Fragmented Assumptions [Story] by Peter Baltensperger

Bikinigirls74The beach undulated like an incomplete argument at a busy intersection, a decrepit carousel in an abandoned park, even though the ponies followed the straight line dictated by the horizon. Once a full moon squeezed its way through the narrow space between ocean and sky, but to no avail: it rained again the next day. Oleg Walker was there to see the full moon squeeze through and shed droplets of half-forgotten theorems all over the waves, although it didn’t do him any good to know. The wind was much too strong for resolutions, the sun barely out of the way.

Oleg went to the beach every day, even when it undulated. Especially when it undulated. He was good at keeping his balance, a tightrope walker without a balancing pole, a train of thoughts in the wilderness of the dunes. They were always thinking to him, whether he liked it or not. Most of the time he was content that they did, irreconcilable shards of wisdom he scrawled on the blackboards he kept as diaries in his beach-front home. He was always going to sort them out later, make sense of what the dunes said, even though they merely whispered, even on clear days.

Sometimes he took a woman to the dunes to help him listen, although they never understood what he meant and he was much too busy getting them out of their clothes and into the sand. There was something primordially arousing about unwrapping a thought as complete as a woman and getting her ready for the shifting sand. Once they fitted their naked landscapes into the landscape of the dunes, everything always changed. White skin transformed into red skin from rubbing and sucking, limp organs into fleshy protrusions from the discussions between hands and nipples, ocean and sand.

Oleg was an accomplished scholar in the understanding of the white landscapes of women. He had been studying their contours and curves and hills and valleys for a long time and knew how to use his mind as well as his body in the exploration of their secrets. He always knew exactly where his hands needed to be to elicit their characteristic moans of excitement and appreciation, knew exactly what to do and when, and followed the shifting of the dunes across the strand. He measured breasts with absolute precision until they quivered to the primal moans, the charged thoughts. Sometimes he took handfuls of sand and sprinkled the grains over the agitated breasts as if they were memories from other times, absolutions from a generous hand.

He always paid particular attention to the rich wells and their smorgasbords of aromatic delights. He licked the swollen labia like a thirsty cat a saucer of milk, dwelt on the protrusion of the clit until he could feel the woman’s mind tremble and gyrate with ecstasy. All the while, he kept adjusting his explorations to the shifting of the dunes, his thoughts to the possibility of another full moon. It was only when he was satisfied with the discussions between the splayed thighs that he poised his mind above the gaping receptacle and let his erection enter it in measured steps. It was all a question of balance, flesh and flesh, ocean and sky.

From then on, it was a matter of intimate conversations between his lips and their counterparts, between his hands and the breasts and the strutting nipples, between his mind and the dripping cave. He carefully strung his words onto strings to wind them around the breasts, carry them deep down into the mysterious darkness of the cavern, share them with every square inch of white skin. They were always perfectly understood, so carefully did he choose his propositions. He went to great length, in the end, to match every thrust with an appropriate thrust, every question with an answer no matter how oblique or how obscure, every passionate moan with his own guttural groans.

At the height of the dunes, at the height of the dialogue, when everything was in perfect balance like a precision apothecary scale in an antique store, he measured his final thrusts by the quivering and by the moaning he had elicited. It never failed. The orgasms were always simultaneous and complete, shattering the air above and around them, rocking their bodies to the rhythm of the breakers, the shifting of the clouds in the sky. The dialogue deteriorated into a jumble of disjointed phrases and words, moans and groans, screams. The strand kept undulating with the breakers, and the seagulls shrieked their satisfaction to the sky.

After some gasping and stretching and whispering and guessing, the dunes rolled over each other and shifted for what seemed like forever. Strands of thoughts danced above them like colorful balloons on invisible strings. Oleg brushed the sand off his body, then off the woman. He made sure he didn’t neglect her breasts or the triangle between her thighs or her buttocks until his hands were satisfied again and he could finally let go of the complexity of his ideas. The women always responded in kind to provide him with the memories he needed for his diary. Once the exchange was complete and the contract completed to everyone’s satisfaction, the dunes kept on shifting on their own and the gulls stopped their screeching. The balloons floated off into the sky, like a punctuation.

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