Top of the Hill

Authors Note: This isn’t a story, per se. It was written for background for an, as yet, unfinished literary project. Nor was it intended to be erotic, but it is very easy to read it as such.

It was a scene like something out of a painting – one of those goddamned wholesome Norman Rockwell paintings – two friends lying on a patch of impossibly green grass looking up at the clouds.  To make the picture even more complete we are at the top of a small breast-like hill.  Our bodies make the aureole, but that analogy just shows where my mind is.  It looks so wholesome, so innocent, so non-threatening; and all I can think about is sex.

Her shirt is black, and the light coating of dew has dampened it enough to make it cling tighter to her own breasts.  Scaled up to size, hers would put this hill’s to shame.  Not quite large as a 50’s Playboy bombshell, but large enough to be far too much of a distraction.

In another time she would have had the statistics that would have made men weak just to hear the numbers. She still turns heads in a time a woman’s head on a twelve-year-old’s boy (with the other obvious modifications) are much more in vogue.  The looks follow her despite her unfeminine uniform of black t-shirts, and black jeans, and frames too blocky for her face. Somehow the plainness of the wrapping makes the contents show though even more.

All I can think of are those contents, and how much I wanted to get to those contents.  How to get to them ... would I want to liberate her from that shirt, or just out of the jeans?  When she had bent over I saw no hint of anything so mundane as to be called underwear or as alluring to bear the label lingerie. No thin shell over that holy land. No one thirty-second of fabric to act as a barrier. She was clearly wearing a bra – it only seemed practical for her frame.  A stolen glance shows that whatever form her chest’s bondage took it was not enough to contain the large caliber nipples from making their presence known.

My head was filled only with the thoughts of her collective set of charms.  My body primed to fulfill its evolutionary imperative.  The overture would be so simple to make.  The question was if it would be welcome?  Would she ask what had I been waiting for? Perhaps explain how many times she had let her hand stray part her meridian at the thought? Or would she reject me? Say that she valued our friendship too much, or be more honest and simply say she did not want me?

Would I care? Would I become the animal I feel beneath my skin? The one that keeps pushing thoughts up into my mind. Normally it stays in its box, or rests calmly though at the floor of my mind with the other reptile thoughts.  Sometimes I could almost forget it was there.  Not now though.  Now it was a circling – ever-present – shark in the chummed waters of my brain.

It was the one that had thought what to do if she resists.  It was the owner of the beast’s grin that would fill my face as I pinned her down. The quick struggle to remove those jeans by any means necessary.  It would quickly survey what proportion of fur she thought appropriate to retain. 

It knew the knowledge that while whole cotton would put up as much of a fight as she might, it took only a small tear to destroy its defenses. My size, strength, and speed would be the victor in the struggle to spread her open.  Then the physical match my mind was on fire for would be achieved.

She might even enjoy it.  It wasn’t hard to think she desired me.  She would struggle and cry, and then allow the pretense to end and surrender to the moment to the experience.  That is what would make her melt and welcoming, and climax in the knowledge of just how right I was to take what had been denied.  She might just be waiting for me to take her, silent in her tacit invitation.

“This has been a great day,” I heard her say. 

It took a moment to become human enough again to reply.

“It has.” I agreed. 

In my mind I imagined a box – a trunk with the lid open.

“Did you know you are my best friend?” she asked and I felt her fingers wrap around mine.

“I know that you are mine,” and I gave them a comforting squeeze.

The screams of the monster were so loud as I locked him back in the box, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear them...