Suna

[bill512]

"Jesus Christ ..." Ben's tongue was on the table. She was fantastically erotic. The way she looked. The way she moved. Everything seemed a slow motion, characteristic of impeccable grace. The stuff of legends and myth, this woman of the dance. Of the strip tease. His stare centered around her naval where everything else seemed a pivot. And those muscles never lost control. Not once was there a jerk or a twitch of unevenness and awkwardness. It was slow and smooth like water. Like wave.

"That's Suna." Brian said. "Incredible isn't she." "Unbelievable. How long has she been working here?" "Just started last week. Brenda signed her on." And the temptation whirlwind began. She seemed a natural up on the stage ... around the pole ... upside down ... stretching ... wrapping herself around and teasing, forcing Ben's head into a spin. She had long Cher like hair that went all the way down to the tailbone. And dark eyes. Black eyes. Like a sharks eyes.

"Wait till she gets the banana." "What?" "Watch the banana routine." And sure enough she slowly peeled a banana open from the bottom. It made the eye flinch and flicker, the upsidedown way of doing it. But her hands touched it with tingles in the crotch, peeling off its skin, and holding it at the handle. "Oh my God." "Yah." And Brian laughed. "Oh my God."

"Don't even think about it." "What?" "I know what you're thinking, and don't even think about it." "Why?" "She's off limits. No one can get near her." "Says who?" "Says her." Brian produced a look of disappointment. "I'm serious buddy. She said she'd leave, and ever since she started we've been busting benchmark." "I'm just going to talk to her." "Ok ... but don't say I didn't warn you."

Describing Suna would be like trying to teach Nuclear Physics to a classroom of people who didn't speak English. The language of love is a language never spoken. Never worded. Never defined. And that's the look of Suna. Pure love affair. Pure silence. She gave off an aura of such presence that every guy in that strip tease bar felt 200% more just having watched her. Two hundred percent inspired. Like a "hey ... maybe there is something to live for. Maybe there is some reason to cut back on the booze and the drugs, and make something of myself." Suna was woman, and the sight of her left you feeling priviledged. Not turned on. Not macho. But priviledged. That's how beautiful she was.

But Suna had a secret. A sexual secret. Her love was poisoned. So potent and intense as to be deadly and destructive. One of the reasons why they don't, for example, burn hydrogen fuel in internal combustion engines was because of the characteristics of pure water. There isn't any pure water on the planet. It's all diluted. Softened. Pure water eats steel, and flesh. Like an acid. The engine would run, but the process of combustion and thereby producing pure H2O would make for such caustic purity that the engine would last maybe a year. If you were lucky. Such was the similar predicament with Suna. Pure womanhood. Pure love, so concentrated that it burned holes in your heart. And other things ...

When Suna loved, people died. The loneliest woman in the world, and Ben was going to be one of the few lucky ones to find out why ...

[smotherman]

Bill


Let`s just hope Suna" always loves someone:D Very nice descriptive story, i`m looking forward to reading the ending.

[bill512]

For such perfect nakedness, Suna wore shabby cloths. Torn jeans, tee-shirt, winter boots that looked Salvation Army, and Hudson Bay coat that, though it was warm, made her seem like she came in off the street. Made you wonder. Security. Insecurity. And why people often flaunt and put onto a pulpit what they got, while people like her didn't. Like the Down Syndrome social reject plays impeccable piano, beauty is a thing more like hidden treasure than anything else. Popping up where least likely seen, as though a maker's hand's main intent was to make us all stop and think. And wonder. Seeing Suna come out her dressing room, head out the back alley way, and chasing her down the street at two in the morning, left Ben a confused taste in his mouth. Like he were asking for a handout from a bum.

But he kept her seductive dance firmly implanted in his mind. Who wouldn't? And won the Lottery. The hundredth caller. The nine thousand nine hundred and ninety ninth roll of toilet paper. The bells rang. The alarm bell sounded. And Suna turned her lovely gaze, not because she was a woman of principle. But because she was a woman. With need. With hunger like everyone else. And every now and then those things that you tell to go away that don't become victim to what holds one's principles in place. They become sophistic creations of your primal desire. Suna was hungry for a man. It was a long time since, and when Ben chased her down that alley way like all those others did, deep within the recesses of her innerness came a calling. "Take this one." "Take him home."

"You know Brian?" "I'm co-owner." "So I should be calling you boss?" "No, of course not. Could I buy you a drink?" "It's two o'clock in the morning." "How about my place?" "My place."

It were that simple. Should have been a warning sign. Should have been a symphony of heavenly lightning bolt streaking across the sky, to warn him. To tell him he was about to become someone's milkshake. But that was the thing about Suna, the thing that even creeped her out. She always got what she wanted. With little or no effort. And little or no warning. With barely a whisper out those perfect lips. Tantilizing. Ebrasive. Frictional eroticism that moistened her skin, and electrified her growl.

Brian drove her home, to the North side of town. A tiny apartment where the hounds barked and the drunks lay sleeping in the garbage. But inside was a castle. A dungeon. And a place of forbidden solitude. A bed where Suna slept anonymously, and dreamed of being normal.

[bill512]

Ok, I haven't forgotten about this. Cher really turns me on. Did you guys know native americans are hairless? I'll bethca didn't know that...

Anyway, the banana is the theme in this one. She feeds him a banana, and that's always been a fantasy of mine. Being fed a banana by the muscles of precise pussy over my mouth (Not that I ever did it, and not that I want to be to explicit of a pervert). He eats the banana, and it's game over. Turns into a vanilla milkshake....

:D

[bill512]

Just like trying to describe Suna's looks was an author's lost cause, so too was trying to describe what she felt. That's why the psychology. That's what psychology is: empathy. A mirror. A translation. A reflection of one's self in comparable terms understood, otherwise there'd be no point. No point in wondering. In sharing. In storyline. Psychologically, Suna was sick. Oh, you wouldn't know it talking to her. You'd think she were charming were you a blind man listening to her voice. But sexually speaking, Suna was sick. A person within a person. A disassociation from herself that kept her eyes closed while her body danced. Were, for example, an eye to open, out of impulse, or accidentally, and she were to witness the man underneath her crotch, clutched by her thighs, and what she was doing to him. Well ... Terror. Sheer terror. So just like Dracula sleeps during the day, so too did Suna sleep during her play.

But it felt incredible. Especially with the scarcity of it. With the principles and the diet. When she did let it go, it took over in acidic melt. And oozed out purity onto face ... into mouth ... nostril ... eye ... ear ... soaking through the pores like sponge. Devouring. Cannibalizing. Saturating. Making mucous out of hard flesh and bone. Suna's dance inspired the deep desires of a monster. So powerful. So potent, that it left no survivors behind. So in rythme she'd squat and hover and smother over face eyes closed, breath panting, and feeling like starved sugar, her due fill her womb.

The tease was the Banana. More than just a piece of fruit. An invitation. An indulgence. A stroke of the light in the lense of the eye to say "hey ... come here ..." And they did. They all did. And with gentle wave like glide she eased it over top anxious mouth. And squeezed with muscle more precise than taste bud that soft vegetable meat out. To be swallowed. To be chewed. To be mixed in with secretion that laid all men flat on their backs. For that long ... slow ... deep ... baratoned french kiss.