Jamie Joy Gatto is a New Orleans writer and bisexual activist whose short fiction has appeared in Best Bisexual Erotica, The Unmade Bed, Unlimited Desires, Tears on Black Roses, Black Sheets, among other quality publications and in various markets, and is scheduled for Best Bisexual Erotica 2001, Best SM Erotica, Love Shook My Heart II, Guilty Pleasures. She is editor-in-chief of the webzines Mind Caviar and A Bi-Friendly Place. She writes a quarterly BDSM column for TES's Prometheus. Her first collection of short fiction, Sex Noir: Stories of Sex, Death and Loss will be released in 2002 by Circlet Press. She is currently co-editing an anthology with M. Christian, Villains and Vixens: An Erotic Celebration of the Scoundrel also scheduled for 2003.
Michaela at Midnight
by Jamie Joy Gatto
I have just set my square, wiry crab traps, tossed them into the black, when I see her across the bank. Her thin dress is silvery white, nearly glowing in the moonlight. She is lifting up her skirt, dipping her toes, one foot after another into the water. The water is cold so late at night; she abruptly pulls a foot from out of the bayou, dripping wet, then puts another in. She bends down, and a strap falls from her shoulders, uncovering the tender top of her left breast. Her small breasts are just barely covered by the thin fabric, almost sheer, a summery cotton white. I try to make out the outline of her nipples through the garment, but I think the moon is playing tricks on my eyes. I wish it would play that same teasing trick again.
Crickets roar and under the din, Michaela is singing, and humming intermittently, a little song about the moonlight, about walking after midnight, an old country song. I long to be the man she is singing to, but I'm pretty sure I'm not. So instead of responding, I wait, and I watch her playing at the water's edge. She is scooping up water in her hands and letting it run through her fingers. She looks like she might be spelling, but I haven't known a witch other than Granny since I was a boy. Witches are never this young, I think. So I listen to her sweet voice calling to me, drawing me in.
Michaela reminds me of the Tarot cards Granny plays-- she looks tonight like one in particular called Temperance. Granny reads me my fortunes on the full moon, once a month and on blue moons, too. Usually she tells me how the crabs will be running, or if the fishing is good out in Cocodrie. Lately she tells me a woman is waiting. I can't believe in wives tales, but Granny is almost never wrong. I wonder if Michaela waits for me.
Michaela is still singing and as she does, she dances, arms raised over her head. She makes a sultry gesture, tossing her head back, black hair cascading behind her, as she sings louder. Her hands are sweeping in front of her, swaying to and fro, making little swimming gestures. Each finger delicately splays outward, then spindles in, as if she is calling the water to meet her on the bank.
I'm entranced by her motions, and I find myself nearly holding my breath. She is stirring me, deep within, and making me want her. I can feel my cock plumping in my pants at her sight and sound. Michaela, oh, how I want you!
Michaela slowly pulls her dress off her body, over her head, uncovering her olive skin and dark brown nipples, almost black in the moonlight. She closes her eyes and enters the water by walking right in, one step at a time. The water swallows her whole, until she is completely under.
For a moment I panic, I don't see her, and she seems to have been under for too long. A few moments later, she surfaces, only a few feet away from me. I can barely believe my eyes. Her body rises out of the blackness shining like a goddess in the moon. Her hair, slicked back from her face, clings to her shoulders and sticks slickly to her breasts. Her fat nipples sparkle like ripe blackberries after a spring rain, just waiting to be bitten. She opens her arms to me, and I want to go to her.
I am tearing off my coveralls, my boots; my shirt is last. I am walking to her, into the bayou, cock first, jutting out to meet her in the water. Our mouths meet, tongues entwine, and the still black water rushes all around us, enveloping our bodies. Her skin is soft and slippery and fine, so dark, so smooth. I touch her, kiss her deeply, grab at her tender breasts with my big hands.
"Your Granny told me you'd
be out here on the water tonight," she says, "I'm so glad you came." Michaela
is smiling. She had been waiting all along only for me.
at Midnight" Copyright © 2001 Jamie Joy Gatto. All rights reserved.
Do not copy or post.
The Magic of Keitara's Hands
by Jamie Joy Gatto
~Dedicated to Eric Stoltz~
Her fingers feel like beautiful waves caressing each tight muscle in my back, transforming them into a soft, velvety pile of comfortable flesh. Keitara works my back like no one else ever could. Her hands, while small, are powerful and strong. They hold secrets handed down from mother to daughter, and in them lies a sacred, healing balm. The stress soothed from deep within my muscles, a week's worth of knotted pain, lingers toxic inside me, then is released with each stroke of her palms, with every slow, careful movement of her two hands working in recuperative unison.
The room is dark enough to allow me to relax, to allow me to close my eyes and wander within my mind with ease. The soft music of the flute is whispering and singing to me in a half-dream, as I lie at Keitara's disposal, falling away from the real world. I fall into the rhythm of Keitara's hands. I wonder what it would be like to make love to her.
I let my mind release my worldly inhibitions, and I let myself play with the idea. I let myself feel her hands upon me in places she dares not touch during our weekly sessions. I feel Keitara holding me. Her skin, like the flesh of her hands, is soft, yet resilient. I feel her body drape over mine, her tiny body is falling upon mine. Her long, lean legs wrap around my waist. Her bare, open cunt is descending into place at the small of my back. She is wet with desire for me, and those magic hands are still working their way across my shoulders and neck. Yes, Keitara will take care of me, even as we make love.
In my mind, she is sliding up and down, slippery wet pussy lips are open upon my flesh, as she grinds herself into me, taking her own pleasure. She is humping my back, and pumping her hands in rhythm to her pelvic thrusts. My ropy neck is melting at her touch. My cock is full and heavy, straining to pump along with Keitara's movements. How I long to flip myself over and impale her frail frame, her wet lips, on my cock.
In the dark, as I envision Keitara pleasuring herself upon my body, my cock becomes rock hard, pushes against the terrycloth towel barely covering me. My body, deeply relaxed in every other place but one, presses heavily against my straining cock and balls. Keitara's hands continue to work, softly and fiercely at once across my skin. Soon I find myself grinding in time to her movements, uncontrollably. My hips are thrusting with desire which I can no longer contain; I am entranced. Keitara does not break her massage rhythm. She is locked into my muscles as if she is one with my body. The flutes are still carefully creating a perfect melody to our experience, and I'm humping and pumping in time to the sweet melody.
I imagine turning over, and having those hands take my cock between them, to pump me, to guide me to come. And with this thought, I groan aloud. Keitara continues her work, perfectly paced, perfectly timed, the hands are doing their service to my lower back. I can't help but thrust a little harder as she approaches my buttocks, kneading my cheeks so close to my cock, but yet so far. In real time, I nearly scream. And then it shoots through me like lightning. I am falling away from my body as I climb to that peak. I come... I come... I come. Sweet release! And as I do Keitara is no longer touching me, but I hear her gentle voice, "Mr., here is a towel for you."
Keitara is carefully offering me a white towel, apparently for which to clean myself. She does not look ashamed. She does not seem embarrassed in any way. Her black eyes sparkle as I graciously take the clean towel from her perfect hands.
"Thank you, Keitara," is all I can ever think to say to her, "Thank you."
"The Magic of Keitara's Hands" Copyright © 2001 Jamie Joy Gatto. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.
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