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In this posting, Bernda appears in the narrative but John is the narrator:

Back in the suite, we got in bed and fucked each other repeatedly, without saying a word, warm kisses at expected and unexpected moments and places. When I spent myself in her, she would not let my penis withdraw from her, and used her cunt like fingers, stroking my penis into hardness, renewing our fucking. Again and again and again. I slept, and she fucked me in my sleep. I dreamed, and she fucked me in my dreams.

The woman in my dreams did not look like Bernda; nor was she beautiful, but each part of her was beautiful when examined closely, even her long thick tail, attached to her above her anus, flesh colored, furry to the touch, long enough to drag on the ground when she stood, but muscular enough and limber enough that she could hold it high behind her, straight up at the small of her back, curling into a question mark above her head. I kissed her vagina, and found a tongue in it that kissed back at me, entering my mouth with the dark taste of her interior. When I fucked her, the tongue ran its roughness up and down and all around my shaft, sucking hard, while her tail curled up under her ass and around my scrotum and penis, the tip of the tail bouncing against my anus in the same rhythm as my thrusts.

I came so powerfully it wakened me, Bernda’s face between my legs, one hand circling my penis and scrotum, forefinger in my pubic hair, thumb massaging my scrotum where it joins my body, a finger tapping my anus, cum in her mouth, a smile on her face.

I came again, swooned in and out of the dream, an animal mounting me. I am in a jungle. Her tail grasps my ankle pulling me down into grass. The zebra runs from the lion. I roll from side to side in a puddle unable to avoid its wetness, or free myself from the tail that circles my waist. The zebra is musky with fright, its blood is musky too, flowing from its throat where the lion’s teeth pull and tear its flesh, pull and tear. Her lips on my neck, sucking and pulling on my flesh. She too is musky. I am vulnerable.

Her lust covers my limp body. The zebra sags into forgetfulness, away from the pain of the lion. It is dangerous in the jungle. I am safe here. Drawn to her breasts. I suckle. The milk comes in spurts from both her nipples, the one in my mouth and the one in my hand. It spurts like semen and tastes the same. The zebra’s blood is red on the green grass. Her eyes are brown. I smell her lust, taste her sticky white milk. Her tail insinuates itself into dark places. We are in the jungle. The jungle is in us.

In today's entry Bernda (her mother is dyslexic) is the narrator:


Asleep in my own bed, I feel familiar sensations stir inside me. Outside my window there is a treeless yard, a figure slouches towards my window, peers in at me, naked, asleep in my own bed, I spread my legs, he winks and smiles and disappears, reappearing at the foot of my bed. I pull my legs together, roll over into a fetal position. I feel his hands on my ankles. He is strong. Strong enough to roll me gently onto my back, spread my legs.

I hear his smile crinkle. His lips taste of peppermint'; it makes a mild burning sensation on my vagina. It spreads open, the peppermint spreads too, inside me. It is his tongue. Long and flexible like a snake it enters me and peers into every crevice, I want to sit up, but the snake curls inside me and I fling my hips up, his eyes are fixed on my mine, the line of his sight a caress up the center of my body, between my breasts, his grunts make his tongue wriggle, or twisting his long tongue inside me makes him grunt. It is not his grunt, but mine. I twist and abrade the snake with my interior. The snake smiles and coils and thrusts. Hiding safe and warm inside the cave.

In two places at once, the same eyes stare at me, silent, tongue tied, and there is another tongue, that enters my mouth and wriggles to my throat. Long and flexible like its lover, they seek a meeting a place, a kiss, in the center of my being. Their kiss is wet and sloppy, two greedy tongues flicker their taunts at one another, the mouths grow wet, spurts of wetness, there is semen filling my mouth and my vagina. Another snake enters my anus. Two more affix themselves to my breasts. What is that kissing my belly button? Sucking on my neck? I am suddenly afraid.

“John, help me!”

John helps me. I tell him to push harder.

Today's entry is from my copyrighted novel, published in 1999.

She put her feet flat on the bed, spreading her legs and speaking in slow measured tones said, “I want you to make sweet slow love to me tonight—and when that’s over I want you to fuck me in the ass.”

Her words made my prick spring up, striking her belly with a soft but audible noise.

“That excites you doesn’t it? It excites you when I tell you what I want,” she whispered in my ear in a deep hoarse tone. She paused and I made no answer. The answer was obvious. She continued speaking. “It excites me too. It makes me excited when I tell you what I want. It makes me excited because I know you hear my needs.” Her voice was lower and her breathing heavier.

She took one of my hands and placed it between her legs. I felt wetness there. The whole universe hushed in reverent awe, the heat of her body seared my skin and I entered her vagina in slow easy stages as quiet and unhurried as the darkness descending on the quiet world.

After an eon when my penetration was complete, I laid still with her, savoring the throbbing in my member that matched the beating of my heart. I put a hand under her breast and felt her heart beating—she breathed softly and deeply and when she exhaled I took up her rhythm, synchronizing my breathing with hers. Each inhalation pushed her breast into mine, my loins into hers, and each exhalation drew them away again. The throbbing and the pushing became the pulse and breath of our love-making—both increasing in slow degrees—rising with the constellations—higher and higher—slowly, soundlessly, inexorably.

When I rocked my hips, she rocked in tempo with me, robbing the effects of my thrust, and that cadence too began to quicken slowly—by degrees the temperature rose in our bodies. My penis stiffened; her hips shifted slightly to accommodate its new shape. We looked into one another’s eyes.
I stroked lightly up and down her ribcage with my finger tips, passing over the swelling of her breast at one extreme and the swelling of her hips at the other, both hands moving up and down together but sometimes departing from this pattern as one hand dwelled on a breast until the other completed a full circuit before taking up the pattern again.
She responded to my caresses with her own, but always being careful to allow room for my strokes to develop smoothly without impediment. I would sometimes gaze into her eyes, but not fixedly, my eyes often straying across her breasts, her eyes betraying a bemused and gentle combination of happiness and excitement. More than once she grinned a soft grin, rolling her eyes up and around beneath half-closed eyelids, and held her inhalation briefly before making a long, slow exhalation, a soundless sigh that made heavy demands on my attention to our synchronous breathing. A side effect of this added effort was to draw me into feeling her feelings; our coupling having both the settled awe of a magnificent sunset and the unsettled excitement of carnival.

The longer we maintained this unhurried stimulation, more and more details emerged into my awareness, including the awareness that I had lost track of time. It was an enduring moment, and we prolonged it, stretched it out by stretching, leaning this way and that, always finding small alterations in our positions so that each moment was new, requiring a new assessment of the shape and temperature of her breasts, her neck, her thighs upon my hips or waist. Details became more numerous, more revealing, more enduring, more endearing. Time suspended in the suspense of making love.

Her vagina throbbed—I could feel that throb now—separate from mine—out of step with my throbbing as her heart beat at its own pace—and that too was quickening—everything was quickening—the throb of her vagina meeting my throb in a thrilling tightness when the peaks of those waves coincided, a coincidence that repeated itself with greater frequency and intensity as our pulses quickened.

I stopped rocking and leaned in towards her, my eyes fixed on hers. When I had my mouth on hers I closed my eyes, and let the waters of my mouth moisten her lips. My tongue licked her lips and wandered in between them where she captured it with her mouth sucking hard, and I leaned into her and came and came into her, my penis having never left the first depth of its penetration. She came too—her throbs squeezing and dissolving my stiffness.

It seemed a very long time before I lifted my eyes to meet hers. As I lifted a finger to wipe away the drying trail of a tear beneath her eye, she did the same for me.