Tara of Vietnam

"Jim? If it pleases you, the next few hours will be my special gift."

"Gift? I don't underst--."

"Shhh," she whispers placing a finger on my lips. "Until mid-night, if you want me, I will be yours."

"You mean?"

She nods.

My stomach twists into a knot. "Is that a good idea?"

"No, probably not," she whispers.

I'm balancing on that delicate edge of caution and wanting. "What's the catch?" I ask.

"No catch. But you must promise to speak nothing and question not."

Want wins. I nod helplessly. Her fingertip drifts down my jaw line.

"Stay here," she whispers. "Watch me?"

Like a provocative nymphet, Tara backs away. Water slowly consumes her. It washes around her bare waist, rising around the silky lavender blouse. A miniature whirlpool surrounds the swell of her breasts. Her eyelids close, as if she's relishing the warmish liquid, feeling it penetrate places it doesn't belong. Her head sinks below the surface leaving a swirling mass of blackish hair. A moment later, her face rises. Then twin, cloth-cloaked mounds emerge, standing high as if in a benevolent tribute to the late afternoon sky. She doesn't seem to care that her dark brown nipples are clearly visible through the soaked fabric.

Me? I'm like a department store manikin, watching frozen, mind locked anticipating the incredible pleasure Tara's offered.

With a splash of a booted foot, she rolls over, sliding effortlessly towards me. A silvery cascade tumbles from her curves as she stands. Glistening, diamond-like drops fly as her head whips back and forth like a soaking-wet puppy. Trickling rivers fall from her hips, sparkling on her jeans' blue-black wetness. Her blouse, now transparent as cellophane, clings to each breast's beckoning, arousing curve. Both stand proud on her chest, resembling seductive fruit. She steps close, coal-dark eyes shimmering. Hardened nipples prick at my chest.

"Do you want me?" she whispers.

"Yes," I whisper back, barely able to breathe and trying to quell the eagerness in my voice.

Like a playful elf, she slips away. Strong legs plow through the water. She hoists herself on a rock. Her legs kick and white-water splashes. Tara's every movement is making my entire body gyrate with erotic sensations. Sliding off the rock, she wades over to me. Her candy-like lips are just an inch away.

"May I kiss you?" I whisper.

She lays her hands on my shoulders. "I'd be very disappointed if you didn't."

First contact is soft -- little more than the faintest brush of lip against lip. A creamy, warm feeling spirals between my legs. Her delicate woman-scent is intoxicating. Second contact is slightly stronger. It's not confident or passionate, just light, as if exploring to see if what she tastes is sweet or bitter. As the kiss deepens, I hold back the natural instinct to be the aggressor. Her approach to lovemaking seems shy, feminine and delicate. Little throat-moans escape as the kiss blooms in intensity. Mutual, teasing touches begin. They're merely light encounters of fingertips on flesh and wet clothes, drifting down, exploring and discovering each other's building arousal. The impulse to touch her more intimately is irrepressible. Sequestered beneath the soaked blouse, her breast feels hard yet yielding in my hand. Pleasure-breath sucks through her teeth. I lift slightly, encouraged by her slight twitches and husky whimpers. Although faint, Tara's soft cooing moans are more arousing than her wet-warm softness under even wetter cloth. The warm water is doing nothing to inhibit the demanding cock throbs inside my jeans. Beneath my palm, her breast grows harder with each thump of her heart, gripping, feeding her surging, pounding passion.

She draws her mouth away. "Do I feel good against you?" she rasps.

"You know you do," I whisper back.

A brush of passion-charged breath kisses my cheek. Her wet tongue-tip grazes my upper lip. Our mouths open in unison and then crush with ravenous, blooming obsession. She sucks gently, drawing my tongue inside. Her taste is sweet as chocolate and as smooth as creamed butter. Gently, but with purpose, her tongue pushes in. She curls it. What a feeling. The tip is just barely stroking the roof of my mouth. My hands drift to the flare of her hips, and then down, feeling the little wavelets washing against the twin mounds hugged so tightly by those drum-tight jeans. Her hand grazes my back. A hot tingle surges up my arms. It encircles my chest muscles then captivates my throbbing cock. My fingertips slide between her legs. Despite being submerged, her pussy-mound feels warm, moving and excitingly alive.

She shudders. "Ummmm, oh yes Jim. Touch me . . . touch me there."

Her thighs clench at each stroke as the inseam probes her. A slight head tilt breaks our mouths apart.

"Don't stop," she whispers exhaling. "Oh please . . . don't stop."

A lip-touch to her nose reassures her all is well. "Tara," I say softly, "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Yes Jim. You're right. Someone might see." Taking my hand, she tugs. "Come."

"Cum? Now that's a real invitation."

"In good time," she says with a tiny giggle.

Together, we slosh forward. I'm afraid to ask why or where, fearful she'll come to her senses and this spell, or gift as she called it, will be broken.

Reaching dry ground, our arms naturally find each other's waists. As we walk, the cloud-soft skin surrounding her middle feels good against my forearm. I feel her fingers slipping inside the back waistband of my jeans. She smiles as I risk putting my fingertips feel the rolling mounds of her incredible ass as muscles undulate in a wildly exotic rhythm.

Gray clouds settle in the treetops turning the jungle dark and drab. Misty, ever-shifting shadows make it as eerie as a bat cave. She pauses at a pile of rusting bits and pieces of war; Huey helicopters, troop trucks, and airplane engines, merely bones belonging in another place . . . another era . . . being systematically digested buy jungle rot. Why is she staring? For a moment, my skin crawls. There's something more going on here. What mysterious sex game is Tara Fon-Dong playing? I turn to her.

"Tara? This graveyard is giving me the cold-creeps. Why did you bring me here?"

"Remember your promise, Jim Becker," she says softly.

"I know. Ask nothing, say nothing."

"Hold me?" she whispers.

For reasons known only to her, tears are welling up in her eyes. Cool dampness of cloth-covered breasts touch my chest . . . then a definite gush of warmth - her warmth. Pointed, pleading nipples press, then slide over my skin. As if lost in a dream, Tara's eyelids drift closed. Trying to decipher her motivation vanishes in a deluge of desire.

"Touch me?" she whispers softly.

Taking the lead, her moist lips tenderly kiss my cheeks, mouth, neck and eyes. Like sparks from a flickering flame, each caress enflames the slow-burning coal that has been creeping through my cock all day. Our mouths fasten. My tongue slides across her smooth teeth. Her tongue nestles beneath mine. It's not still, but moving -- always moving. Between my legs, I feel her knee rise, push, then slide back and forth.

"Ummmm," she moans. With one hand pressed to her back, I draw a fingertip up her jeans' rough center-seam stitching. The warmth of her pussy grinds against my groin as a light gust of wind rustles the trees.

"Rain is coming," she says breaking the hungry kiss only enough to speak.

"If you're worried about getting wet, I'd say you're a bit late," I say nibbling at her upper lip.

She squirms from my arms. Grabbing my hand, she tugs. "Run with me, Jim Becker?" she says playfully. "It's not far."

Hand in hand, we run, laughing like children on a playground.

Our footsteps slow, then crunch on a carpet of twigs and moldy leaves. She pushes aside a curtain of dangling vines. An ancient cement temple appears. A moat of greenish, stagnant water surrounds the two-storied structure. Her hand squeezes mine. We hop over a log. Small splashes echo as our feet plod through the greenish swamp-water. The dark doorway looks like an open mouth ready to consume unwitting intruders.

"You sure this is okay?" I ask. "I feel like a trespasser."

"Of course it's okay. Inside we'll be safe and alone."

As I look at Tara, feel the brush of her hip against mine, an extraordinary mixture of alarm and wonderment surges. By comparison, Tara's a treasure and Janet Cole, the rising Washington lawyer, seems as bland as pabulum. Although a knockout blonde, Janet's forte is treating men like a toddler treats a diaper. If she were here, she'd be bitching about icky mud, ruined shoes and whining because there's no catered lunch or a place to pee. In contrast, Tara is a bundle of surprises. She's wildly sexy and wonderfully carefree. She takes everything as it comes, including outwitting cops. Her steps are sure-footed, booted legs whooshing through calf-deep swamp water as if it's kitchen linoleum.

Ten feet short of the entrance, Tara pauses. Her eyes are still smoky and glazed with arousal. There's an exclamation point in her coal black irises. Although dangerous and forbidden, sex is imminent. She expects it. She wants it. Strategy snaps into place: Once inside, if she wants me to bow, I'll bow. I'll even pull off her boots one by one and kiss their soles if she asks. Then I'll unwrap her incredible body as one unwraps a treasured gift.

A sparkling spray of water flies from her foot toward the doorway. Laughing like a naughty child, she sits, and then reclines with a splash. Legs arc back and forth as if making a snow angel. Rising to her knees, she sits on her heals. Cupped hands pull wave after wave onto her glistening thighs. My toes curl as I watch, mesmerized. She lifts a dripping handful to her chest. An effervescent waterfall cascades over and through the deep valley between her breasts. Eyes closed, as if listening to a silent love song, she sways back and forth creating little jade-toned waves that roll up and around the denim folds that mask --.

"Jim Becker, why do you look so puzzled?" she says looking up.

I smile down at her. "Do I? I don't know why. I'm up to my ankles in slime water watching a gorgeous girl bathe in her clothes."

"This is holy water," she giggles. "I love to get wet in my clothes. I love it when water flows into my boots. And you like watching me, don't you?"

"It's different, I'll say that."

Water tumbles as she stands. It appears that Tara has no inhibitions, no self-imposed restraint governing her as she seeks satisfaction of her needs. Tara steps closer, looking as captivating as a mischievous, playful kitten. "Besides," she whispers, "isn't it perfectly natural for a woman to be wet at a time like this?"

For a second I'm even more bewildered. "Ahh, I get it. Tara, being with you is like being strapped to a sidewinder missile and trying to do high-math."

"You're not mad, are you?"

"No, I'm not mad."

A light warm rain begins to fall.

"Let's go inside," she says coaxing me onward with her hand. "We can get out of these wet clothes before we get cold."

"Somehow I don't think cold is part of this scenario."

The monastery is silent as a stone. It's long since been vandalized of anything of value or religious significance. Outside, the evening downpour gathers strength, drowning out our footsteps and slow expectant breaths.

"Up those stairs," Tara says.

We climb the stone stairway, walk down a gloomy dark corridor into a small room. A match flares then touches a candlewick. Its flame casts flickering shadows on dark walls.

"Would you like to fuck now?" she asks as casually as if asking for a toothpick.

"Where did you learn to talk like that?"

There's a taunting twinkle in her eyes. "Does the word fuck make you blush too?"

I shake my head. "So, do we just get down on the floor and go for it?"

She lowers her chin as if wounded in some mysterious way. Lifting her hand, I kiss a fingertip. "Tara, look at me?"

Her eyes slide up to meet mine.

"Jim Becker doesn't fuck. Jim Becker makes love."

A beckoning smile spreads across her lovely moist lips. "I can handle that."

"So can I." Our whispers were barely discernible over the rain.

Her damp, studded boots slip off her feet. Both fall to the stone floor with two soft clumps. Fingers tug at the blouse's lavender drawstring. It separates. Creamy up-thrust breasts spill into view. Nude and ignited, Tara's curves seem to have grown twice as luscious.

"Take off the rest of your clothes," I whisper.

"Only if you take off yours," she whispers as her delicate fingers pop a waist button. There's a soft sound of her zipper descending. "May I watch you?"

My soggy loafers, socks and half-dry jeans come off with an appropriate amount of clumsiness.

Her gaze sweeps over my nakedness. Eyes freeze. Tara stares as if admiring the Hope Diamond rather than the blue-veined erection she's created. She turns away. Shyness, I imagine. A glowing sphere of moonlight breaks through the rain clouds. Her thumbs hook in her jeans. Moving her hips, she pushes slightly. Satiny mounds appear, then a wide, Y shaped valley. In the moon-glow, Tara's butt-skin shimmers as if painted in phosphorescence.

She turns, bashfully holding her arms over her breasts. It's her way I suppose, of making her surrender seem feminine and believable. Not a strand of hair adorns her gleaming, juice-wet slit. Smiling, she lowers her arms to her sides. Breasts sway slightly as bare feet whisper on stone. Warmth radiates from each awesome curve like an all-encompassing mist.

Breasts rise and fall with each breath, looking like gleaming jewels in the yellowish candlelight. She steps closer. Hardened nipples softly brush at my chest. Her tummy presses and undulates against my cock. Never has the feel of a woman brought on sensations like this. Staring into the depths of her eyes, it's as if Tara is able to remove the pull of gravity, suspending any earthly substance into weightless space. Warm, rosy, yielding lips mushroom the embrace into electric, rocketing sparks. They shoot upward, plunge downward, spinning wildly, clenching my stomach and propelling high-voltage shocks directly into my thundering cock. Whatever law is being broken, the punishment will be well worth the price. Never before have I wanted a woman so badly.

"Jim Becker," she whispers, "let the gift begin."

Words, confusion, curiosity and suspicion give in to aches of pure, unadulterated need. Her bottom lip quivers. As if her lips are ripe strawberries, I nibble. Together our mouths open. Tongues touch, slipping and sliding on mutual wetness. My spine stiffens as her fingers brush my backside. One separates me working its way inside. Out the arched window, rain beats as steadily as the thundering heartbeat that's pounding behind these incredible breasts. Her love-movements are tantalizing, first grazing her nipple-tips to my chest, then crushing them like pancakes, and then lifting away, our eyes and faces emphasizing the shared ecstasy. Leaving my lips, she slips down my torso, her wiggling tongue leaving a trail of saliva every inch of the way.

"The mattress," she whispers breathlessly. "Lay down?"

Good sense suddenly rears up like a roaring lion. "But Tara, what about the communist police? What if someone comes? What if we're caught?"

"What happens here is none of the government's business." Her voice was firm. "It may sound trite, but this is my body and no cop or law can tell me what do with it."

I can argue no more. Fingers surround my cock. Her finger-touch feels softer than fine Asian silk. My cock pulses as her silky tongue wets the entire length from base to tip. Magnificent moments pass, listening to the soft swish of her tongue circling, teasing, and licking. She tilts her head back, licking her lips then swallowing my pre-sex sperm as if it's caviar. Rich red lips close just around my tip. My fingers snag in her long hair as her moving mouth consumes my cock, inch by erotic inch. Moans, gasps and shuddering breaths spew helplessly from my mouth. Slanting her head back, she bends my cock downward. Slowly, she slides it in all the way. Oh-geeze. It's pressing into -- oh man, something's pulling. My eyes slam shut. She's holding it against her esophagus and gently sucking. The miracle embrace lasts not for scant seconds, but for an eternity. Cheeks collapse as she pulls back, keeping her lips squeezed tight, while moving her head in circular motions, slipping me into wildly different corners within her mouth. Fingers, lips and tongue slide my foreskin up and down. Tara grabs a deep breath. In one smooth motion, she takes me into her throat again, swallowing, pulling, then sliding out, strongly sucking on every inch. I swallow hard. Janet's furious face pops in from somewhere in my subconscious sight. It's gone in two hard blinks.

"You are perfect," Tara whispers between licks and nibbles. "Your juices are sweet and melt on my tongue almost faster than I can swallow them."

I'm too consumed to even respond. A tidal wave of conflicting emotions collides with raw sex drive. Janet's oral dexterity centers on gulps, gags and dry-heaves. Swallow? She said she'd rather drink a mouthful of arsenic first. Tara's flair for fellatio is sucking my eyes into the back of my head. The point of her tongue is, oh oh-jeezus, it's circling -- probing. Her fingers squeeze slightly. Rolling waves of liquid pleasure bring on gasps -- it's-it's - she's opening my slit, it's in, it's --. Pleasure-groans bounce from the temple's walls. With a slurping sound, her mouth slips off. She places a single tiny kiss on the glistening tip, and then infinitesimal kisses on each individual rib. Lifting away, she stands and walks over to the arch and gazes out at the moonlit jungle. This incredible woman is dragging me through a keyhole backward. My cock is like a ticking time bomb about to explode. I have to have her . . . now.

"Do I please you, Jim Becker?"

Weak knees will barely support my own weight. "Tara? I need you like the very air I breathe."

"And me you shall have," she says in a whispery voice.

Golden, sweat-soaked nudity clings. My cock presses tightly to her abdomen, reignited with fire, pulsing, growing, and awaiting the fulfillment that awaits a few inches below. Our anxious tongues tangle then melt together. A breast quivers beneath my hand. Its nipple snaps tight as I roll it between my thumb and finger. To the touch, Tara's body feels solid, and yet soft as a feathery pillow. She feels weightless as I lift her from the floor and gently lay her warm, moaning body on the mattress. Pausing a moment, I gaze down at the goddess-like curves that are attacking my senses like a hungry tiger. In one fluid movement she rises. Breasts thrust out, their nipples hard, begging for a kiss and to be made slick and wet. Her mouth and sex-charged eyes show languid anticipation, as if she's living her most cherished fantasy. Rashes of pinkish gooseflesh float across each breast's gentle slope. I lean down. A gentle lick to the sensitive spot where they jut from her chest begets a soft moan. Kisses to the edge of her nub-covered areola spawn puppy-like whimpers. Tara's breasts are gorgeous and amazingly sensitive, similar to a warm charcoal ember. With each lick, each breath, nipple-shafts awaken, milk-buds emerge, rising and glowing with fever-like heat. "Turn over," I whisper.

Using my tongue, I trace the satiny skin on the back of her thigh, then the tender spots where her awesome butt juts from her legs. Muscles quiver, then clench as each tiny feather-like lick skims both lovely mountains. Smooth skin tastes salt-sweet. Concentration focuses on the outer edges of her lovely crevice. She writhes as my kisses lazily drift closer, surrounding her pinkish anus with gentle tongue-twitches. Spreading her crevice slightly, I run my tongue upward, starting just above her anus then laying a long lick along her spine. Tara moans softly - shivering -- savoring the building shroud of deep arousal. Like the tender touch of breeze, I continue exploring the curves, hills and valleys of her back, arms, elbows and shoulders, ending with love-bites to the nape of her neck.