Vaguely erotic short story
here must be some kind of truth hidden in this pattern. Watching the water rhythmically cover and leave the rock, David was convinced of it. A truth, a solution of some sort, and not a minor one at that. There the ocean, here the rock, and constantly moving between the two: waves.
At first he had been hesitant, respectful, making sure there was a distance to that part of the ground moistened by the water moving in and out, in and out - mostly reaching just a few feet up the tainted grey stone surface, but occasionally and unpredictably, yet somehow rhythmically, as much as five times higher than that.
For some period he had been sitting there, half consciously trying to interpret that rhythm, foretell when a stronger wave would come and invade so much more of the rock than its predecessors. He never could, not until the very moment when such a wave in a logarithmic acceleration at the last phase of its advance passed the glistening, moistened border that marked the reach of previous waves. A sweeping move, a whirl of sorts, bringing water that seemed suddenly aggressive, vicious, threatening. But such a wave also retreated more speedily, and the one to follow immediately after it was almost always remarkably mild and minute.
There were exceptions to the rule. The most powerful ones, fewer in number than one out of a hundred, appeared right after one of the far reaching - their front edges rising as in a roar from the stone surface, sending cold drops all the way to where he sat, hitting like darts on his face, his hands and a triangular part of his chest bared by the cleavage of his shirt, where the two top buttons were undone. That gave stings making some of the muscles in his shoulders and face twitch, but on the rock such waves left no significant mark. The water they contained splashed upwards, however dramatically, and mostly failed to moisten the stone.
Oddly, those waves, the biggest ones, had significantly less of an effect on him as he got nearer. Their drops ceased to sting his skin, their sudden outbursts did not intimidate him. Instead, the ones of the size just below, those reaching the farthest on the rock surface, increased in significance. Their tours became grand and impressive, so that he felt their movement as clearly as were he a newly fallen leaf riding on them.
In his mind they reached and grabbed him, returning into the sea with him. This sentiment became so strong that he was surprised every time he found himself remaining on the rock when such a wave retreated and disappeared, leaving no other trace of its existence than the freshly moistened upper part of rock, which the setting sun then somehow found a few of its rays to set a bit afire. For David these reflections in the thin layer of water on the ground were like bells ringing, getting him into attention as if he had woken up from a slumber.
Maybe he did, in which case these slumbers lasted no longer than from the start of such a wave until its disappearance.
That could very well be the case, he thought as he dared another small advance on the rock. The intricate rhythm of the waves could have that effect. Also in this capacity of theirs, then, a clue, a truth must be hiding.
He did so, just at the border of where the waves ever reached, so the moisture only lasted there less than a minute before drying out in the evening warmth, also emanating from the rock itself, having been exposed to fierce sunlight during the whole day. But when one of those waves came, its water rushed at David's fingertip, pushing at it ever so lightly, surrounding it and sticking to it, a short and chilly moment, before again retreating, dissolving, drying up.
Actually, he got the impression that the waves were increasing - not in size and force, not at all, but in anxiety: they took their turns with quicker intervals, and the ones strong enough to reach his finger increased in number, as if the water were hungry for this little piece of flesh of his. And it was as if the finger invited them, called for them, encouraged them to take the leap.
If the waves were hungry for his finger, then surely it was thirsty for their water.
The grandest of the waves, those sending drops of water like darts onto him but unable to moisten the rock, they had long ago lost their power to make him react to them, but in this seclusion of theirs, David became aware, they had been able another feat, unnoticed until it was completed. While his finger was drinking the water washing up and down the stone surface, all those darts of the most rarely appearing waves had gotten hold of his clothing and made it wet right through to his skin - the shirt, the pants, the socks sticking up from his shoes, even both the sleeves of his jacket equally, although one of them was stretched forward and the other in an angle to his side and slightly backwards, as he was leaning on that arm.
He pulled up his finger from the rock, feeling annoyed and ridiculed. The water had invaded his person in secrecy, while he was occupied with its dance on the rock and its teasing of his finger.
That I share with the rock, he thought.
Yes, its warmth was also being stolen from it by the same scoundrel. What it had spent the whole day devouring, was ripped off, bit by bit, as the waves tirelessly swept over it and returned to the sea. It was the sea's doing, clearly. Its vast body of water was stealing warmth and would keep on doing so until everything it touched was as cold as itself, which would to anything but the sea mean barrenness, rigidity, death.
There, the water's appetite.
David would not dream of giving in, nor would he retreat even momentarily. He had spent a long time advancing to this position on the rock, and the challenge he was facing - it inspired him. He started breathing deeper and his heart was pounding, not really quicker but stronger, heavier. The warmth stolen from his skin through the wet fabric of his clothes, was replaced in abundance from within. He had enough of it to keep himself warm and to dry his clothes as well.
With a grin that made the muscles of his cheeks harden, he advanced yet again. Not much, just so that the soles of his shoes were completely within the reach of the waves, but there he planted them firmly and leaned his head back so that he could see the darkening sky, but no longer the rhythmic movements of the waves on the rock.
Instead he heard them, for the first time, or at least he became consciously aware of the repetitious vague noise they made, strangely resembling the sound of breathing, in and out, where the first was shorter, with a nature of suddenness, and the second prolonged, as if containing more.
This sound was not louder than it would be from a bedfellow sleeping close to his side, and he found it to have the same flavor of intimacy. He could also feel the waves, ever so lightly pushing from below on the soles of his shoes, and although not stealing any of his body warmth upon retreating, they were reminding his senses of the chill from the moisture in his clothes.
His defiance was not diminished, on the contrary, every such reminder made the warmth from deep within his body emanate in a new flush that was even making a sweat break out from his forehead. He was leaning heavily on both his arms, standing like pillars on each side of him, and the pressure of his weight made his shoulders ache and the palms of his hands push at the rock as if to penetrate its surface.
So, the water was still charging, still advancing, not satisfied by invading his outside only, his clothes and skin, but penetrating him through his lungs to reach for his core, deep within, the source of his own warmth. A battle indeed.
He frowned, maybe growled too. Then he took a deep breath, so that he could feel the cold moisture flooding his throat and chest all the way down to his abdomen, and, upon exhaling, how it was pushed out the same way by a warmth of such magnitude, it must have been brought on by his whole spine, the blood in every vein and the fibers in every muscle. He felt strong enough to withstand those rhythmical advances of water and the tiny drops shooting at him from the rare bigger waves, which he no longer perceived at all but still knew were coming, and he felt, verily, strong enough to withstand the ocean itself.
Then he sensed a light touch on his pants, right above his crotch, as if a small bird had landed on them, or a squirrel gently placed itself there. He was still facing the sky and did not bother bending his neck to see what had happened, but when he could sense some movement there, certainly the small steps of such an animal, he had to look.
Nothing. No animal on his pants, nor anywhere in sight, but still he could feel the tiny steps.
Only when he examined the pants where this sensation was located, did he understand. It did not come from outside of them, but from the inside, where he was slowly getting an erection, pushing bit by bit on the fabric of his pants as it was growing, moving circularly from its original resting place between his thighs, and toward his stomach.
David was amused. What was making this happen?
As the sun was falling deeper under the horizon, the water darkened and seemed to become thicker, heavier, the waves gnawing at the rock, pushing at the soles of his shoes, and approaching. Was the sea gaining strength - or daring - from the dusk, did the darkening increase its power, its massiveness?
Now, David was no longer sure of how high on the rock the waves could reach, although they had not yet exceeded their former border. They would, though, he was convinced of it, any moment now.
His cock was pointing straight at his navel and pushing upwards, gaining force from the blood pulsing inside of it, this too following the rhythm of his breathing and the turns of the waves, all of them simultaneously increasing in tempo. Not only his erection was hardening, but his whole abdomen, his fingers stiffened and his feet were pushing at the ground, so that the waves of water no longer affected them on passing.
If to soften the muscles and the joints of his hands, or for another reason, David did not know, but both hands suddenly moved to his belt, opened it, next the zipper of his pants, pulled the elastic of his briefs and shoved them, together with his pants, down to his thighs. To do this he had momentarily lifted his buttocks from the ground, and when they returned there was no cloth isolating them from the rock, its ice cold, hard surface making the grip he took on his cock become more firm than intended, painfully more. Still, he could not relax it, but with this cramped grip started to move the hand up and down, the short distance this tense clasp would allow.
His fist was, at first, just as cold as the rock, and as moist, but this changed quickly. By each stroke the hand was eagerly approaching the temperature of the flesh it was clasping so tightly - stealing its warmth without thereby diminishing it in the least. In just a few turns up and down, the hand was dry and its temperature indistinguishable from that of his cock. This, finally, made the force of his grip loosen somewhat, but not to the extent that his hand could effortlessly slide up and down the shaft.
A tension remained, a violence that became like a battle between the muscular strength of his hand and the increasing rigidity of his erection, where none would yield, none succumb to become like a servant to the other. His cock was the fortress and his hand the invader, both equally eager for this battle - to the end.
Would the warmth of his erection spread all over the rock, dry it up as it had done with his hand, move onto the waves and through them to the sea itself? Could his cock, this rigid pillar pointing fiercely toward the darkening sky, warm up the entire ocean?
With every stroke, as the sensation of warmth and firmness increased, David found it increasingly plausible. Already he was dry, his clothes as well - as far as he could perceive. He recognized the tickling sensation that rose inside of him, making his mind dizzy, his forehead sweat and his breathing flow as if to wake up storms in the air - this lustful, electric sensation was one of awe.
Surely, the ocean too was in awe. Its increased tempo and fortitude, with the waves coming and going more hurriedly, more provoking, was a sign of that. The water was fighting back, struggling to defend itself against the advancing warmth of his hardened flesh. Its power provoked the sea, and although the battle between his hand and his cock was the more vivid one, this larger battle, against the very ocean, was much more severe.
While the sea was fighting for its dominance, the right to its majesty, his erection had, in its revolution of sorts, put another matter at risk - that of his life. Were his cock to retreat and soften before completion, then David was convinced to have his very life get dragged away by the triumphant waves, drained out of his body and into the sea.
That was what was at stake - for the sea its pride, and for him his very life. But that organ of his, which was the instigator of the rebellion and its possible deadly outcome, was in no way intimidated. It had been awakened, like a mythological monster lured out of its cave, or like the sun rising above the horizon in the morning, and it would have its course.
David's hand kept bumping up and down, its muscles close to cramping now, not able to relax the least. The waves were swarming on the rock, so eager that one arrived before the previous one had time to return to the sea, and they splashed into each others, sending cold drops of water in all directions, only some of them headed toward his body. He could not sense how many, if any, hit him, for that his body temperature was too high, and seemingly still increasing in an inner radiation spreading from the root of his cock.
David was panting, his mouth wide open, his chest bouncing up and down, almost in the same tempo as that of his fist. His face was turned toward the sky, where clouds darkened by the dusk seemed to be spinning around, in anticipation of the battle going on below.
The increasing wind was making noises, but he could not feel its touch at all, as if it was avoiding him, out of fear of otherwise being included in the battle. And was not the rock shaking, ever so minutely, torn between the sea below it and the mighty spectacle upon its surface? Would it break and be swallowed by the sea?
David could feel, as if by time itself accelerating, that this could not go on much longer.
t was getting hard to see clearly, in the progressing dusk. Also, clouds were gathering in the sky, dark ones, forming an increasingly compact cover, dimming the tender lights of stars appearing one after the other, as well as the moon, yet just a vague shape in the sky, like a puff of cigarette smoke.
Madeleine's eyes were strained, as she was forcing them to focus on the same object as they had been directed at, for the past quarter of an hour or so, and she demanded of them to see as sharply as if this were high noon - well, more than that, she wanted them to register the color of that man's eyes, the movement of his Adam's apple, the activity of every little muscle on each finger of the hand grasping his penis and dancing up and down on it.
She wanted to see it all as clearly, as if she were sitting next to him on the rock, instead of crouching down, hiding half behind the old tree, which was leaning in the direction of the sea, as if wishing to fall into it and ride far away on its waves - but lacking as much as its own length to reach the water at all. As longingly as the tree stretched its branches in that direction, so did Madeleine's eyes, staring intensely at the man on the rock.
At first she had been embarrassed by her interest in him, coming close to a hypnotic fascination, and that was before he had undressed the least, when he was just sitting still, facing the wind and the waves indifferently, as if neither of them touched him at all. Though nothing visible happened at that time, she got the strong impression that it was a private, intimate moment of his - maybe just because he did nothing at all, as far as she could see.
Such times, intermissions of sorts, are rare and precious things, she thought, so she demanded of herself not to be the one to interrupt it. She hid and kept very quiet, but she did not leave.
Not even for a second had she looked the other way, not when he buckled up his belt and unzipped his pants, nor when he grabbed his penis so aggressively. At that moment she held her breath, right in the middle of an inhalation, and crouched down a little more, like a nun in prayer, like a loyal subject in front of the monarch - but she continued staring, hardly even blinking.
It was so strange - every thrust of his hand upon his crotch, she could feel on her own body, in the same area of it as was the place of events on him, but not in accordance with her anatomy, not as thrusts of that pole penetrating her.
No, it felt like she was equipped the same way as he was, and the thrusts were simultaneously, and just as forcefully, rubbing both hers and his. Still, not identical, but similar, in a dreamlike way.
What she felt on her own groin, and not within it, was an imaginary penis, imaginarily rubbed together with his - but with a very real sensation. This feeling was so mysterious and so compelling, there were long intervals where she completely forgot to breathe, compensating it with short, quick and deep inhalations at those moments when the illusion had its most convincing flashes, when there was a thrust and she got the sensation with such magnitude that she had to, by a twitch of her thighs and hips, assure herself that nothing in her anatomy had changed for real. But to take her eyes away from the man on the rock, and by a quick look reach the same conclusion, she could not make herself do, not even for a second.
She could not take her eyes away from the man, could not risk that the link to this strange illusion would be broken.
Now, it had darkened so much, she was unable to make out much more than the silhouette of the man - but she felt it all no less. Every thrust.
She could hear herself making tiny noises, groans, and was alarmed - not that he could possibly hear them in this increasing wind, and the water bashing the cliffs all along the coastline, but because they marked her helplessness, her imprisonment. Not even if there would be rain, or if the waves would rise to reach all the way to her hiding place, would she be able to tear herself away. To the end, she had to remain, and still she prayed the end would never come.
This odd molding process was encouraged from deep within her body, which she could feel as a flow, a pulsing warmth running all through her spine - maybe from somewhere in the middle of her brain - and out through her groin, like some invisible geyser bringing essential substances to the body part in the making.
One of those substances must certainly be her very vitality, she thought, since that was what she felt pouring out of her. Still, this bleeding of sorts was so pleasant. Although the sensation was clearly one of some vital substance of hers leaving her, the thirst she had for this experience gave the impression of simultaneously drinking something just as valuable, or more so. It was as if she was gaining something, by letting go of this essential fluid.
Although unable to fathom what could possibly be worth such an exchange, she wanted it to take place, yes - to accelerate.
Whatever it was that she got in return, must be coming from him. A sweet substance, which he was squeezing out of his body by that vigorous pumping, streaming through the air and into the molding place on top of her groin, where a gender like his was formed. Yes, it was as if his penis was deteriorating inside his grip, somehow to be rebuilt on her body.
In that case - what was it of hers, going the opposite direction? Was her life force drilling through his flesh, to replace his gender with one like hers? Indeed, such a principal operation would explain the draining of her strength.
Inside her weakened body, the sense of some substances fleeing and others entering was growing ever stronger, as was the feeling of a male organ forming on top of her groin. Through the distance she could perceive the same increase in his sensation, muscles tightening, each breath more eager and noisy than the one before, his fist clenching desperately, the very rock below him seeming to shiver, the sea starting to roar, the wind screaming - was there anything not involved in this drama?
Madeleine could hear, as if she were a bystander, saddened, painful sighs from her own mouth, a crying without tears, without regret or mourning. Even though her hands did nothing, her hips were moving slightly, her head too.
This was too much. Now she could feel each cold wave of water touching his skin, when washing over the rock, and his hardened, frantic hand was by each stroke hurting both his deteriorating flesh within its grip and hers still in the making. Also the hand felt like it was hers, and she was just as brutal with it as he was, unable to relax it in the least, a battle where they were both equally aggressor and victim. Indeed - they were one.
She shivered, from the top of her skull down to the soles of her feet, and her body twitched in spasms, when countless muscles inside of it burst into diverse actions. Then they all stiffened.
This was it! She grabbed a branch of the tree that hid her, leaned heavily on the trunk, let out the last of air in her lungs with a wining sound, and then she was empty, powerless, and her mind blank in a lightened, utterly indifferent way.
It would be a moment of peace, of profound stillness, were it not for the wind shoving the waves forward, and the waves whipping the rock. All of that was still increasing, ferociously taking command, now that he had come to rest.
Madeleine dared not look down at her groin, and did not feel that she needed to. Instead, she kept gazing at the man on the rock.
Certainly, unquestionably, his organ had been disassembled bit by bit, with each stroke of his fist, and rebuilt on her body. She could feel it, as clearly as the nose on her face and the feet on her legs - and look, how small his penis had become, once his hand released it.
She would pity him, were she not equally convinced that he had received - to the same amount - her gender. To the extent that she would walk away a man, he would leave the rock a woman.
And leave the rock he did, with some haste.
Perhaps the increasing waves had finally gotten to him, aided by the wind and the darkening sky. The process of what had passed must have made him as weak and tender as it had made her. He swiftly put his shorts and pants back on, zipped and buckled his belt.
Madeleine stopped breathing, although her lungs were yearning for air. She let go of the branch she had held onto, but still her body was leaning so heavily on the tree's trunk, she did not move from the spot, and could not.
The man stood up, not without some effort and instability. He was tall, his body slim, his hair in tangles. Maybe she would have called out to him, just maybe, but what little air she had in her lungs she must keep, since she was unable to breathe. He was taking a step, somewhat swaying, then another one.
Once off the rock, he turned, so that Madeleine saw only his back, and then he strode, with an increasing pace, away from the rock, the waves, from her.
Once she had accepted that, Madeleine was not sure if it upset or relieved her. But when she had regained enough of strength to leave the support of the tree, and start her walk home, there was a strange and invigorating lightness, with which her feet touched the ground. And she withheld from looking down at her groin.
WavesA man, the sea, and a distant woman.
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I'm a Swedish writer of fiction and non-fiction books in both Swedish and English. I'm also an artist, an historian of ideas and a 7 dan Aikikai Shihan aikido instructor. Click the header to read my full bio.