Esperanza_Hidalgo
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 26, 2009
- Posts
- 2,614
I'm posting a short opening to a lesbian story I'm crafting. Concerns are that it's too much BS, and I'm seeking some help trimming the fat so I can get into the story. Suggestions please. Not too worried about the grams at this point, will clean them up later. But if you find a glaring one feel free.
Also, would it be best to start with the action, then fade in with this opening after the initial scene?
The Flutist
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
listen to my story.
What is this evil thing called life,
so fraught with unmet glory?
Looking in the mirror, I saw the reflection of a woman who'd become sullen
and bitter. What happened to the energy and excitement of youth? Damn, even the crow's feet were laughing at me. I put my hand over my face trying to hide my reflection. It did no good, the wrinkles were still laughing.
The crow's feet flew in last year, made the long trip from Mexico City after a tumultuous liaison with an old lover that I’d taken up with after discovering pussy again. Well, the girl fucking was more than good, but damn, the baggage sucked, along with the worry lines and acne—acne at my age, jeez.
Then of all the misery, a week later grey hairs, thank goodness the beauty salon had a cure for those marks of experience, if only they could cure my other problems. Now, the visit to that beauty salon, that’s a story in itself. Some mighty fine pussy manning the counter at that place.
At least I was still somewhat cougaresque, albeit aging a little less gracefully than I'd hoped. Managing to stay fit on a strict regimen of the gym, low fat foods, scads of yogurt and a yoga class, must admit, I was still a dick and pussy magnet—pussy always preferred.
I always looked for magical solutions to the loss of my youth, tricks to living a life of lies. There are no answers to the question of living lies. No magician to seductively pull a rabbit from his top hat and suddenly say, "Here it is Riley, here is the fountain of youth, ten million dollars and the solution to the problems that your pitiful existence has gifted you." Nope, ain't gonna happen, at least not to me.
My old fat Tom jumped up on the counter and meowed. The yellow ball of fur had it so easy. Well, at least I had one friend left. Reaching for the cat, I stroked his ears, then he jumped back down finding something more interesting to tickle his fancy, the arrogant piece of shit. Hmm, so much for that friend, off to look for some pussy I suspect. At least we had that in common, we both wanted pussy.
What we didn't have in common were the solutions to the problems in our lives. He simply needed to be feed, have a clean litter box, get a rub on the tummy, and then, he was off to look for a hot feline. I silently prayed that my life could be as simple as that cats. You know the life, the one in the movie with the fishing pole and the sun setting as two young lovers kissed underneath a gorgeous blue sky. Not a worry in the world, that's what I wanted, just scamper off and find some pussy. Things were just a bit too difficult to resolve with such simplicity, or were they?
My marriage was a farce. A ten year farce that required me to get drunk before I had sex with the upwardly mobile computer executive who now thought fucking was push, push, come. I knew that sex with a male could be better than that, and at first our sex was nothing short of amazing. Nonetheless, amazing somehow slipped to good, then good fell to marginal, and now it was duty.
Not that he was a bad sort of guy, I held most of the blame for the disillusionment in our marriage. He knew it was an act for me, and I faked it best I could, but he knew. After ten years of upholding my marital vows with a man I didn't love, well, I was just tired of it, and so was he. He still fucked me all right, fucked me a lot, so I drank a lot, too much if truth were known. He owned a proper sized dick, and named it, "Moby." I didn't know why men needed to name their dicks. Women didn't name their pussies, well at least none of the women that I knew did. Laughing at his silliness and mine also, I thought about two dicks talking to each other.
"Hey, Moby, caught anything lately?"
"Well lemme tell ya' Mister Cumsalot, up round Riley's cove thar be some big wet slimy lectric eels worth some eatin'. Might wanna drop yer pole in thar."
Okay, enough of that, now where was I? Uhm yah, his proper sized dick. I should have been able to get off like a minx. I would yell bloody murder, like I was coming in buckets. Thing is I wasn't coming any longer, not like at first. It was always the same pattern after the sex. Head to the bathroom, pull out the rabbit and masturbate. Then, I would come—in buckets. In fact, in a torrential downpour that about flooded the toilet. The mail order rabbit dildo helped out bunches, and I ended up buying rechargeable batteries because I used it so much. The problem? I wasn't thinking about him, or males for that matter when I masturbated. I kept on thinking about the women that I'd loved, and had loved me, especially the first one.
He ate my pussy every now and again. Now that I loved and could sink my teeth into my fantasies because I didn't have to look at his face, then I would come. But he seemed to prefer pussy pounding, then an orgasm of the pound, pound, come variety. Then he slept, thank God. edit out
I was tired of the, "Oh baby it's so big," and "do it to me baby with that big old Moby." I mean how many lies can you tell in a lifetime? Christ, I felt like I was writing a script for a porn movie, of which we'd watched a few. Now, it was the movie that initially started it over again. Started what you ask? Well, gave me quite a hankering for girls again. It had been a few years, but the desire was still festering like a boil ready to burst. The way women had loved on me still provided such pleasure. No quick wham bam thank you ma'am, the loving was erotic, slow and sensual. The memories of my misspent youth were still palpable, mostly sweet, some were downright miserable.
Today was the day that I traveled back to that place of my youth. The visit was with some trepidation, and I'd been planning it for some time after she'd called me. It was a place I swore I'd never go back to, and yet I'd never left. The city remained the same, the street, schools, houses and people changed. Yes the park, that's where it all started and that's where we'd start again, or finish again.
I dressed, went downstairs and started the Mercedes. First stop, a bar for a drink, then the park, which is where I'd met the woman who left an indelible painful stain on my psyche. She was the lead flutist in a Jazz band. It was my freshman year of college, and I was a young impressionable girl, still believing that life held promise. After all these years, the Flutist had called me. Crazy, she still made my heart flitter. It was only noon, and I wasn't scheduled to meet her at the park until later that afternoon. At least I'd have some time to drink, and perhaps think.
Also, would it be best to start with the action, then fade in with this opening after the initial scene?
The Flutist
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
listen to my story.
What is this evil thing called life,
so fraught with unmet glory?
Looking in the mirror, I saw the reflection of a woman who'd become sullen
and bitter. What happened to the energy and excitement of youth? Damn, even the crow's feet were laughing at me. I put my hand over my face trying to hide my reflection. It did no good, the wrinkles were still laughing.
The crow's feet flew in last year, made the long trip from Mexico City after a tumultuous liaison with an old lover that I’d taken up with after discovering pussy again. Well, the girl fucking was more than good, but damn, the baggage sucked, along with the worry lines and acne—acne at my age, jeez.
Then of all the misery, a week later grey hairs, thank goodness the beauty salon had a cure for those marks of experience, if only they could cure my other problems. Now, the visit to that beauty salon, that’s a story in itself. Some mighty fine pussy manning the counter at that place.
At least I was still somewhat cougaresque, albeit aging a little less gracefully than I'd hoped. Managing to stay fit on a strict regimen of the gym, low fat foods, scads of yogurt and a yoga class, must admit, I was still a dick and pussy magnet—pussy always preferred.
I always looked for magical solutions to the loss of my youth, tricks to living a life of lies. There are no answers to the question of living lies. No magician to seductively pull a rabbit from his top hat and suddenly say, "Here it is Riley, here is the fountain of youth, ten million dollars and the solution to the problems that your pitiful existence has gifted you." Nope, ain't gonna happen, at least not to me.
My old fat Tom jumped up on the counter and meowed. The yellow ball of fur had it so easy. Well, at least I had one friend left. Reaching for the cat, I stroked his ears, then he jumped back down finding something more interesting to tickle his fancy, the arrogant piece of shit. Hmm, so much for that friend, off to look for some pussy I suspect. At least we had that in common, we both wanted pussy.
What we didn't have in common were the solutions to the problems in our lives. He simply needed to be feed, have a clean litter box, get a rub on the tummy, and then, he was off to look for a hot feline. I silently prayed that my life could be as simple as that cats. You know the life, the one in the movie with the fishing pole and the sun setting as two young lovers kissed underneath a gorgeous blue sky. Not a worry in the world, that's what I wanted, just scamper off and find some pussy. Things were just a bit too difficult to resolve with such simplicity, or were they?
My marriage was a farce. A ten year farce that required me to get drunk before I had sex with the upwardly mobile computer executive who now thought fucking was push, push, come. I knew that sex with a male could be better than that, and at first our sex was nothing short of amazing. Nonetheless, amazing somehow slipped to good, then good fell to marginal, and now it was duty.
Not that he was a bad sort of guy, I held most of the blame for the disillusionment in our marriage. He knew it was an act for me, and I faked it best I could, but he knew. After ten years of upholding my marital vows with a man I didn't love, well, I was just tired of it, and so was he. He still fucked me all right, fucked me a lot, so I drank a lot, too much if truth were known. He owned a proper sized dick, and named it, "Moby." I didn't know why men needed to name their dicks. Women didn't name their pussies, well at least none of the women that I knew did. Laughing at his silliness and mine also, I thought about two dicks talking to each other.
"Hey, Moby, caught anything lately?"
"Well lemme tell ya' Mister Cumsalot, up round Riley's cove thar be some big wet slimy lectric eels worth some eatin'. Might wanna drop yer pole in thar."
Okay, enough of that, now where was I? Uhm yah, his proper sized dick. I should have been able to get off like a minx. I would yell bloody murder, like I was coming in buckets. Thing is I wasn't coming any longer, not like at first. It was always the same pattern after the sex. Head to the bathroom, pull out the rabbit and masturbate. Then, I would come—in buckets. In fact, in a torrential downpour that about flooded the toilet. The mail order rabbit dildo helped out bunches, and I ended up buying rechargeable batteries because I used it so much. The problem? I wasn't thinking about him, or males for that matter when I masturbated. I kept on thinking about the women that I'd loved, and had loved me, especially the first one.
He ate my pussy every now and again. Now that I loved and could sink my teeth into my fantasies because I didn't have to look at his face, then I would come. But he seemed to prefer pussy pounding, then an orgasm of the pound, pound, come variety. Then he slept, thank God. edit out
I was tired of the, "Oh baby it's so big," and "do it to me baby with that big old Moby." I mean how many lies can you tell in a lifetime? Christ, I felt like I was writing a script for a porn movie, of which we'd watched a few. Now, it was the movie that initially started it over again. Started what you ask? Well, gave me quite a hankering for girls again. It had been a few years, but the desire was still festering like a boil ready to burst. The way women had loved on me still provided such pleasure. No quick wham bam thank you ma'am, the loving was erotic, slow and sensual. The memories of my misspent youth were still palpable, mostly sweet, some were downright miserable.
Today was the day that I traveled back to that place of my youth. The visit was with some trepidation, and I'd been planning it for some time after she'd called me. It was a place I swore I'd never go back to, and yet I'd never left. The city remained the same, the street, schools, houses and people changed. Yes the park, that's where it all started and that's where we'd start again, or finish again.
I dressed, went downstairs and started the Mercedes. First stop, a bar for a drink, then the park, which is where I'd met the woman who left an indelible painful stain on my psyche. She was the lead flutist in a Jazz band. It was my freshman year of college, and I was a young impressionable girl, still believing that life held promise. After all these years, the Flutist had called me. Crazy, she still made my heart flitter. It was only noon, and I wasn't scheduled to meet her at the park until later that afternoon. At least I'd have some time to drink, and perhaps think.
