascaded down her arms and plunged into the valley between her ivory hills. She breathed deeply through flaring nostrils, feeling the breeze on her naked skin, which had aroused the full attention of her nipples, their pale-pink halos swollen out from the contour of her bosom.

The wind and the setting sun ignited her hair into a billowing pyre, flames leaping from her head as both her freckled hands ran up along her soft, pale belly to cup her breasts again, kneading them gently and pulling at the tips as her arms lowered to her sides. She continued to tease her nipples, running circles and lightly pinching, rolling, twisting, pulling. Her head rolled deliriously about her shoulders as an occasional whimper escaped from her throat. With her left hand still at her breast, her right hand slid back down her belly, going just under her skirt's drawcord. Her hand eased the chafing there, rubbing side-to-side, eliciting a soft, purring hum from her lips; occasionally she would dip down to run fingertips through her plush fleece, transforming the hum to a full moan. She could hold off no longer. She pulled the drawcord.

Both hands now slid down her belly, under the waistband and down her thighs, pulling the drawcord loose as they went. The gauzy material pooled around her lower thighs, revealing her lush, silken, burning bush to the setting sun's admiring gaze, which stoked it into an ever more fiery shade. Her hips raised up slightly as her hands slid down around them to remove the gossamer garment entirely, hands sliding further down along the outside of smooth, creamy-pale thighs and calves.

She took the inside route back up, parting those ivory limbs wider with every inch, allowing the sun to blanket her already-warm vertice. Her treasures lay fully unveiled, glowing coral, ivory, and peach like some heavenly spun-sugar confection under the sun. Her pale-pink inner folds were swollen expectantly, plumped into soft ripples which glistened with the dew trickling out from between them. As right hand joined the left in its attentions, she lay back with her head just off the edge of the linen cloth, her ruby mane fanning out over the soft, green grass.

Her hands ran along the crease of her thighs to either side of her mound; this gently pushed her outer lips together then apart in rhythm. One hand answered a call from her bosom and travelled back up to oblige. The other pushed down through that lavish patch of softly curled apricot hair, down to answer more urgent needs spoken in her shallow, ragged breaths. Her middle finger glided over the hooded apex and, parting her slippery sea, trailed lightly down to the bottom of her entrance as the other fingers brushed along the velvety outside skin.

She let out a low, pent-up groan as her finger slid back up, pressing deeper into her searing flesh, welling up with juices. Quickly, she raised her hand to taste her nectar, tart and sweet and rich, citrus and heavy-cream. She continued making this motion, rowing her fingers through slippery folds, lightly-down and firmly-up, whimpering and groaning in uneven, husky gasps. Then, on a downstroke, she curled her middle finger inward; inhaling sharply though her nostrils, she let her breath out in a wavering whisper as the finger sank slowly into her flooded depths.

She cradled her steaming vulva in her hand, caressing slowly up and down. Her center digit slid down over her clitoris, curled deep inside, and then glided back out over the apex with each stroke. She was panting through flaring nostrils as the pace began to build. Her ring finger joined the other inside her boiling quim as her hand abandoned mere caressing to start pumping her two fingers in and out, her slippery palm brushing her alert clitoris. The other hand clutched at her breasts, urgently squeezing and palming each handful in turn.

As she neared climax, her fingers plunged deeply into her, remaining there to do a butterfly-kick against her deepest point of ecstasy as her palm rolled around her clit. With a trembling, rising moan, she let out a piercing wail as the first wave hit her. Her entire body puckered in the sweet shock of lemons, rolling her eyes back to watch the sun blazing within her head, searing her body from the inside, firing her into weightless oblivion, while lightning bolts hummed through her straining limbs, arching her back. Copious waves of nectar rushed out from between her mad, frantic fingers in a futile attempt to douse the fire.

Soon, the inferno died down, reducing to its usual, familiar simmer, which was her constant companion. Her vagina slowly coaxed her tired, trembling fingers back out to rest across her vulva. Spent, she remained nearly motionless, breathing deep and slow, waiting to feel her body regain contact with the ground. The sun rested upon the horizon, bathing her afterglow with its own. As her fingertips regained full sensation, the left ones lightly brushed the skin between her breasts, as if painting on more freckles, while the right fingertips gently stroked her silken patch, glowing like neon in the sunset light.

Soon, she would get dressed and go home, but for now, she was content to leave her creamy skin bare, absorbing the sun's ebbing radiance. She remembered the orange she'd brought along, and turned her head to find it. Languidly reaching over, she first grasped the fruit and then found the bottlecap in the grass, using this to cut into the rind. Still lying on her back with her limbs splayed casually, she dug into the flesh of the orange, heedless of the juice smearing her chin and dripping onto her bosom, reveling in the flavour with a sudden hunger. The real world can wait for just a while longer.