 PleaseCain's fiction has appeared in the ezines Amoret (winner of the Lover's Knot Contest), Ophelia's Muse, Sauce*Box, Journal of Desire, Femmes Obscure, ShemaleYum, StoriesOnline, Crystal's Story Site, Mr. Double, FictionMania, Kristen's Archives, Kerrie's Place, Pollwatch's Erotic-Stories, John Dark Reposts, Andy's Erotic Stories, Apuleius' StoryList and Old Joe's Collection, and as a winning story in the Dulcinea Memorial Festival. E-mail PleaseCain. Visit PleaseCain online.
The Right Hand of Maud Her eyes opened to a gloomy room, and although she must have slept for hours, her arms felt as dead as if she had lifted weights, so she tried blinking the sleep from the corners of her eyes while they adjusted to the darkness. Finally she could discern the remote on the bedstand. Damn him, why couldn't Flynn leave it on my chest! "Because you get angry when it's lost in the blanket," he would say, asshole. She unfurled the fingers of her right hand against her hip until reasonably straight. Next she positioned it on the edge of the bed nearest the night table, and counted, One. Two. Three! Her aim was perfect, her arm swinging atop her target, promptly knocking the control clattering out of sight to the hardwood floor. It required another count of three to heave her arm back on the bed. She stared at it, her trusty right hand, her friend, like at a stranger. Useless, that same hand that had arpeggiated so brilliantly-- "Beautiful right-hand work, Federicci!" Spielman had exclaimed from the shadows of the rehearsal hall with such unbridled enthusiasm it was one of the crowning points of her life, more so than his professionally worded endorsement to graduate conservatory or the awards and reviews that followed. For a glorious moment his soul had emerged, coaxed without his world-weary exterior, and it was her right hand that accomplished it. Her left hand was adequate, found its way around the fretboard all right, but it was her right that provided the flourish, that poured the extra heat to take a judge's head off. Her life was right-hand. Now it couldn't diddle her own clit, even with nothing else to do, stranded in bed, the remote lost somewhere below. Long gone were the Minute Waltzes and Hallelujah Choruses delineated with her sophomore roommate "Silly Allison" Sille. No figure-eights, pinches or upseys-downseys; she slid her hand beneath her waistband and settled for the pressure of her knuckle. She closed her eyes, picturing them, Flynn with a blond Hooters girl in her red Miata and lipgloss. You know what those apes can't help but think when they see lips like that--like a good pair of legs hints at the sweetness beyond, so a good pair of lips ... He's between them right now, impaling them like succulent fruits sliding like Happy New Year down his pole. They are painted so red that her tongue appears pale pink, laving the under-edges of his head that way that makes his blue eyes disappear beneath his eyelids, although she makes certain he sees her red fingernails hefting his scrotum ever so slightly like it is so damned heavy. That bastard. The abrupt dipping of her bed made her heart skip, and she dreaded opening her eyes. He was home! And leave it to Flynn to arrive with her arm planted deep in pantyland. From a plastic sack he slipped her a peek at a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and then like a smartass, stared at her crotch. Not that he had never seen her masturbate, but a couple years earlier she might have considered snatching her hand away like anyone else with reasonable dexterity. Rather than having him gawk her when she was so obviously uncomfortable. Rage steeped inside her, burning like vomit in her throat, when he signed, "There's a leak." Yes, signed. Creeping deafness was the congenital sentence pronounced early in her life, and the paradigm around which it was organized. She nestled it to her breast, and with smug satisfaction honed her talents toward music, completing the doomed Beethovian romance of her life, that of the tragic genius destined for collapse and heartbreak. Of course, the real kicker was the MS with which she was later diagnosed, which was what actually did her in, a total blindside and karmic wild-card. After that unexpected ravaging, the encroaching silence was just the cherry on the cake. "You couldn't feel the dampness?" Flynn signed. Hoisting her stiffened legs by the ankles, he pulled off her underwear and folded down the soiled bed pad before lowering her. He tossed the underwear in the tub and ran water into the wash basin as he went for clean washcloths. First he scrubbed her right hand, then broke down the muscle tone in her legs so they could be bent and parted. Her skin was either rashed or abraded, because the soaped cotton cloth scratched her genitals and legs. He flipped her to her stomach. Usually she felt guilty pleasure when he cleaned her bottom: hated that he must, and yet his touch felt wonderful, as did his love for her to do so, and she would snuggle on hand and towel. Now, however, tears spilled across her cheeks, and she wiped them on the blanket before he turned her on a clean bed pad. She focused on a corner of the ceiling above her shoulder as her eyes pooled, while he pried apart her thighs and inserted a clean catheter through her urethra. She would not cry. I used to be able to beat him up in junior high, she thought, I used to be able to beat him up in junior high. Until she felt his mouth: then she sobbed. It wasn't fair because the sensation had crept upon her, and then suddenly she knew he had been doing it a while. "No," she said, "no." She squirmed and reached to push him away, but as his tongue danced around her labia, her fingers lost motivation, stroking his hair mechanically yet earnestly. Then he knelt between her legs and lifted her onto his lap, gazing in her eyes as he fingered her, a slow caress that became two fingers and hot blasts of breath on her forehead. His lips covered hers, and those incredible fingers curled on her joy-spot as his tongue invaded her mouth. A blue-white wire ignited inside of her, skipping from her sex, along her spine, to stand her hair on end, a spark that swelled into a jolting she hadn't felt in years, striking her into a snivelling creature and a goddess, and as the convulsions exploded he mouthed, Slut. Slut. Slut, and her eyes rolled in surrender. Opening them again, she found her right arm extended, her hand braced on his chin as he nibbled and sucked the heel of her palm. She kissed the fingers of his right hand, melody-makers on and off the keyboard. He went for ice cream and spoon, and laid her head in his lap. After scraping the goodies from the lid, he held it for her to read as she placed her fingers on his throat, feeling him saying, "creamy chocolate Vermont ice cream rippled with rich fudge swirls, white chocolate chunks, chocolate chips and chocolate-covered almonds." She closed her eyes, sniffing the smoke from the piano bar on his sleeve, and savoring the sliver of heaven on her tongue. Copyright
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