For the Softness of It All by Peter Baltensperger

The afternoon was narrow, a mere slot instead of a wide road for traveling, the sun thin in the sky. Somewhere a church bell, not keeping time; another invention gone bad. The church had been empty for years. Usually there was traffic in the streets. Not today. Not today. The parks were jammed with people. That’s where they all were, waiting for the afternoon to expand, for time to right itself.

Broderick didn’t fit into all this. Although his slim body could fit just about anywhere, his mind needed bigger frames, larger tableaus. Big women. He needed breasts that were real breasts, where a penis could hide in the cleavage, get squeezed by the bounteous globes, squirt among the folds without getting wet. Buttocks that needed at least four hands to do them justice. Vaginas so wide and deep one could lose oneself going in, find oneself coming out, his hand his only reliable guide, journey into the underworld, into the dark cave.

"Ardra" by Flickr user Avoir Chaud

"Ardra" by Flickr user Avoir Chaud

He saw them in the streets, on the busses, bulging over their chairs in coffee houses and restaurants, most of them too old, too tired from carrying their weight. Occasionally he was able to find one he could take home with him on a narrow afternoon, when travel didn’t matter and time was of no consequence, as it never was. He peeled their coverings off one by one, slowly and gradually releasing fold after fold of quivering flesh from their confinements. He relished the peeling, delighted in the progressive appearance of the folds, their bodies deliciously soft, deliciously scented.

When he completed his unveiling, they lay down on his bed, naked and vulnerable, spread out for his pleasure, opulent fruits for his indulgence, cornucopias of abundance and delight. He bounced on top of them, grasping whatever he could to keep his balance. He derived his exhilaration from the quaking mounds, the profusion of trembling arms and impatient legs enveloping his body. Nothing else mattered anymore, not the empty church, not the parks full of people, not even the irrelevance of time.

On this particular afternoon, he found his own rhythm in his cavernous explorations, his own cycles of fondling and being fondled, caressing and being caressed, manipulating the plentiful bodies and being manipulated himself. He loved the large hands on his body, the thick fingers wrapped around his penis, the sensuously voluminous breasts in his hands. And everything quivering underneath him, earthquakes of delight, exhilaration, tremors in the mountains he was allowed to call his own for a while.

Then the quickening of the pace, of the blood, the waves of mounting excitement rippling under him, through him, for him and because of him. His descent, his invasion of the spread legs, his courageous head-long dive into the dripping folds, the succulent lips, the eager protrusion of the agitated clit. He delighted in the profusion of tastes, aromas, smells, drank from the fountain until he thought he would be sucking it dry although there was always more, always more.

"Strutting nipples" (photo by Flickr user MightyMac <3)

"Strutting nipples" (photo by Flickr user MightyMac <3)

Back up on the quivering mound, he found his way back into the cave, grabbed hold of the massive hills with the strutting nipples on top. Then he resumed his rhythm, generated a matching gyration, matching pulsations. It was as if he could hear the roar of the ocean, like putting a conch against his ear, as if he could feel the breakers rushing to the unsuspecting shore, the delicate softness of the sand. Fireworks in an abandoned sky. The screams from somewhere deep inside, the hurrying surges growing bigger and stronger, more determined with every thrust.

The church bell was ringing again, still out of synch with whatever it was supposed to mete out or signal to the world. His world became reduced to a penis in a vagina. His mind reeled with electrified currents riding synapses up into his brain, conjuring up images of death, exhilaration, the impending cataclysm that would send shivers of luxurious elation up and down their sensitized spines. The cushioned body under him started to convulse, scream, tremble like a glorious mound of jello, gyrate wildly, taking his body with it on its stormy ride.

Finally the long-anticipated release, the point of no return to which everything had been leading, for which they had manipulated and stimulated each other the whole time. It always took him by surprise, how intense the grand finale could be, how incredibly pleasurable the end was to the long symphony they had orchestrated together. It wasn’t any different on this narrow afternoon. They tightened their grips on each other in the final throes of their coupling, digging unforgiving fingernails into soft, pliable skin, quivering flesh.

Outside, nothing had changed at all; inside, everything. They weren’t the same people anymore who had only just recently taken off each other’s clothes for the first time and fused their exposed bodies together on an unsuspecting bed. They were in each other now, imprinted indelibly on each others’ minds, into their nerves, on the sensory receptors of their skin, their lips, their fingers, their hands.

"Morro Rock at sunset on Morro Strand State Beach" by Flickr user mikebaird

"Morro Rock at sunset on Morro Strand State Beach" by Flickr user mikebaird

They kept trembling, he on top of her, clinging to each other like lobsters with their claws, gasping for breath, moaning and groaning together through the afterglow of their orgasms. It wasn’t until much later that he rolled off her and they collapsed on the bed, emptied yet fulfilled, satiated yet already feeling a new hunger arising inside of them.

The afternoon narrowed into a thin, flaming red strip stretching out across the horizon, ready to fade out as they were falling asleep. The parks emptied themselves of people and the church bell finally gave up trying to sound significant. A sliver of a silver moon began to differentiate itself in the dying sky.


Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. His stories, poems, essays and articles have also appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic writing has been published in The International Journal of Erotica, In the Buff, Erotic Tales, My Wife and Her Lovers, and Kairos, is forthcoming in The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions, and appears online in Lucrezia Magazine, Oysters & Chocolate, Eros Monthly, Bare Back Magazine, and Samarel Artcore Fantasies. He makes his home in London (Canada) with his wife Viki and their two cats and a tortoise.