No War

by Marguerite

I crouch in the bushes, adjusting my long range camera lens for the tenth time in as many minutes. My fifty-five year old bones ache from maintaining the same position for so long. I am too old to spy, too old to take secret photos, too old to care about hippies with political statements.

"Go to Byron Bay and find an interesting angle on this antiwar protest," the editor from my magazine in Sydney had told me. Interesting meant perverted. Nudity, scandal and innuendo are the staple features of the inglorious publication which employs me as its only in-house journalist. Seven hundred women stripping for peace would surely titillate those with more concern for masturbatory material than global warfare.

The women meander around an open field; comfortable, strong, glorious in their nakedness. They hug old friends and new acquaintances as they wander. Their breasts, their mounds, caress and press in unashamed, unabashed greeting of the sisterhood. Old and young, tall and petite, fleshy and slender, they wallow in the gleaming sunlight of their womanly attributes. My camera is an enemy. It cannot capture the ethereal poignancy of the event. It can only capture an erect nipple, a shaved cunny, a shapely ass. I can only objectify the bits of these women that my readers want to see; dismissing the joy of embracing arms, smiling lips, feet at one with the earth.

The official photographer, ironically a man, has stripped and is talking to the women in charge of the project. They gesticulate earnestly as they plan their moment of action. He seems to be quite young, certainly younger than me. I find myself envying him for his youth, his brashness, his fortune at having a legitimate reason to wander through this throng of unclothed women.

For my age, I am not unattractive, but I have the start of a paunch and tiny wisps of grey, wiry chest hair that curl at the neckline of my shirt. The kinds of women who once bought me drinks at exotic bars in dark corners of the world now look through me. I have to work hard for female companionship now. No wife. No children. No one to say that they love me despite the paunch or the grey hairs or the tiny lines at my eyes.

The women start to walk up the side of a hill now, all breasts and thighs and swaying hips as they listen to directions. My camera closes in - a couple kissing on the lips, a girl with pierced cunny lips, an older woman with snake tattoos coiled around her breasts. I click and capture the jigsaw parts that will interest my readers.

Suddenly, it seems as though my lens has blurred, then I realise that it is my eyes. My camera stays on the dazzling waif as she stands aloof, a little away from the mass of other women, as though watching from a distance. She cannot know that I am here, but it seems that she is staring straight at me, smiling at air, her tumbledown, straw hair scattering in the breeze. She is reed-thin. Her face carries a weary innocence.

I scan every inch of her flesh. She has immaculate skin. No mole or freckle or scar to be seen on her perfect, pale body. Her pubic mound is a natural, tangled mass of curls framing small, inviting lips. For the first time in ages, I feel my hardness stir at the sight of a woman. Except, she isn't a woman. She is a mere slip of a girl. An unattainable goddess imp. And, I have work to do.

The women look more serious now as they start to lie in formation on the hillside. I have the perfect opportunity to catch open cunnies and breasts which point to the sky, but I keep my lens on the girl. The women have formed a giant heart shape. They lie shoulder to shoulder, matronly women and models and faded beauties united for the cause. The remaining women, including the girl, have entered the circle and begin to create their message. The girl is one of the last to lie down, her body arching slightly at the top of the letter "R". My camera is incapable of photographing anyone but her. The curve of her neck. The proudly erect nipples. The rounded breasts which do not flatten even as she lies on the ground. The tiny, exposed pelvis which would surely break under the weight of a real man.

The photographer has climbed to the top of the hill. His lens will capture the words "No War" contained within the heart, a collage of bare protest for the world to see. I envy him. I envy the women. I envy every man who has touched, caressed, kissed my straw-haired girl.

I stay trapped behind the bushes, organising my useless rolls of film, watching half-heartedly as the women gradually disperse and drive away, haughty and dignified in their wrath with the world. I had felt like that once. I had been the youngest cadet journalist in Vietnam. Lucky enough not to be drafted. Unlucky enough to see the effects of war on boys the same age as myself. My stories were brusque and honest and full of self-righteous determination that I could make a difference. But, you see one war. Then you see another war. After a while, you just report what you see. Your words can only tell what happened. They can't change the past. They can't control the future. They can only confirm that you were there.

Finally, the field is empty. I stretch and stand awkwardly as my bones protest at the sudden movement. Just as the numbness leaves my legs, I look up to see a vision coming towards me. She is wearing a purple sarong, a beaded bag and the sunlight which flecks and dances through her hair. She steps through the bushes lightly, as though they are invisible and stands silently, knowingly, before me. I look at my long range camera guiltily. She just smiles.

"I knew that someone was here. I could feel your energy."

Her voice is fairy soft.

"I'm sorry. I really am sorry."

"So, you work for Playboy? Penthouse?"

I throw my head back and laugh irreverently at her naivety.

"I wish! I wouldn't have assignments like this if I did."

She looks embarrassed. Ashamed of her ignorance. My heart aches to see how I have shattered the powerful confidence she exuded earlier in the day. I reach out, place my hands on her bare shoulders and pull her towards me.

I move my face forward till our foreheads are touching. She does not flinch.

"You are young and amazing and stunning," I say. "Pay no heed to an old grouch like me."

I intend it as nothing more than a gesture of sincerity and comfort. Yet, there she is, her blue eyes staring unblinkingly into mine, her syrupy breath tickling at my throat. My whole body is on edge with the knowledge that the skin on her shoulders is warm and soft and dewy with light sweat. Up close, she is even younger than I imagined. I will myself to free her from my grasp and let her walk away.

"I have much to learn," she says simply, then her lips barely touch mine for a fraction of a moment. She diverts her eyes, afraid of rejection. She has no idea that there is no such possibility.

I am like a pent-up beast who has suddenly been freed. My claws tear at the flimsy knot which holds up her sarong. I fling it to the ground so that it spreads like a sheet, then swing her down onto it with a mighty force. She is bewildered and her bottom lip trembles but her eyes say, "I am a grown woman. I can do this." The beast in me subsides a little.

I step out of my clothes and lie beside her, gently pulling at the tangles in her hair.

"Dave Hopper. Guaranteed to behave badly in the presence of beautiful women," I say.

"Emerald," she whispers. "Just Emerald."

The afternoon sun is unforgiving. I am acutely aware of the contrast between us. My tanned, hardened, wrinkled skin. Her smooth, porcelain flesh. The ape-like fur that covers my torso. Her barely detectable, fine, blonde hairs. I distance myself from my fingers as they roam across her chest, squeezing and pawing at her pink, rubbery nipples. It feels like I am committing a violation but this does not stop me from moving my mouth over her breasts.

It has been a long time since I have feasted on breasts this tender and sweet. The orbs melt beneath my touch, little goose bumps rising to strain against my tongue. The thin, blue veins around her aureole become more pronounced. They serve to emphasise her vulnerability. I start to bite now, using my lips and teeth to suck sections of those perfect breasts into my mouth until they are left red and raw and ready to bruise. Eventually, she raises her hands to cover them for protection.

I kiss her lips instead with the same bruising, biting fierceness I had applied to her breasts. My hand parts her cunny lips, delighted at the shock of wetness which greets me. She pulls her legs tightly together, but my thumb is already placed on her firm, little clit. In my mind, I desperately want to be gentle, to treat this creature with the respect she deserves. Yet, my lips, my fingers, continue on their rough, bruising rampage in an effort to totally possess her. She gasps and clasps and clutches me but she does not protest. Somehow, despite my lack of finesse, she arches as though she is once again about to form the curve on the letter "R". I cease my assault and simply hold her as shockwave after shockwave ripples through her inexperienced body.

I am nothing more than a throbbing mass of cock by the time she once more lies still. She opens her eyes. They are still trusting. She smiles happily as though there are no dots of blood on her lips from my careless attack. Then, my body is electricity and stars as tentatively, softly, she places her hand on my cock and begins to rub.

I roll onto my back and clamp my hands on my forehead. I focus on the sensations, force my instincts to remain in check. I am thrilled and frustrated like never before. Her movements are hesitant and erratic. One moment, she has a steady rhythm beating through my entire body, carrying me to heaven. The next moment, her grip has softened and I want nothing more than to pin her down, shove my cock into her dripping, tight, contracting cunny and set my own explosive pace.

Just when I can almost bear no more, there is a slather of wetness along the shaft of my cock. I open my eyes to see those damaged, pliable lips kissing and licking my length. I almost explode and I feel my precum leaking from the slit. She kisses and licks with the same unpredictability as she used her hands. It is joy and torment. I want her to take me into her mouth, but I am grateful that she does not, for I could never last. I close my eyes and wonder at how middle age has brought me patience.

When my body finally is tightened to breaking point, I feel my cock being swallowed into a plush, moist, compact grotto. She bounces up and down on my stomach in perfect rhythm. I open my eyes intermittently to see her breasts jiggling prettily, her head thrown back as she cries out a mantra I do not understand. Every cell in my body swells, blood pounds in my head, my heart feels like it could cease beating.

"Emerald. Emerald." I urge myself to say her name, to give her an importance beyond being a fuck, to make up for all the men before me and those after who will not bother to do so.

As I finally explode into the depths of her youthful womb, I have a vision that it is Emerald and I standing on top of the hill taking photographs of the naked women forming the words "No War" within a heart. Even after I am spent, I continue to whisper her name.

"Emerald. Beautiful Emerald," I say. My fingers remain tangled in her hair.

"So what do you do when not taking part in protests?" I ask when my pulse resumes a normal pace.

"I'm a student," she says. "Journalism."

I remember how she had stood apart from the others.

"You were writing a story today weren't you?"

"I was. I'm doing an article for the university newspaper. How did you know?"

She sits and reaches into her bag. The pages on which she has written are scrawled and torn and scrunched with an amateur's determination to produce an unattainable perfection. I try not to grimace as I read.

Today I was privileged enough to meet seven hundred of the most erudite women I have ever known. They treated me like a sister and I felt like an imposter...

"It's terrible. I know."

I didn't think it was dreadful but it lacked the distance a reporter needs to truly make readers believe that the facts are impermeable. On the other hand, there was a conviction, a candour, which had disappeared from my own writing long ago.

"Look, I know I'm a lousy lay, but perhaps you could come home with me, help me improve my writing. I cook better than I screw if it's any help. I really want to raise consciousness about this war. I want to be a good reporter."

I stand and pull her to her feet. I shake her sarong and retie it for her.

"I'll help you write the article," is all I can manage to say.

I can't find the words right now, but later I will tell her that she isn't a lousy lay. Maybe I'll even tell her that if she lets me stay, I might find the energy to see if my words will make a difference, just one more time.


Marguerite is a teacher who likes to explore boundaries in her writing as a release from the conservative texts used in schools. She has been published at Clean Sheets and Literotica. Her story "Smack" will appear in Erotic Travel Tales 2 later this year.

email Marguerite

No War © 2003 by Marguerite






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