Mitchell's Story Pt 17 Deep Screen

We were with friends in the apartment above ours. Several people were there. We'd gone on invitation from someone passing on the stairs earlier, spur of the moment.

"Sure. Come on up. It's only a small gathering, but sure you're welcome!"

We knew about the party from the music we'd heard downstairs.

The group had begun talking among themselves about something. They weren't looking our way. Mitchell began touching me.

"There's something I want to do... with you," he said.

The friends weren't paying attention to us. They'd gotten carried away by a conversation they'd started with Mitchell about a project he and someone else had suggested. They'd meant it as a joke and as the talk proceeded it turned serious. "Maybe we can really do this," one friend said.

"Maybe we really should," said another. I don't know what the project was, hadn't been listening, only that it was something that would involve the everyone in the group, at least those interested.

The focus of the talk had sharpened, though laughter continued. Somebody had mentioned that they would need a password for participants, just they themselves, to gain entrance and to keep out others. That seemed part of the fun, to make the thing exclusive, theirs only.

"Not a password," another person proposed, "but a codeword like people use to get into a club."

Yes, that's how they saw this, as a club that would keep them in contact with one another. You know how sometimes if a night is fun there's a wish to keep the mood going, preserve and do something with the connection the group had found during their short time together (a magical time?) not lose it when they went they parted ways at the end of the evening? That's what this was, I think. The project, of whatever kind, would give the friends who otherwise might not see each other often or at all in this particular combination, a reason to get in touch regularly by collaborating. The work would be ongoing- and not really work but fun. Like everyone else in the world, the members of that friends' circle were all busy making a living. They agreed emphatically there'd be no pressure to contribute to the project on a regular basis. It would just be there to give time whenever you wanted.

I wondered if the enterprise would succeed. A lot of that kind, sprouted in a moment of high spirits, didn't sustain. Enthusiasm generated when friends were feeling a little drunk on each other's company often fluttered into nonexistence when each individual returned to their own life, away from the group- no matter how exciting they'd been at the inception, how they'd vowed to devote their collective energy to the enterprise. Good intentions don't always yield results. And it seemed the gang was high not only from the bonds of fellowship between them but literally, on marijuana. That's what made the whole crazy scheme take flight, seem plausible rather than just a silly idea that wouldn't have attracted notice under ordinary circumstances (without marijuana).

Mitchell and I hadn't smoked it. The "joint" was being passed around when we arrived. There wasn't much left. I don't know whether it was the first or there'd been more. We were offered "tokes" but chose not to take any.

The password or "codeword" I remember they proposed was "Deep. Screen. Orange. Eleven." Someone had suggested that. It had come from the top of his head and prompted a lot of laughter from the others, liking it as much as they found it funny.

Anyway the group were in a loose circle opposite us, turned to each other to talk, entertain ideas about the project that had, for the moment at least, captured everyone's attention. They weren't looking at us.

And Mitchell had become ardent. Did he have a "contact high?" He got physical with me, taking advantage of the privacy given us by the distraction of the others in the room.

That's when he said, "There's something I want to do" and added, "with you." He said it in a near whisper, not because he thought he'd be overheard but to convey feeling through his voice. He sat near, had moved his chair close, facing me with his legs parted as if to surround me, pull us into intimacy, heighten our contact as a couple apart even though at that gathering. I felt the heat of his feeling as if it emanated from his body, his thighs, through the khaki pants, off-white fabric, thin and durable stretched tightly over them, as he leaned forward from the waist.

He touched his mouth and pulled out a hair that was in it and I knew what he meant. He'd done it before and wanted to again.

He said in Japanese so no one would understand (he knows simple sentences): If we go downstairs..?" (shita ni ikeba?)

We did and he would use his mouth. First his finger drew from me wet in a shiny elongated strand like a tight rope walker's line that swings and bows as she walks on it, a tendril from a plant, glowing clear and green. I'm thinking of nature because of the season changing now.

Later he pulled me on top of him where my legs opened and my bottom bounced with him.

I want to tell you! I wanna tell you about nights like that!

Can you kiss, opening your mouth and me, kissing all around, deep and high, make me move, make me spasm? He held his arms under my hips to brace us, serve me to him. Sometimes he put both hands around my pussy to hold it open like a box. He said that it was like a pastry and that he would fill it with cream.

I'd like you to shoot your penis long and smooth in me and free, from on top, my legs up around you, accepting you, wanting you!

Sometimes he puts my legs over his shoulders and we rock so hard, the backs of my thighs stretching with  him, resilient.

Would you turn me to come from behind, hold my waist up while my front lowered, hold  from behind to pump so deep. Would you come like that?

"Better than marijuana," Mitchell said after he kissed me.

What was in that jewel box? A pearl? Would you treasure my clitoris?

Flowers have begun to bud for spring begun a few days ago. A peaceful feeling comes and excitement about you.

"Deep. Screen. Orange. Eleven," I said to Mitchell when we finished.

"What?" he asked, completely not understanding what I meant. It was really as if he'd been high at the party like the others. I didn't want him to feel left out because he'd come home alone with me.

"You can get into their web page with that, if you want to join the project."

"I don't want!" Mitchell said. High but not from the same smoke the others had.