textfiles/sex/EROTICA/T/touch.txt

The Sense of Touch

     Some things in life are planned, and others occur by accident.  And some
exude sweet serendipity, that confluence of wonderful events which come
together, as if by magic, never to be repeated in quite the same way.  Let me
tell you about one such time.

     It was Spring of 1979, when the running craze was near its peak.  Some
creative race directors tried to organize events that catered to smaller, more 
selective groups of runners.  One such race was held annually near Sonora, in
the foothills of California's Sierra Nevada mountains.  The 20-mile race on
mountain trails was limited to 250, with priority given to participants from 
prior years, which meant that many of the same faces would show up, year after 
year.  For first-time entrants, it was like being accepted into a running 
fraternity.  For repeaters, it was an annual reunion.

     The race was A Happening as much as it was a running race.  Everyone
gathered at the Sonora High School on Saturday morning, and a convoy of busses 
carried them up winding fireroads to a Girl Scout camp.  After a day of food, 
drink and conviviality, the runners would camp out overnight, awaken for a 7am 
start, and race down to Sonora.  There awaited more food and drink, an awards 
ceremony, showers at the high school, hugs and goodbyes, and eventually 
everyone would reluctantly scatter across California to drive home.  Exhausted.

     1979 was my third year doing the race, and this time I went with two
friends who were first-timers.  Peter and I had been running partners for 
years, and Cindy was an occasional addition from time to time.  Peter and
Cindy were single, and had dated each other a few times a year earlier.
Nothing much seemed to come of that -- at least Peter didn't say much about it 
at the time.  Like most runners that I knew of, runners related to each other 
as runners, and generally kept clear of entangling intimate relationships. 
After all, compatible running partners were often harder to find than 
compatible lovers.  I avoided that problem by being married to a nonrunning 
wife.

     We three shared the drive to Sonora on Saturday morning, and then rode 
together on the same bus up the mountain.  More accurately, Cindy and I sat 
together, and Peter sat across the aisle, next to a skinny guy who kept trying 
to tell Peter all about his training schedule, his frequent injuries, and his 
pasta-and-grapefruit diet.  Cindy and I couldn't do much to rescue him until 
we arrived at the campground.

     It was still Spring, and the Girl Scouts wouldn't arrive until late June,
so the already rustic campground was even more spartan than the Scouts would 
face.  Scattered around the grounds were square wooden platforms, maybe ten 
feet on a side, which during the Summer would be foundations for large tents. 
But now, in May, those tents were carefully stored away somewhere, and all we 
runners had were the platforms and our sleeping bags and foam pads.  It almost 
never rained in California in May, so no one bothered to bring a tent.  This 
was going to be a night under the stars.

     The three of us strolled away from the busses to find a campsite we could
share.  There was no real pattern to the placement of the wooden platforms, at
least none that we could see.  They were typically about fifty feet apart,
randomly strewn about, and the runners were rearranging these already haphazard
placements to accommodate larger groups of friends.  There were plenty to go 
around.  The three of us claimed a good spot near the periphery, dragged three
platforms near each other, dropped our gear, and trotted back to the main 
building to find the festivities.

     Hours later, stuffed with pasta, beer, and good vibrations, the runners
stumbled back to their campsites before it got too dark to find them.  Peter,
Cindy and I unpacked our sleeping bags.  Then Cindy took me by surprise.  "I
don't really want to sleep alone, and Peter snores," she announced.  "Can I
share your platform?"

     "Uh, sure, I guess." I looked at Peter for some sign of disapproval, but
he just shrugged his shoulders and kept spreading his gear out on his own
platform.  "What makes you think I don't snore, too?"

     "I'll chance it," she grinned.  She dragged her sleeping bag and pad over
to my platform, and I moved mine a few feet to make room.  The three of us 
exchanged the usual campout chatter as we readied for bed, and we could hear 
the other runners doing the same, all over the campground.  It was getting 
darker fast.  That helped to quiet things down.  The runners were probably 
also thinking about that 7am start.

     So there we were, the two of us, side by side.  Ten feet away I could 
hear Peter rustling in his sleeping bag, trying to find a comfortable position 
on a thin foam pad.  He coughed, kicked his feet a couple of times, and 
groaned.

     "Shit," he grumbled.  "Six a.m. is going to come too early."

     "Yup," I replied.  I was acutely aware of Cindy beside me in the dark,
maybe a foot away, breathing quietly.  "Good night," I said, mostly to Peter.
I didn't really want to start a conversation with him.

     "G'night," he mumbled.  Cindy said nothing.  The campground grew quieter.
Crickets and an occasional murmur were the only noises in the air.  Overhead, 
the stars were emerging in their full glory, the wonderful way it happens when 
you're far away from city lights and the moon is a sliver.

     I peeked to my left and saw her profile in the starlight.  Like me, Cindy
was on her back, eyes open, absorbing the show above us.  She turned her head 
slightly to look at me, but it was too dark for any real eye contact.  I 
shifted slightly in my nylon sleeping bag, and in the silence it sounded like 
I was sandpapering concrete.  I stopped.  Casually, as quietly as I could 
manage, I slipped my left arm out of my half-zipped bag and into the space 
between us.

     Without a sound, Cindy matched my movement.  Her right arm slipped out
of her bag and into the open space, somewhere.  I couldn't see much of 
anything.  Where was her hand?  I held my breath, straightened my arm, moved
my hand another inch.  And it bumped against hers.  We froze.  It was an 
electric moment, this mutual touch in a world of dark silence.  I was afraid 
to move and make noise.  But what if I could be quiet?

     Slowly, my left hand began to explore her right hand.  She rolled it palm 
up, fingers slightly apart, and passively let me stroke her.  Every now and 
then she curled her fingers to acknowledge me, encouraging me.  I strained to 
listen to Peter's breathing.  Was he asleep?  Doubtful.  Could he hear 
anything?  Maybe.  Should I stop?  Boldly, I decided to narrow the distance 
between Cindy and me.  I shifted my sleeping bag to the left, almost touching 
hers.  I couldn't help making some noise, but it seemed better to do that now, 
when we were supposedly all settling into our sleeping positions, rather than 
later. 

     Our hands found each other again.  Now Cindy was the aggressor, and we
reversed our roles as her fingertips searched my open hand.  She had a light
touch.  She roamed up and down my fingers, one at a time, communicating
playfulness and passion.  I gripped her hand, then made a slight, almost 
imperceptible movement toward her body, and she responded to this question by 
quietly drawing our hands inside her sleeping bag and against her hip.  Again,
we froze.  I could sense her breathing, shallow and quick like mine.  Her body 
was warm, and my palm -- and hers? -- was sweating from nervousness.  I 
realized my penis was fully erect inside my underwear.  Was this really
happening?

     Gradually, delicately, ever so quietly I eased my grip on her hand and 
began to touch her.  We were both still lying on our backs, motionless except 
for these interconnected arms and hands.  Cindy's hand slid up my forearm and
held me lightly.  My slow movements, seemingly soundless, accentuated the
eroticism of what we were doing.  All we shared was this languid touch.  No 
sight, no sound, no taste or smell, and the singularity of this one sense made 
it focused and intensely sensual.  The back of my hand drifted across her 
upper leg, bumping up and across her mound.  Underwear.  I paused there, then 
kept moving upward across the front of her t-shirt.  Her left hand pulled up 
her shirt, arching her back slightly to pull it above her breasts, and my hand 
floated across her hard nipples.  I could feel her excitement in her 
breathing.  She was fighting to maintain silence.

     Cindy had the small breasts of an athlete.  The only way I could touch
her up this high was with the back of my hand, but I could still stroke her
breasts, feeling the soft skin and the crinkled areolas and the hard nipples 
the size of spice drops.  Back down across her stomach, I could feel the 
muscles in her lower abdomen quiver as I passed.  I tried to keep my touch 
light enough to be delicate, but heavy enough to avoid tickling her.  Lower, 
past the edge of her bikini underwear, the back of my hand again found her 
mound, and I twisted my hand around to cup it.  She shivered, tightened her 
grip on my forearm and tensed her legs together, then separated them.  She was 
welcoming my touch.

     My hand moved back up to the edge of the elastic, and then inched down 
inside her panties, across a small thatch of matted, fine hair.  The back of 
my hand pushed the fabric away from her crotch, and my fingers lightly 
enveloped her whole mound, holding her.  Again I paused, savoring this 
delicious moment of discovery.  I could feel my heart thumping, hear it 
pounding my chest and head.  My mouth was dry.  Was this really happening?  
The heat of her arousal radiated into my hand.  Her inner lips protruded 
slightly, peeking out like a new flower about to burst open, and juices were 
oozing from the slit.  Cindy's hips rose to meet my hand.  I gently rocked my 
fingers back and forth into the crevice to find the source of that heat and 
lubrication.  Her knees, as far apart as they could be inside the sleeping 
bag, gave me room to explore, and I made the most of it.

     I spread her pussy open by rubbing in small circles from hardening clit 
to vagina.  Top to bottom, bottom to top, her pussy framed by the silky hair 
matted with her juices, I made love to her.  Cindy's clit grew thicker and 
longer, jutting out and asking to be stroked.  I moved her slippery wetness 
everywhere with gentle caresses, down one side of her slit and back the other,
trying to keep in constant contact with her clitoris.  Her lips thickened 
and became firm, forming a wide, welcoming passage to her vagina and the 
mysteries within.  I would lay two fingers aside the length of her clit, 
rocking back and forth in rhythm with the small movements of her hips, and 
then slide down into her vagina, stroking her just inside, feeling her 
gripping my forearm with her right hand and my fingers with her vagina.

     Hotter, wetter, she became more and more aroused, her pussy flowered in
that "fuck me" physical response that begs attention.  She had to be close.
I could feel her vagina bloom just beyond where my fingers could reach, her
thick clit thrusting outward, her hips pushing up against my hand to urge it 
to keep going, to get it all.  I wanted to feel her come.  Faster now, 
pressing a little harder, fingers strumming on her clit from side to side, I 
hoped the sleeping bag would muffle the liquid sounds from our neighbors.  But 
I didn't really care.  Not right now.

     Cindy took a deep breath, held it, and began to vibrate, first with small
shakes, then with a larger shuddering spasm of her hips and lower belly. I 
slid two fingers into her as deep as I could go and felt the pulsations of her 
orgasm, squeezing me once a second for what seemed to be ten or fifteen
seconds, her two hands latched onto my forearm, her climax driving her into a 
paralysis which focused on my hand and what it was doing to her pussy.  I was 
so excited I almost came, too.  Finally, her grip eased and she exhaled with 
as much control as she could muster, trying not disturb the silence around us.
It was like one of those action movies, as if she had come up to the surface 
from a deep dive under water, trying to get air into her lungs without making 
a sound.

     I continued caressing her, more gently now, and told her with my hand 
that I enjoyed giving her pleasure.  Gradually she relaxed, the tension 
evaporating from her body.  I didn't want to stop, but this didn't seem like 
the time or the place to see if she was multi-orgasmic.  With a final drifting 
goodbye to her vagina and her clit and everything sloppy wet in between and 
around, I retreated across her belly and helped her readjust her underwear. 
We held hands for a few minutes, then I quietly pulled my arm out of her 
sleeping bag and back into mine. 

     My erection was still there, and my precum was soaking my underwear.  I 
bent my cock from side to side to feel that pleasure that comes from 
stretching the hardness extending deep into my pelvis, thinking about what it 
would be like to have her vagina gripping that instead of my fingers.  
Masturbating inside my sleeping bag seemed like it would be too messy, so I 
just kept myself lightly aroused, extending the pleasure of what had just 
taken place as I tried to calm my own excitement.  I brought my left hand up 
to my face to smell her fragrance on my fingers, to remember.

     Cindy had other ideas, though.  While I was day-dreaming, she was acting.
Her right arm found its way into the opening of my sleeping bag with just
enough motion to avoid startling me.  As I had done previously, she found my 
hip, then moved up to the tentpole of my erection inside my underwear.  Up and 
down its length, softly stroking, she reached up to pull down the elastic 
waistband.  My hands helped disentangle my cock, and I wiggled and slipped the 
underwear down my thighs.

     Now it was her turn.  Her warm hand searched my erection, discovering how 
it curved, feeling the pulse of my heartbeat and the leaking precum.  I raised 
my right knee to allow her to touch me without brushing against the sleeping 
bag, still trying to keep our actions as silent as I could.  Her fingertips 
moved precum around the head, circled the exquisitely sensitive rim, and 
followed the source of the liquid down to the base.  There she squeezed, 
rocked back and forth, and encouraged more precum upward.  Again and again, 
she gently milked me, spreading the lubrication downward on my shaft.  I tried 
to surge my erection as her fingers passed my cockhead, hoping she noticed how 
it swelled and responded to her touch.

     Then she stopped.  Her hand pulled back.  What was wrong?  I looked over 
and saw Cindy was slipping lower into her sleeping bag.  Without hesitation,
without a sound, she shifted her upper body to lean on my stomach, and she 
grasped my erection with her left hand and homed in on it with her mouth. 
Could this be happening?  I only hoped it was too dark for Peter to see 
anything.  My eyes closed, my erection surged again as her lips encircled my 
cockhead, her tongue stroking back and forth just below the hole, then across 
the opening as she sucked.  She pulled back just a little, maintaining enough 
contact with the head to let me feel her licking her lips, tasting my precum. 
I smiled at this friendly gesture of acceptance.  Her mouth returned, slowly 
bobbing up and down my shaft, taking me gradually deeper with each stroke.  
Her tongue swirled back and forth across the bulging bottom side of my penis, 
her hand gripping its base, her mouth and lips magically producing just the 
right amount of friction and sucking to envelop me in a cloud of pleasure.

     Cindy was an inspired cocksucker.  I put my hands alongside her head, 
more as a gentle acknowledgement of what she was doing than actually holding 
her.  She was giving me pleasure, I was receiving it, and I wanted to let her
take complete control.  The sleeping bag was folded open, out of the way.  In 
this world without sound or light, all that seemed to exist was her mouth on 
my penis, and my fingers in her hair.

     I was close to coming, and Cindy knew it, and encouraged it.  She wasn't
moving her head much.  She was doing most of the work with her mouth and 
tongue and lips, using her hand to squeeze me at just the right time and to 
keep my rigid shaft aimed where she wanted it.  My tension was rising, like a
thermometer held near a flame, with the mercury expanding to fill the tube, 
poised on the edge of the inevitable.  My erection seemed to lengthen and 
widen and harden to fill the liquid warmth of her busy mouth.  She was drawing 
and pulling an orgasm out of my body.

     Cindy gave a full stroke down, taking me completely into her mouth, and
I felt her lips massage the base of my cock just above her hand.  She slid and 
slithered back out to the head, sucked hard, and plunged downward again.  Up 
once more and then, sliding her thumb and forefinger up my shaft and wetly 
sliding it back down, she engulfed me a third time, and that drove me over the 
top.  For that first delirious moment, which seems to take an eternity but is 
really barely more than a second, my muscles clenched in frozen climax, my 
heart stopped, the top of my head detonated, and the world compressed into 
that single focus of my erect penis thrust deep into her mouth.

     That instant when body and time hold still, that incredible rush of 
pleasure, if only it could last a little bit longer.  But it doesn't, and the 
first long surge of thick come jetted out into Cindy's waiting mouth.  Two, 
three, four strong ejaculations followed, and she sucked and swallowed as they 
emerged, bobbing her head slightly and working her hand to draw out the fluid
and to intensify my sensations.  Five, six, the pumping slowed and weakened, 
and she slowed her movements to match.  Seven.  Eight.  Cindy sucked hard, 
caressed me with her tongue, and swallowed one last time.  I have no idea how 
much noise we made, or whether we made any at all.  
     
     Cindy licked me everywhere, like she was tidying up a dripping popsicle. 
As my erection softened, she occasionally returned to the cockhead to retrieve 
the leaking tail end of my come, her tongue spreading it around the inside of 
her mouth.  Finally, it was over, and she said her silent goodbye to my soft 
penis with a kiss and a squeeze.  She retreated back into her sleeping bag, 
and I just laid there, transfixed.  Satiated.  Stunned.

     On our backs again, I looked over at her, but it was too dark to see if
her eyes were open or closed.  I reached over, one last time, and found her
hand reaching toward me.  We connected, again, this time with that tender
communication that comes in the afterglow of passion.  I brought her hand to 
my lips and kissed her, and Cindy pulled my hand back and did the same.  Then 
we separated, ever so quietly moved our sleeping bags apart to that 
respectable foot or two, and fell asleep.

     I dreamt of her that night.  And when the morning came upon us with its
sunlight and sounds, odors and tastes, we emerged from that wondrous world of 
the single, not so simple sense of touch that we had privately shared.  We
never spoke about that night, not that day or even later during an off-and-on 
torrid affair.  I hope she remembers our first intimacy as clearly as I do.