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Peter Baltensperger

June 27, 2012

Whispers

 

Time stood still for the couple in the grass, a warm summer rain drizzling down on them from a generous sky. Their wet bodies slithered against each other, over each other, around each other, their arms entwined, like snakes, wet breasts, wet flesh. Their hands glided over their bodies, delighting in their fascination with sleek skin, slippery mounds, dripping hair, the complexities of rain, falling. They moaned and groaned as they drank their titillation, licked rain drops from their bodies, saturated their minds as the rain was saturating the grass.

They pressed their lips together and drank from each other, their tongues heightening their stimulation, tweaking their arousal. They slid all over their bodies with their lips, their tongues, stilling their thirst with the mixture of glandular emissions and the rarefied purity of the manna from the sky. They were totally absorbed in each other, part of the grass and the rain, part of the voices saturating the air. They couldn’t have been any more sensuous, any more charged, electric arcs jumping from brain to brain.

A woman was floating down the river, fondling herself, her breasts gleaming islands in the current, dreaming of green grass and erect penises, throbbing. She was listening to the waves whispering, gathering secrets for her cornucopia of accumulated treasures, counting penises pulsating along the shore. Sheet lightning flickered across a dark sky, the hint of thunder somewhere far away. Sometimes it didn’t rain, despite contrary indications, a perplexity in the absence of what could be understood.

The woman drifted leisurely with the chattering waves, counting her orgasms as she projected herself into the lightning, the thunder, a child of the water, of the Earth. She still had a long time to float until she reached her destination, much to learn from the waves, much to count. Her gliding on the river was her ultimate passion, her path; her gathering and dreaming her fulfillment on her journey from one place to the next, never knowing where “next” would be. It wouldn’t have been the same.

The only thing she ever knew for sure was that something significant always awaited her in the end, an epiphany perhaps, a new look in her eyes, different echoes in her ears. The end was her purpose and her propellant, the proverbial carrot, her journeys a continuous recurrence leading from level to level as the river swelled to ever new heights. The penises along the shore were getting stronger and better, her cries louder, the waves more outspoken, more intense with every bend in the river.

Two women walked naked into a rain-filled forest, their feet uncertain on the squishy forest floor. They laughed when they sank into the wet ground, balanced each other, wet skin on wet skin, their hair dripping. When they came to a stream meandering through the trees, they knelt in the grass and drank from the fresh water, a ritual of rejuvenation in  the secretive dimness of the trees. They helped each other up from the slippery ground and fell into each other’s arms, kissing lightly, playfully, then earnestly, passionately, drinking the droplets of water from their lips, the rain from their cheeks. Later, they would follow the stream down to the river, a synchronicity, perhaps.

Having stilled their thirst, they found a smooth tree near the stream and wrapped their bodies around the trunk, their arms around each other. The tree their mutual phallus, they rubbed their luscious pussies against the soft bark, holding each other in place until they shuddered deliciously and gasped for breath. Their cries echoed through the dripping forest, voices in the wilderness trying to find themselves. Afterwards, they stretched out in the soaked moss, wrapped their arms around each other, and listened to the whispers of the leaves, rain drops pooling on their bodies, the multiplicity of forests.

A man sat alone in a house between the forest and the river, listening to the drumming on his roof, trying to dream. He wasn’t very good at dreaming, fixated on  breasts as he was, although he listened intently to the rivulets running down his windowpane speaking cryptic truths. Some of them he understood, particularly when they were about breasts; others went by unnoticed, obscured.

He dreamt of a woman floating on a river, visualizing her floating islands, wishing he were one of the penises on the shore. The river would have been good for him, had he been able to get to the shore. He dreamt about two women glued to a smooth trunk, wishing he were the tree. The tree would have been an important symbol in the confusion of his mind. He was good at wishing, turning his soul inside out, yearning for fulfillment, not very often with too much success. Voices were not always meant to be understood, one of the incomprehensible vicissitudes of living between a river and a tree.

The woman with the island breasts kept floating along on the river, her moans of satisfaction intermingling with the whispers of the waves, lulling her into a sense of accomplishment, security. Her black hair was trailing behind her in the water, her abundant black bush tousled by the currents, her long legs pointing towards the ocean. Tides were waiting for her there, washing treasures up on the sand, perhaps a full moon. The sea sky was clear, sparkling with stars.

The couple in the grass was wallowing in the rain, slick bodies intertwined, a pulsating penis in a rain-soaked vagina, the universe evolving. Their delicious liquids intermingled, their journey culminating in the ultimate revelation. They deserved their cries of abandon reverberating through the drizzle, blending in with the cries from the forest, the moans from the river, the groans from the house. It couldn’t have been more perfect, the wondrous idiosyncrasies of a warm summer rain.

 

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Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His work has appeared in print and on-line in several hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. He writes, and has been writing all his life, because he has to and loves to do it, and because it adds a significant dimension to his personal quest. He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their three cats.

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