Charlotte's Ivory Pleasure

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She took a trip to Cambodia.
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As Charlotte got down off the tour bus she was aware of two things almost at the same moment, that she was feeling strangely sexually excited from the jolting and vibration of the bus, and that the on-site tour guide waiting for them to disembark was the most beautiful man she had seen in a very long time, a trim, even androgynous and slightly sinister Cambodian in his early thirties.

For four days, their Cambodian bus tour, for alumni of McAlester College, had taken them to the famous temple complex at Angkor Wat. Now on the last day of the tour, one of the more obscure temples, she quickly noted, seemed to be visited mostly by middle aged American, Australian and other Western women; it was the Temple of the 1000 Lingas at Kbal Spean, where strewn about the landscape were stone phallic sculptures, some upright and thrusting into the sky and some lying on their sides.

As soon as Charlotte saw these shapes, she remembered a hairbrush in her college days and the intense pleasure she often gave herself from its carven handle. One of the women from another bus, large, leathery, weathered of skin and an Australian by her accent, stepped over the "Forbidden to Entry" rope and sat down on the head of one of the bluntest of these fireplug sized sculptures and spreading her legs, rocked back and forth, wanted her picture taken. The Cambodian guide for Charlotte's bus clearly did not think this was very funny, nor did Charlotte, (for she was not a coarse woman) and she moved on, walking around the fields of sculptures, some mossy and overgrown, some highly polished, musing on them but still thinking of the hairbrush

As she looked at the guide pointing out the history of the site in his heavily accented English to her group of classmates now in their 50s she suddenly remembered a moment ( whose aftermath brought the hairbrush handle into play) in the college lunch room in her Freshman year when carrying a tray in both hands when in front of the whole dining room, she stumbled and fell forward so that her bottom arched out in her favorite blue Indian fabric skirt. This was especially embarrassing as moments before she had been looking at a dark haired senior whom she privately called the Very Bad Boy, and who often appeared in her nighttime fantasies with the hairbrush. To steady her the Very Bad Boy put his arm around her waist and pulled her back upright, but what she felt at that moment, perhaps she even imagined it, was that the front of the Very Bad Boy's jeans up against her bottom in the Indian blue skirt, her legs slightly spread for stability, and her butt up in the air showing a Dark Continent to the world, seemed to bulge in a way that forced her cheeks hard open to the point that cool air seemed to eddy up the backs of her thighs, and she felt as clearly as she could feel anything the front of his pants, his zipper, the fabric of his fly and even the copper rivets of the Levis and the contents of his pockets enter deep between her cheeks as if she somehow was actually parting herself for him and even holding him.

All of this lasted only a second and it was clear no one saw them in this odd pose to be doing anything more than merely correcting a near fall. But Charlotte knew better and eating her lunch quickly, went into a stall in the girls' room to compose herself and unstick what seemed like a lot of bunching fabric deep in the cleft of her bottom and pull her panties—really wet with embarrassed sweat and something more, slightly down and out of the crack of her butt to give herself air. This moment was one of the most sexually charged experiences she had ever had and later that night she used her hairbrush, the hard wooden handle thrusting against herself and clenched between her thighs, to very good effect.

Amid the intense jungle heat, in this riverine spot full of bland tourists in khaki and pastel bird watcher hats, she felt a violent contraction dampening her panties-- as she came mildly but efficiently in a way she had learned to perfect seated in her office chair-- at the thought of that moment so many years before. She even wondered ironically, trying to see if any of this moisture was visible on her Travel Smith pants, if perhaps there was a renta-Very Bad Boy like their Guide to lay his head on her thighs and sniff her scent while he touched her insistently with the slender, delicately tapered fingers of Cambodia.

Her temple tour ended with a last stop in the town of Siem Riep, where dusty palm- and banana -shaded streets of faux antique, silk kimono and crocodile leatherwork dealers beckoned tourists. She thought she had avoided the worst and most garish ones by entering a tasteful shop with a cat lying curled on the floor and paintings by the owner propped against the walls. This shop specialized in reproductions of temple antiquities that could be legally exported from Cambodia. One low table of elephant ivory carvings caught her eye and there she saw among some incense stick holders and back scratchers, a slender cylinder of ivory, like a Modigliani bird on its side, whose Orion's girdle and ebony eye she responded too as if by some instinct, and without a conscious thought she picked it up, looking at the ground in embarrassment and paid the full marked price on the adhesive sticker to the dealer, who regarded her, she felt, with something of a leer as he swiped her Visa card.

In a small plastic tote with the name of the shop, she felt the weight of the object that she knew to be a dildo for man or woman or both, bouncing at the bottom. Charlotte turned back towards her hotel, her one tourist purchase innocuous but filling her with a powerful desire to take it out of the bag in her room and hold it, even press it tentatively against the zipper and fabric seam of her still moist travel pants to see if it would bring back the sensations of the near fall in the high school cafeteria where the Very Bad Boy of long ago merged with the current image of the tour guide in his loose yellow silk shirt pulled down to show his neck and upper chest by the weight of his cell phone in a breast pocket.

In the hotel room Charlotte held the object, its flattened, concentrated heft filling her hand in a very familiar way, but with the added advantage of no hairbrush end. She thought to herself that though she had had many lovers in all sizes and shapes, this ivory had a girth and density she preferred to that of the penis of her first husband, for example. After a thorough wash of the dildo, and removal of its price sticker, double locking the hotel door and seeing that there was a mirror facing the bed, Charlotte lay down on the silk brocade coverlet, thinking as she spread her legs, she looked like a lotus flower in a dappled pond. She pressed the tip of the lingas into the crotch of her definitely damp travel pants and it felt right and good, signaling her to continue; there would be no need to reach for the tiny travel tube of KY jelly she carried to put between her legs when she went to sleep to prevent dryness, and which she had already laid out on the coverlet by her hip. For there was no dryness there now and as she undid the complicated top snap of her pants, pulling the zipper tab all the way down so that her rounded stomach spread the flaps of the fly, laying the ivory dildo on her belly just where the top of her panties held her, she knew that this was an old remembered cool weight, pressing just below the navel. Experimentally and drawing out the gesture to see if she were still responding as she used to, she slipped her hand under the lace band and resting her wrist on the dildo, moved two fingers into her graying pubic hair so as to squeeze the top of the hood while the ivory lay horizontally across her belly and held its position as she eased her legs apart a bit. Her fingers squeezed the lips several times, compressing her clitoris and as she looked at the head of the dildo, its curve which could open all doors, she felt her clitoris swell and partially come beyond the lips and the curled and matted hair on their edges, and she was aware from the sudden marine odor that there was new moisture to join that left by the mild orgasm she had had at the field of 1000 Lingas.

She lowered her pants down just enough so that she could cock her legs a bit and aimed herself at the hotel mirror where she could see the nylon disappearing down into the cleft of her bottom, a bland broad expanse of practical tropical clime fabric, with thighs slightly damp from the hot air of the hotel. Oddly, the waistband and thigh openings had lacey edges and there were two seams in the crotch to secure the thickened liner, now very moist and sticking to her. She picked up the dildo and watching herself carefully, placed the ridge of the tip just under the elastic to grab it in the practiced lift and flip of her college use of the hairbrush and moved it up and down a bit to dampen it.

As with many women, Charlotte was not vaginally orgasmic, at least most of the time, and needed to be well along to be able to feel much, no matter how large the penis or vibrator, inside her. She positioned the head of the dildo to enter herself by moving it down and pushing aside the nylon, but she liked the sensation of having it partially hidden by the panties, having to squeeze her buttocks to part herself to get the tip into the receptive inner lips, where she let it stay for a while, feeling the exact curve and bluntness of the head in anticipation of inserting it a little way further. Leaving the dildo to be held by fabric pressure and friction alone, she undid her blouse and freed her breasts from her brassiere to look at them in the mirror.

Still holding the tip of the dildo by labial pressure at the archway which she imagined as curling up and around the ivory in a sullen and possessive way, she took some KY jelly from her traveling tube and put a translucent dab on each nipple, letting her finger circle it round and round from tip to aureole to white skin as the quickly melting lubricant unbeaded and clung to the curves of her breasts. As she did this, she could feel a familiar bucking motion as if with a butter churn which seemed to pull the dildo up inside her an inch or two and then she contracted the walls to force it out to lie poised to return, held by pressure of thighs and lips. She did this several times, reveling in the power of her vagina to pull in and then expel the head, feeling the ridge draw over the rim of her portal.

A momentary picture of the young guide turning away from the Australian woman as his butter colored shirt with its many pockets tightened to outline his chest and belly, his sweaty thick stranded black hair showing his scalp and his look brushing across her like the face of the Very Bad Boy inhaling her scent came to her, and she pushed in a single swift motion, the ivory up inside her, feeling the rim of the head catch on the rougher patch of her G spot and pass on by, opening convolutions as it went, and as it touched the cervix with a convulsive flush from her uterus downward, she came in a little pool on the silk, her toes arching as her thighs shuddered, thinking she should have done something, a towel perhaps, but too late now. Her right hand now squeezing her lips tight to pinch her clitoris at the hood, the other hand striving to push and keep the ivory deep inside her against her tightening inner thighs, the black ebony eye in the middle of the ivory dildo head looking up her body as in a train tunnel, she lost sight of the mirror as her eyes closed and her head fell back on the pillow, smiling to herself at her own narcissistic pleasure in her body.

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