I am living inside the Washington Square Arch. There are no windows so it's a bit
tomblike and claustrophobic, although a rudimentary air circulation system is provided
through the nostrils and buttonholes in the façade's marble statues. On the rare
occasion that I need oxygen I seek the great outdoors—I egress and enter through
a secret hatch in the left-hand pocket of George Washington's breeches,
something not patently obvious to the unwitting onlooker.
I have been hired by the Department of Parks and Recreation to do an interior
décor project which entails completely wallpapering the vertical surfaces in
dollar bills and paving the entire floor with quarters, edge-to-edge.
I lodge in a tiny spartan room at the top, reachable via a cast iron spiral
staircase, where I sleep beneath a pane of glass in the roof
(the structure's only source of natural light) on
a single-sized Army-style metal cot, under an itchy woolen blanket.
Other accoutrements: a sink, toilet and a bidet.
I've also been supplied with a hotplate and a small refrigerator but
I don't do much cooking, preferring instead to rely on Balance Bars,
Urban Park Rangers' semen and the occasional falafel take-out from
my favorite place on MacDougal Street as sustenance.
My work is painstaking and requires many breaks. I fill this time by reading,
writing, masturbating, and entertaining the various Park Rangers whose job
details also necessitate frequent pauses. They all have keys and enter the
Monument the conventional way, through a door on the Arch's western side,
scaled for a child's playhouse. They must stoop while entering,
an amusing picture, especially given those hats they wear.
I never know who might show up or when and this unpredictability
gives my long days some excitement. And while their visits are
indeed fun I am tiring of the Park Rangers—they each would like
to plant their seed and grow little trees inside my belly but I will have none of it.
I have no time to tend nurseries and have told them so. I put
in a request with Human Resources to be allowed outside
"entertainment assistance"—beyond the roster of Park personnel—and it has been approved.
You will be sent a rudimentary map of Washington Square Park,
where a red circle indicates the location of a certain elm tree
with a knot containing a key to the Arch door, hidden for you in
plain sight, Boo Radley-style. You will enter the Monument and climb
the black staircase. You will find me in my little garret, on my stomach
atop the narrow bed, naked except for a pair of black
kitten-heeled boots which end at mid-calf. My legs are wide apart,
spreading myself open—I've hooked the boots into the
corners of the bed's metal footboard—except my knees are slightly pointed
inwards like pigeon toes so you have a mostly unobstructed view of
the goings-on, what little there is to see.
I am masturbating, both hands at the ready underneath me, arms akimbo. This is my
preferred position. My ass is gently bobbing up and down at a quick even pace,
somewhere between allegro and presto, if I were a metronome.
My body is completely taut,
like a rope in a tug-of-war game played by Marines, every sinewy muscle in my legs,
arms, shoulders and back well defined and twitching as a result of my efforts.
My buttocks clench, right and left, involuntarily, occasionally revealing
a spasm; my molars grind and chatter as if I were shivering. An extremely sensitive
clitoris dictates the need to have a layer of material between fingers and body.
Thin cotton handkerchiefs suffice and one is in place—I'm lucky to have found a
vintage store nearby with a seemingly unending supply. My favorite Ranger,
the one with the sense of humour, has already visited me today and before
leaving has dropped a load of quarters, stacked within a tied condom,
inside my rectum, as ballast. A very thoughtful gesture, considering
the fact that my complex yet simple Onanistic process involves using my
body weight/gravity in combination with the pressure from my fingers beneath me
to cause the pleasure I seek. It's basic physics, really. The O
end of the coin-packed condom sloppily protrudes from my anus in a
clown's grimace.
You approach the left side of the bed, the direction where my head is turned. My face is
at its edge—I am in a somewhat diagonal pose—and I look up at you, my dark hair
in disarray, fallen over my pale face, my bangs in choppy clumps across my forehead.
You see one big brown eye following your gaze, half a nose, a portion of mouth, its
carmine lips slightly parted. You are still fully clothed. You unbutton your coat
and take it off along with your beret and scarf. I watch as you undo your pants,
slowly, button by button. I would reach out and admire the soft wide-wale fabric
of the corduroy but my hands are totally occupied. You extract your prick from
its hiding spot. It is fat and long and I can see that it is already slightly
throbbing. Although it is not the optimum setup for such things, given your
height and the relative counterpoint of my horizontal state, you introduce yourself,
in lieu of a handshake—another formality not physically possible at the moment—by
gently easing your warm erection into my eager mouth, the saliva there already
welling, and yet despite the awkwardness of our respective postures it is a most
pleasant how-do-you-do. But, oh, I would so very much like to be able to properly
arrange myself around your sweet upright cock and give it the salutation it so
richly deserves!
You take off your shirt, your undershirt. I ask you to keep your pants on as well as
your shoes. You get onto the bed, between my legs, move my knees apart and sample,
with your fingers and mouth, the glistening egg white substance emanating from my body.
You lay yourself on top of me, face down, your body perfectly aligned with mine,
like open scissors. Your corduroy on my nakedness, your shoes decisively holding
my booted feet still, your heavy knockwurst—now steadily pulsating—in repose along
the length of my ass crack, cradled as if in a warm bun. I am aware of your heart
pounding, almost in unison with my metronome beat. I match my breathing to yours.
You lightly bite the nape of my neck, tug my head by the hair, then release it.
Your belt buckle presses into the small of my back, hurting me, and I suggest
that you remove it. You pull the leather strap from your pant loops in one
motion, like an expert swordsman unsheathing his rapier from its scabbard,
and throw it to the floor. My ass is tilted slightly upwards, giving the
hands below me room for leverage. This stance offers you the perfect angle
for your entrée. You guide your prick inside me, slowly but firmly,
filling me up. You lie there for a few moments, not moving, keeping enough
stress on my body to make me feel in your command yet allowing me space
to freely continue pleasuring myself.
You begin to thrust, at first exactly corresponding to my speed but soon I find that
I am following the tempo of your movements instead of leading with my own. The roll
of coins imbedded in my ass puts some weight on your prick and this excites you.
You grind into me, con gusto, gradually increasing the intensity of your
delivery.
At a certain point I use all the energy I can muster, untangle myself from your
powerful restraint and draw my legs shut. I hold them rigidly, as if they were
glued from cunt to heels, knees pressed immutably together. I like doing this.
It makes your plunging more challenging yet you are of such sufficient length
that you don't dislodge a
millimeter—there is a sensation of unretractable tightness, as if you were fucking
the virgin of all virgins. I squeeze my buttocks, amplifying the effect.
The original idea was that you would "assist" me. I am, in the end, an Onanista,
generally used to pleasuring myself, thanks to the lonely confines of my profession.
But you have other plans. You use the strength of your own muscular knees, thighs and
feet to break open my tight wishbone of a leg grip. You get on your knees,
encircle my small waist with your hands and draw me up to a kneeling position,
ass in the air, head down. I look to the side and see dozens of George Washington's
eyes staring back at me. You release your grasp of my midsection and grab my hands from
under me. They were still in their repetitive fingertip-tapping, trying to get myself
where I needed to go. But you will not let me. You announce that my training wheel
days are over and that I have to learn how to ride without them now. You confiscate
my
handkerchief—the ultimate taunt—put it to your nose, inhaling its luscious scent, and
then shove it into the pocket of your corduroys. Your pants have been half on and half
off until this point. Now you fiercely kick them down, but not off, exposing your
nakedness. You take my arms by the wrists and hold them together against my back.
You resume your activity, flesh to bare flesh this time. My face is no longer in
view and has practically embossed its features onto the sheet like the Turin
Shroud due to your force. All that can be seen of my body on the bed is a round
mountain of ass—with its narrow peak of
waist—atop a triangle of open legs, hip to knee, my arms held behind me, your prick
a blur of motion going in and out of my pussy.
You know what you are doing. I can sense that the finish line is just around the bend—"Look,
Ma, no
hands!"—and I sense that you sense it too, and that you are neck and neck with me in the
race. You push harder into me, with such vigor that my body actually moves to the head
of the bed. Were it not for the wall to stop me I would be doing a full somersault onto
the floor. You can hear my teeth knocking again—my lower jaw swinging uncontrollably
from side to side—a sure signal that the end is near. You are encouraged by that,
the fruit of your labor, tangible proof that you are having a major effect on me,
and it propels you wildly and then, suddenly, it starts—convulsing together: pussy,
ass, prick. Feral sounds are emitted. You feel the coins in my ass moving from side
to side in my everything jiggle. If they weren't so tightly packed they would be
ka-chinking a tune like a pocketful of loose change. You let yourself go and lay
some nice hot eggs deep within me, not stopping until your balls are completely empty.
We rest, you slumped on top of me, moist with sweat, yours and mine; your pants at your
ankles, your arms around me, cupping my small breasts, one in each hand.
Our heartbeats gradually return to somewhere between larghetto and
adagio and slowly
you begin to collect yourself and your belongings. I, too, have things to do
and places to go. I throw on a long velvet dress and a black coat and see you
down the staircase to the too-small door. We emerge from the Arch into the
darkness of the Park. The Rangers have gone home for the night, their empty
Flintmobiles lined up in a silent row. I let you keep the key. We part.
You walk eastward with a fragrant souvenir in your back pants pocket.
I walk in the opposite direction towards Sixth Avenue—your runny
eggs making shiny lines down the insides of my thighs, knees, calves;
the stack of coins a stiff reminder in my ass—and head off in search of more
handkerchiefs, just in case you never return.
©2007 by EllaRegina
For more information on EllaRegina,
see her blog or MySpace page.
