Tony’s Old Mill revisited

  

 (This is part of a series of stories that I wrote for a woman from about the mid-1990s until about 2009. She would email me a phrase or scene she wanted me to flesh out, and I would email her back a story. Early, these were very simplistic erotica, but grew more and more complex as time went on. The woman passed away about ten years go. We both loved the Old Mill -- which alas has long ago been demolished. The Old Mill became a center piece for a video that got a bit of attention when I submitted it to a Spielberg video contest.  I later expanded the video to a massive novel and several other short stories (and another video which I still haven’t finished. But the mythology started with this bit of erotica. I’m including her original email in this to set the stage.)

 (I think i have my hotmail back)

  o, so if were say, walking all alone on that road that lead   use to lead to Tracy's old Mill, the one with all the   high weeds on both sides of it, down pass the soft ball   fields, and it were dark, and late at night, i should keep looking over my shoulder???

 

 You can hear my footsteps on the gravel behind you.

 What made you wander out towards the Old Mill this late is beyond even me to explain. Perhaps you knew I’ve been watching you from the shadows, one more of many over-heated men who sometimes buy you drinks at the tavern, looking to catch your eye, always admiring you from a distance.

 Your movements seduce men even when they don’t want to be, drawing our attention to you as you enter or leave.

 Even in the dark, alone on Millridge Road, you walk that way, strutting along as if you couldn’t give a damn who might be looking or what we might be thinking. Perhaps, you wanted to lead me out here, knowing that I couldn’t help but follow, each movement yanking me along by my crotch.

 You must know that since the Old Mill closed only lovers come this way, sitting in their cars, kids making out, or making love, bar room tramps giving them head.

 You look over your shoulder as you pass the ball fields, the glint of distant lights flashing in your eyes. But not fear. You seem to check on me, to make sure I’m still there, to make sure I’ve not given up, even as you move out of the light into the darker places where walls of reeds block out most of the light – the kind of places teachers used to warn you against when warning you against men like me, the hot and bothered men with bulges in our pants and indecent thoughts in our heads.

 I hear your footstep ahead of me in the dark, although I now cannot see you. A trail of your perfume lingers in the air, mingling with the smell of the nearby river, stirring up my hormones so that I am little more than a stumbling, bumbling, throbbing being – every inch of me aching for you, the bulge in my pants pointing in your direction like a compass.

 You are a fox in more than one way, teasing me in the dark, leaving clues in scents and sounds by which I follow, pausing if I stop, starting again the moment I make a move. Perhaps this is a game of cat and mouse, although we switch roles constantly, me the cat, then you, you the mouse upon which I need to pounce, me the mouse scurrying quickly into your trap.

 Then, for some reason, I see you ahead of me, some trick of light played off the water with a corresponding break in the reeds, soft light framing you, as if you stood on a stage. As a kid I used to sneak into the Capital Theater in Passaic to watch the strippers, those class acts that put more modern gogo to shame, ladies who could tease me into Cumming into my pants with one glance.

 And you, turning at my approach, have that look, your stare a dagger into me, stabbing me from the groin up, I stumble towards you, but you do not move, I reach you, you make no effort to fight me off. My mouth closes around yours, my tongue working its way between your soft lips, dirty dancing with your tongue, before I sink down, kissing your neck, and then, easing open your blouse, the swell of your breasts.

 My fingers even ache now, as if being so close to you causes a short circuit to start up inside of me, arcs of lust jutting out from every part of me, but in particular, those parts that touch you.

 My fingers fumble with the buttons on your blouse, popping each one open, each one leaving you more exposed. Yet, you push away, and whisper: “Not here, not like this. Someone might come.”

 “Where then?” I ask, shivering with anticipation, barely able to breathe let alone speak, as if my body was now meant for only one thing, abandoning every other unnecessary function, lust dripping out of me instead of sweat.

 “In the Old Mill,” you say.

 “But it’s closed,” I say, fearing this is some trick, some tease, to keep me in perpetual agony, as if you were teasing the tip of my cock with your tongue just to drive me crazy.

 “I know a way in,” you say, then lead me off, your fingers entwined in mine, drawing me along the way you might a child – me as stupid as a child now, stumbling along behind you as if on three legs, the middle one throbbing so hard I can hardly keep it from spurting – just from the touch of your hand.

 We come out of the reeds together. To the left the ruins of the old auto mechanic show in ashes from the fire late last year. Just ahead, the old mill itself, windows boarded up, looking so sad, yet private. You lead me around the building as if you have taken this route before, lured other lustful characters like me into this web of yours, to have your will with once inside.

 To the right, the river laps at the now abandoned dock, a place where young girls and boys used to swim, used to tease each other with looks and subtle touches.

 Is this another tease? What can I expect inside?

 Around the far side, you lead me to a door, and pull it open, you apparently knowing you would find it open. The smell of countless beers and cigarettes greets us as we enter the dark space. Dim light filters through the cracks and after a moment we can see the bar and the space where chairs had been.

 I touch your shoulder, and draw down your shirt, the rest of the buttons coming undone on their own, fate lending its firmer fingers to my effort, though I still struggle to remove the bra. The rest comes free but I do not know how you became naked or how I did, me melting into you, my mouth seeking not your mouth, but the tips of your breasts, tongue circling around the stiffening points, each repeating the action my cock has taken, and then, I eased down more, sitting you on the bar as my mouth seeks a deeper, warmer place between your legs, my tongue parking you as miraculously as Moses did the sea, the soft salty taste of your flesh seeming to throb under my persistence.

 In the dark, I hear you groan, and feel your legs close around me as the tip of my tongue works through the folds of you, easing through each part, working ever so slowly towards the point at which they join, where your clit seems to rise up to greet me, though my tongue only circles it slowly, careful not to touch it too hard, teasing it, easing up to its top, then away gain, then around. Meanwhile my finger reaching up inside of you, a poor imitation to another throbbing part of me that aches for access.

 Not yet,. I tell myself, although now I’m teasing myself, and from your groans I know I’m teasing you, too, moving my finger around inside of you, slowly feeling you tense up, waiting for that moment when it is all just right to push myself inside of you, and I do.

 I kiss your breasts as I press myself deeper into you, my cock so deep now, I feel as if I’m drowning, your sweet pussy around me like a mouth, while my mouth circles your nipple again, sucking at you as I push and pull, sucking and sucking, pushing and pulling, holding the flood inside of me back until I can’t stand it, you and me, moving together, a dance in the dark sweeter than any desert ever served on this bar, more intoxicating than any drink.

 I could drink this drink forever, floating here, pushing and pulling, waiting on the edge for the explosion to come. Yet it never lasts, it cannot go on forever, and something in me bursts, and my desire pours into you like a honey bee pouring his treasure into the hive of his queen, me, rocking back from the impact of my lust, feeling you respond, feeling your lips seeking mine, both of us quivering like children doing it for the first time, neither one of us certain who is the spider or the fly, and not much caring either way.

 

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