This was way back in the days when people wrote email the way they still used to write letters. They had met online by first commenting on each other’s blogs. Soon they were emailing in the evening after work/school. They started speaking by phone. They spent countless hours talking the nights away. Her voice was soft: her words sophisticated. Sharp. Droll. Sometimes, over the phone, she would read to him; she read a lot—more than anyone he had known until then, or-thereafter. Both of them were too shy to send a picture, but really, they just enjoyed their time together and didn’t want to ruin things so quickly. Listening to her voice, he became infatuated with her enunciation and tone. Although he tried, he could not imagine—other than her being white—what she looked like.
He bought an airplane ticket and flew to Minneapolis, Minnesota which he had only known about from listening to “A Prairie Home Companion” radio show when he was a kid, as his family would drive an hour, after church services, to Sunday brunch. Usually, his family was able to finish eating and start the drive home in time to catch Mr.Kiellor’s monologue. To this day, one of his best memories of his family is sitting in the backseat, belly full, listening to the story of Bruno, the fishing dog.
And so imageless, he landed at the airport, walked to baggage and looked around, not knowing what she looked like. They had not planned a bat-signal. He slowly spun, scanning the crowd, taking in every face which was looking elsewhere, or at someone else. He didn’t see her; no one else seemed to be looking around, expectantly. Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a slight blur. Beside a wall of payphones, he glimpsed a women’s head poking out to look into the crowd. She appeared to be hiding. The half of her face that wasn’t already hidden by the payphones was obscured by her brown hair. He was able to make out one eye, between the strands of her hair, looking towards him. He smiled and walked over. She was not short, maybe 5’8” but receded into herself the closer he approached. She looked down at her feet with the strangest half-smile he’d ever seen. Hesitantly, she said his name out loud as if she were learning a new language. He smiled, nodded, and replied with her name. He then grabbed her hand and said Let’s get out of here, and they quickly walked out and into her car which was parked just outside.
For a few minutes, nothing was said. The quiet silence of disbelief soon wore off and she started giving him the nickel tour of the town, as she drove to her home. He was amazed to see a church, coming into view, straight out of Paris and for a moment was transfixed by a memory of a now nameless women and the time they spent an entire day, from morning to night, watching the light play across the face of Notre-Dame. She told him it was the Cathedral of St.Paul. Her apartment was just nearby. They parked and walked up four flights of stairs and entered her apartment, where he first met The-Best-Dog-In-The-World: Houard. This dog was to completely ruin all future dogs for him, the Ur-Dog, if you will. She said Little Howie is pleased to meet you. He and the dog shook. He looked around her small, warm, well-lighted place and saw books stacked next to a huge, plush, pink flowered chair which he would eventually move 3,000 miles when all was said and done and finished. He put his luggage down and walked up to her. Again, she looked down as if trying to hide her face. With his palm up, he lifted her chin, with the gentlest of pressure and nudged her to look up at him. Her chest-nut brown eyes were glistening. She said you must be disappointed at how I look. He said not at all.
He told her that when he was in college, there was a time when he would walk around campus and go out at night without his glasses, which left the world gauzy and blurred. When he talked with women, he could only make out faded outlines suggestive of what they looked like. Concrete details, disqualifying or not, could not get in the way of meeting the person inside. He was the worst of idealists, a freshman philosophy major; she, a close second, was an English major with a weakness for Regency-era lit. He thought that this was the best way to meet someone before the onslaught of the visuals, good or bad, bludgeoned his senses and over-took his dormroom-grade theories on how one ought to meet women. Truth be known, he had a certain level of success with this bullshit.
Honest, he grinned. Her scared eyes looked back into his, and then she smiled. She then showed him around her one-bedroom apartment. Soon, they were in her bedroom. She turned around, her back to her bed and that was when he took her. He took her full on. As she collapsed backwards onto the bed, they shared a full-throated kiss. They both had been wanting, waiting through all those long-distance conversations so that when the impossible materialized into the possible, they both leapt (him a tad faster) at each other and tumbled into the bed, and with the youthful exuberance of their immortal mid-20’s, they were instantaneously naked, flesh pressing into real, sweet-fucking-Jesus flesh.
What she had been afraid of at the airport and all during their drive back to her place was that he would have taken one look at her, and begged off somehow. She was tall, but not slender, and was full bodied but not full figured. He would later love to describe her as having a plan mid-western face. A small nose, thin lips, chalk-white skin so pale that when he awoke late at night and she was asleep, he would hold the white bed-sheets beside her head and watch the outlines of her face disappear. He could no longer tell where she ended and the sheets began, like seeing once of those “white-rabbit in blizzard-whiteout” paintings. All he could see of her was her chest-nut brown hair, now black in the darkness, and the two, small, dark slits of her closed eyes as she slept. He did not and would not for a long time understand his fascination with her paleness and all that it would encompass for him. But right then, after countless sessions of serious, intelligent conversation that had been had, their hands probed each other’s landscapes, finding the nooks that made the other gasp. Their hands feverishly trying to convince its’ owners that this was not another feverishly wet dream that they both had had, several times, in anticipation of meeting…that they wouldn’t suddenly wake up alone.
She was on her back, knees fallen to her sides to take him in and soon they were fucking. (Condomless. Brainless. But on the pill; she aways being the smarter one) Because she was large, and he more slight, he had to hold her legs up and place her legs on his shoulders to maintain the leverage he needed to advance on and stay in her. Her breasts soon caught his attention and beckoned. Her nipples were almost translucent with only the faintest suggestion of a pinker areola. They were more felt than seen in the late evening light and he wanted to suck them as she held them up for him to taste. She joked, that she had generous breasts and wide child-bearing hips. But right now he only wanted to lick them as they gleamed erectly before him. With a lunge, he fell towards her breasts, unknowingly bringing her knees and legs (that still rested on his shoulder) down with him. As his mouth closed round her nipple, he uttered her name causing her nipples to vibrate. He happened to glance to the side and saw her knees right alongside him, next to her breasts. His eyes widened from surprise on seeing what had happened; he surged to plunge further into her. He was inexperienced and clueless., sheltered far too long.Only his mid-20’s did he start to have any sense that there was a self to himself.
He opened his eyes to look at her breasts then looked at her face. They both saw that her knees were now pressed to her shoulders. Her confused face matched his own bewildered look, but they both felt indescribably ecstatic. And then, he reached up to grab her meaty calves. She would say, peasant calves. I have peasant calves, good for hours of gleaning, whilst pregnant. With one calf in each hand, he used them to push her legs down further onto her. His groin ground her hips down into the bed. As he pushed her calves, her knees straightened completely, and her legs slightly parted to let her shins lay on her shoulders. To his and more so to her surprise, she had folded in half. The soles of her feet were now standing flat on the bed’s headboard. Her face was now between her own calves. His eyes bulged in awe, before spasmodically ejaculating into her. His arms slackened and he fell between her legs and collapsed into her. She caught his fall, his head, his shoulders. Her body deepened as he continued to fall in. She held him, while his breathing slowed and slackened.
In short order, they learned that her ability to “Turn Out” her hip like a ballet dancer—which she had told him about a few times over the phone, because she was proud of still being able to do such in her 20’s—was not just something useful in her improv comedy class. She had known she had flexible hips and had told him so, that it was one of her oddities she told him about, but his obliviousness knew no bounds and it took their first meet, for him to really start understanding what her limber hips could do.
Soon their favorite starting position was for her for to lay on her back as she lifted her legs straight up, while he grabbed her tush and squeezed and then plied her outer labia with his thumbs, before leaning his head in to kiss her inner thighs as his hands curled around them, slowly climbing up her legs until his hands and tongue reached her ankles and then he would cross her ankles and fold her legs Indian-style onto her breasts and chest. They would fuck in this position. He would then would uncross her ankles and place her feet sole to sole. Moving her clasped feet onto her chin, he stretched her out into a butterfly-stretch and fucked again. Other times, he would lower her feet, still pressed sole-to-sole, down onto her chest. Her knees would drop down onto the bed beside her as she opened herself up to him. The tops of her toes would touch the bottom of her chin. She wiggled her toes at him. These toes would become the first step in the long road to foot fetishism for the poor bastard.
At first, she found it peculiar, like she did him, but then she saw that she was being folded down into herself, her own body giving way before her own body as it/she/her body did for everything else in her life. She grew to enjoy his weight bearing down on her; her legs folded on her chest, compressing herself further into herself. For how substantial a person she was, they both laughed at how tiny and compact she could get. Sometimes she felt so tiny that she could just pop out of existence, like a spent black hole.
Eventually with practice, he would take her arms and cross them in front of her chest, and pull her forearms past her chest to her other side so that her upper arms would lay, one on top of the other, down and across her upper chest and neck. Her shoulders gave no signs of strain. With her legs criss-crossed Indian style and her arms similarity arranged, she looked like some pre-Columbian Olmec goddess of contortion. Her legs and arms encircled her. She was more flexible in more places than she had realized. At times, she was just a squished, round ball of flushed and pink-faded flesh with fuckholes that were her only contact with him, or the outside world. Why this excited him? They never discussed. Why she let him; also not discussed. Because she was so tightly wrapped by her own body, when she came, she found she could not move an inch to avoid or blunt the full force of her cataclysmic orgasms. She learned that she was much better at sex than anyone had led her to believe, that like her words she used well, she could use her body to do things no other women’s body, she knew of, would or could.
A few months before the end, he would fold her for one of their last times. He asked her to close her eyes. He pulled out a piece of black fabric, placed it over her eyes and tied it behind her head. He did not know or understand why the sexual tension was so heightened, when he blindfolded her. At that time, he thought the black blindfold intensified her paleness, making her skin luminescent underneath the black fabric. He told himself he liked the contrast. Only later would he learn that there were other things he would have liked to have tied, but he didn’t get the chance.
Blindfolded, her lips parted and closed several times, and then remained apart as if she could sense what he was doing better with her mouth open. She was folded. Her legs were crossed at the ankles which rested on her breasts. With her toes near her ears, she flicked her right earlobe with her left big toe, her left earlobe with her right big toe, knowing anything involving her feet fetishized his penis harder. He proceeded to kiss her toes, one by one…on the right…on the left, and then her ankles and worked his way down to her calves and her thighs, all the time holding her legs against her chest. His mouth would cross from thigh to thigh, kissing them each, as if climbing down a ladder. When he reached the top of her thighs, she would start to compress his head to lock him in place, but he pushed on until he divided her labia, found her pearl and then held it between his lips. His tongue then circled her clit, and then dove down into her salty, wet walls, his tongue sinking as deep and as long as his breath held. She would shake as his tongue pushed inward, until she grabbed his head to lift him up while she grabbed his shaft and guided him into her sopping hot cunt. He would ride her. Her legs now would go up in the air and then fall back down towards her shoulder, as she grabbed his neck with her two hands and pumped him into her.
His final vision of her is that the front of her legs are flushed against the bed. The bottoms of her feet are against the headboard; her toes grip the bottom edge. As they fuck, she reaches for his shoulders and then wraps her arms around his back and pulls herself up. She pulls her head, her own shoulders and part of her torso up between and past her legs, as if she has wrapped her upper body around her hips 270 degrees. He sees the absolutely bizarre shape she has contorted herself into for him. The sheer wonder of what she is doing with her body immediately makes him cum as hard as he may ever, ever cum and then he falls. Years later he would learn that what she had done was a yoga pose called “Tittibhasana, version B.” In some ways, it would be his holy grail for the rest of his sex life.
Afterwards, he is resting on her as she lays on her back. She is stroking his hair as she holds him with her long legs that have reached up to surround him. This time, she crosses her ankles behind his neck and then grabs her feet to pull them out to the sides of his neck, before pulling her feet down towards her shoulders. Now wrapped around him, she tightens her hold on him. If they had had enough time to figure out that the real trick to fucking with her legs behind head was in her miraculous hips, one suspects that had she fucked him while she was in a human pretzel, they would have been married and would have had many kids. One suspects people would look at their odd pairing and reflect on what made them a couple, never divining the delirious desires late at night that would have held them together. One suspects.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/riuer5/first_inkling_mf_bondage_contortionism