Message-ID: <193347Z17011995@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: an163221@anon.penet.fi
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Reply-To: an163221@anon.penet.fi
Date: Tue, 17 Jan 1995 19:31:17 UTC
Subject: Lonely Hearts (FF, checkup)
Lines: 136


	Those who have not yet attained the legal age of
consent in their jurisdiction are enjoined from further reading.
Exit now and consider seriously whether you should best be
devoting this time to memorization of the Pythagorean Theorem
or the principle exports of Peru.

             This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
	*************************************************
LONELY HEARTS

             She enters the examination room like a ray of light,
bearing inward a rustle of fresh linen and a breath of departing
adolescence. Sustained easily on the breeze of her passage, her
silken blonde hair stirs with each movement, a soundless bell
caressing her shoulders, its effulgence framing the exquisite,
doe-like curves and planes of her face. It could be a face from a
portrait by one of the Pre-Raffaelites: passive, inwardlooking,
androgynous. The luminous grey-green eyes reflect only an
awareness of their own beauty; the full lips part slightly as if
framing an answer to an unspoken question.
	On the request to remove her blouse and brassiere, her
head inclines gracefully as her slender fingers flutter nervously
at the pearl buttons. The shirt, a delicate shell pink with short
sleeves and a suggestion of lace at the collar, slips from her
shoulders to reveal a skin of milky whiteness, the collarbones
birdlike, the chest without blemish, the lacey finish of the small
brassiere cups pressing slightly and exquisitely into the flesh of
her upper bosom. The upper arms reveal their delicate flue, a
faint tracery of blue veins perceptible when she turns a wrist first
to drape the shirt over a nearby chair and then to undo the
center hook of the brassiere.
	 She parts and lifts the cups from her breasts with an
averted glance, slowly lowering the straps over her shoulders
and dropping the brassiere onto the shirt. Straightening, turning,
she lifts her eyes to meet those of her examiner, a woman, as if
to read there the evidence of secrets unlocked, trusts violated,
innocence defiled, but meets only a glance of frank admiration.
Hers is a torso of classic beauty, the musculature of the
abdomen suggested, the breasts small, hemispherical, their
undersides curving gently into the ribs, the pale pink nipples
tumescent in the cool air, a ring of tiny goosebumps defining the
edges of the areolas. Above the left breast, in betrayal of inner
tumult, the skin over the aorta pulses.
	    In response to a gesture from the doctor, she sits on
the edge of the table, eliciting a dry crackle from the strip of
shiny paper laid out along its length. Pulse and blood pressure
are noted and recorded. Instructed to place her hands behind
her head and thrust out her chest, she tries not to shrink from
the doctor's touch as the woman places the palm of her right
hand beneath her left breast, the well-practised hand sensing
and cradling  the lower tip of the girl's heart as it kicks against
her chest wall with each heave of the ventricles. The heart rate
is high, the heartbeats forceful. No vibration is detected, no
stenotic thrill, but every few seconds there is a weak premature
ventricular contraction followed by a pause and a thump as the
heart regains its rhythm.
	With her left hand still on the center of the girl's back,
gently urging her body forward, the doctor presses the bell of her
stethoscope against the silken skin beneath the breast,
beginning at the apex of the  heart, absorbing its repeated
message with the ardor of a lover hearing a villanelle below her
window. This time, however, a dissonant element intrudes itself
into the serenade: a faint rushing murmur accompanied by two
distinct clicks with every systole.
	This is momentous news to be absorbed at a sports
physical; the denials and entreaties of the girl, informed of her
mitral valve prolapse, elicit a calming explanation of the
condition's benignity from the older woman. In an attempt at
illustration she offers the earpieces of the stethoscope to the girl,
guiding the instrument once more along the same valvular
pathways, the hard rubber rim leaving faint red tracings on the
luminous skin. The doctor then undoes the buttons of her own
businesslike  blue oxford-cloth shirt, lifting the girl's hand to her
chest, you see, this is the sound of the normal heart, nestling it
between her generous breasts, the stately, measured rythms of
her heart seeming to arise from the frank femaleness of their
contours. The girl cannot shake the hypnotic trance into which
the drumming seduces her, not even when the doctor moves the
hand and stethoscope past the border of her black brassiere to
plunge them both into the fullness of the breast flesh within, the
heartsounds accelerating and becoming ever more forceful.
	The cumbersome instrument falls away as the girl, in
thrall but moving as if in the viscous medium of a dream,
pushes the blue shirt over the shoulders of the other woman, the
garment falling to the floor in a shocking rush of fabric. The
brassiere is pushed upward in a tempest of awakening desire,
the breasts tumbling out and down to hang before her lips,
pendulous, the nipples red and engorged and shaking to the
rhythm of the woman's now laboring heart. The girl, the back of
her head caressed by the woman, briefly supports each rosy pap
with her tongue, daintily moistening their undersides before
drawing them into her mouth with long, powerful kisses. The
white flesh of the woman's breasts trembles and shudders as
first one, then the other is stroked, fondled, touched ever and
again with gestures of barely harnessed ardour.
	The woman disengages herself from the embraces of
the girl long enough gently to push her down to the table on
which she had remained sitting, pinning the girl's wrists over her
head with one hand and, bending over her in an attitude of
ministration, running the other hand lightly over the girl's
abdomen, the middle finger lingering in the tiny cup of the navel
before skimming the milky skin to brush the lower ribs. Her
head, framed by an aureole of medium-length dark hair, sinks to
the girl's chest, her barely opened mouth alighting in the valley
between the breasts, the sensation of cool skin against her lips
giving her delicious reminders of fresh fruit on a hot day. The
puckered pink buttons of the girl's nipples briefly resist a gentle
sideways pressure from the woman's lips as they brush over
them, lighting fires in the girl's womb.
	The woman eases herself onto the table, her body half
eclipsing that of the girl as their open lips meet, tongues probing,
throats vibrating as those of purring kittens with the music of
their moans. Pants are hastily pushed down and kicked
heedlessly away, lacey panties tugged off with urgent fingers,
elastic snapping in protest. At last warm hands meet secret dark
moistness amid the tangle of smooth, muscled thighs, flesh
flutters and heaves as furred mounds are pressed ardently
against each other. The women, acheiving the primitive rhythm
of shared sexual ecstacy, abandon themselves to the
groundswell of sensation that starts in their innermost loins and
spreads to their extremities like static elctricity, charging the
hands locked together now in mutual passion, forcing their
mouths ever closer until their teeth grind together, their bodies
now almost motionless with the intensity of effort, touching off
the endless series of overmastering uterine contractions that
herald the arrival of orgasm, a great swelling deep blue ocean of
heavy waves, rolling them, cradling them, boats tossed and
drifting on the bosom of the eternal sea.

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