2. The Slip of Memory

Excited by the prospect of having me cowgirling him in a historical place, in the
view of so many strangers, he turned rock hard while I first swept my labia and clit with
his dick. It was one of those rare moments when I can feel the young years returning to
vascularize his masculinity as I touch him, when I get him inside my warm and wet
intimacy. Twenty-five years ago, this was my first hardon view and touch. Now, I know
how to take advantage of everything that he can offer, but the thrill remains the same. I
never managed to get bored by this man of mine. Thrilled? – yes; tired? – many times;
but never lost throughout his monotonies, never worn by a stereotype, possibly because
there’s none to last when you were given to share your life with a crazy man.
With all this rationalizing process going on in my head, I begin to loosen my
thoughts away. I allow more room to the smoldering fire invading my womb, embracing
my belly, enveloping my whole body with invisible flames of pleasure and delight. I
groan and moan and quaver, “Yes, Don, take me gently, press me firmly, let me have you
deep inside me, let me ride you to the sky, my crazy snorty mustang.” I sing my words
higher and higher as I push my pussy harder and harder against his passive posture:
laying on his back, partially swamped by the silky white sheets. He tries to thrust against
my exuberant riding – I can feel his hand grabbing on my hips to push me up, to make
room – but I won’t allow him this liberty. Not now, when my head feels like a shaken
bottle of champagne. Not now, when every particle inside of me giggles and bubbles
telling my brains to blow up in myriads of colorful fireworks. Not now, when I come!
“I’m done, honey.” Think that this is the first hiccup that I can remember after a
prolonged screaming (and trembling) neural orgy of sweat and juices, of sounds and
colors. I open my eyes – or were they open but I had no view before?, can’t tell – to look
at him, to kiss him and thank him for sitting beneath me with his penetrating wand. “Oh
no. Stop, stop!, or I’m going to explode. I can’t bear it anymore.” Had to tell him this
because, with me laying over him, not currently in the firm leadership position of the
mastering cowgirl, he found what he was looking for: room to rhythmically thrust my
pussy.

He won’t listen, he won’t stop. I can’t prevent the hectic access of laughter,
uncontrolled screaming and the tremor of my muscles. The earthquake returns to my
body, this time washing me by the inside, from my head downwards. I beg him to cease
pounding because I can’t control myself any longer. I yell at him that I’m gonna pee.
Instead of listening to my desperation, he does exactly the opposite: impaling my pussy
more rapidly while smacking the cheeks of my bum with one palm as the other presses
me against the unstoppable rhythmic exercise between my legs. So I pee, what else
could I do under such extreme conditions. In the next second I release a roar like any
respectable cougar would perform at the peak of her best day. Then I fall flat on his
hairy chest. Yes, it feels musky.

“Yoo-hoo! Wow! Triple wow! What a splendid performance you gave us, Mrs.
Dawn.”

Is this a joke or something? Asks my reasoning brain, somewhere from a distant
corner of my washed out conscience, trying to gather whatever strengths I may offer.
Still, I’m too exhausted to think right now. Even laying and breathing the full majestic
room inside my lungs, then exhaling it out, and starting over again, even this seems like
a killing endeavor to me. All that I can make of myself is breathing the room, in and out,
in and out. Phew… A hair from his chest. I inhaled it. Cough, cough, how inconvenient.
Now I have no choice than to wake up and address reality. First thing first: let me get
this coarse gray hair out of my mouth. Yuck. Check. Then make eye contact with hubby.
He smiles at me with that mischievous grin.
“Do you still enjoy it?”
“What?” I ask.
“My finger making rounds on your pink rosetta. I love playing with your ass after
you have squirted all your sugary juices over me.” Well, that’s him, always obliging to
return me a bit more pleasure than I gave him. Even if I told him that I can’t stand
anymore.
“Oh, Don. I don’t know what to feel and what not, what to enjoy and what to call a
pain. You knocked me out. I love you so much.” Reaching for his nose, giving him the
eskimo kiss for a starter, I let my teeth slightly bite his lips, to make him open his mouth.
It’s the moment when my hungry tongue delivers her revenge: I fuck him in his mouth,
with this never tiring tongue of mine, not letting him speak, nor breathe, nor moan, nor
turn. I just fuck him back so he sees how it is to get fucked until you lose consciousness.
The only problem I didn’t count is that my mouth fucking revenge only stirs his
other end: that dick that never came! Oh my, oh my. The poor pussy of mine, unable to
take one more touch, falls victim to a second penetrating session. But I can’t stand this
once again! I turn around, grab his dick in my hand and rub it with moderate force. I
prepare myself, arranging my hair out of sight so that I can deep throat his member (not
wishing to have another hair in my mouth today). I wish to blow him short and finish
this immediately. But I freeze…
In front of my face, at less than two meters away, a big and smoky lens stares with
curiosity at me, flanked by two elevated brighter spots and shadowed by a large furry
microphone hanging on a stick above it. Blinded by the lights (surprised, I did the
mistake to stare into them) I take a step back. It was actually a knee in his head.
“Ouch! Hey, pay attention. It hurts!” Says Don from the background.
“Don… What’s going on here? Are they filming us?”
“Seems like you got the picture, my bunny.”
“But didn’t you say that those tourists were walking through a parallel reality? That
we were invisible to them?”
“I did. Do you see any tourist around?”
“I can hardly see anything around. Those burning white lights blinded me.”
“Take care, never look into them. It’s not healthy.”
“I can figure that. Tell me where are we, please?” Reasoning, like panic, instantly
returns to govern my thinking anytime I can sense an unpredictable danger lurking
around.
“We are at Schönbrunn, in the imperial bedroom, dear.”
“And who are the guys behind the camera?”
“Ah, those guys. They belong to a porn studio from Budapest.”
“And what are they doing here, in Vienna?”
“Their job: they film porn movies. Right, guys?” A self-sufficient mutter, followed
by a short chatter in Hungarian, convinces my ears that hubby hacked my dreams, once
again.
“What have you done to me? You crazy man!”
“Me? Nothing. I just laid on my back. What have you done to me? You insatiable
cougar bunny!… Oh, never mind, I’m gonna ask these guys for a copy and then we can
watch together. You at work! The best of you! It was quite amazing. I can tell.”
“Look here, Don, can you make something, with your darn universe-hacking
modules, so that we never cross our reality with this one where you had my most
intimate moments filmed by professional pornographers?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Then do it!”
“Not before you suck my dick. Dry!”
“In front of their camera?”
“Exactly. No worry. You’ll never meet them again.”
Humbled, but also content and probably excited, I proceed. The tragedy is that all
my harping has brought his dick to sleep. Before noticing the camera and the lights, I
hoped for a couple of deep throats and some rushy rubbing to get my problem solved.
Not the case now. His flabby penis demands so much attention, so tender kissing and so
passionate stroking that I don’t know how to gather my energies. All of this in front of
the porn-makers’ camera and of those incredibly nagging lights of theirs. Oh my, all my
pores, every wrinkle on my face, the blemishes will be visible! Well, if I already
presented them the tiny hemorrhoids on my virgin ass, think that they won’t mind about
my wrinkles. On we go with the blow job part of this movie.
Half an hour later. “And please tell them to never cross back into our reality, will
ya?” He accompanies them to the exit, proud as I always knew him while walking in his
Adam suit. With a short hand waving, he frugally agrees with me as he keeps talking to
the director. He looks more interested in obtaining a pen drive (I presume with a copy of
the movie) than to address my fully founded worries, namely that I never EVER want to
meet these guys again or live in their corner of reality because, you know, I would die of
shame if anyone knowing me will see the movie. Guess you can understand, right?
“Here it is, almost twenty gigabytes, it took quite some time to copy it.” He speaks
about this like if it were a hunting trophy. I can’t believe my ears how shameless men
can be. Not just mine, all of them!
“But did you tell them to stay out of our reality?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because they have no idea about OUR reality. They just live in one reality. Never
imagining that there’s another reality, besides theirs. What you’re just doing is diving
back into your nonsense jar of panic and worries.”
“But what if my mom sees me performing in their movie?”
“Is your mom watching porn? Oh wait, does she pay for porn?, because they told me
that the movie is gonna be a hit, only for paying members…”
“You right. But what if one of our acquaintances would stumble into it? What then?”
“Then they won’t recognize us.”
“How’s that?”
“The same way that the custodian didn’t see us; the same way that the tourists which
roamed this room while you started to ride me didn’t see you or what you were at; in the
very same way that any person watching this movie won’t be able to identify the actors
in it with you and me.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Realities are more like a matter of perception than a mere equation of physics. Have
you heard of a lapsus memoriae, or a slip of memory?”
“Yes. I can understand where you take me. Looks like now your universe-hacking
modules are toying with Freudian concepts.”
“Well, bunny,” he arranges the pillows against the wall for a comfy sit down on the
edge of the bed and then calls me to curl with my legs around his own and my ear
pressed against his stomach, covering my back with the sheets while he expects me to
listen carefully at a new lecture. “In the absolute, the universe is fixed, limited and
probabilistic. But our poorly equipped minds compile different perceptions of the
absolute and ultimate reality in different ways. Seldom are those capable to touch the
ceiling with their thinking, to perceive the absolute as it really is. Therefore we were
made to believe that we share some relative realities. The accepted standard, at least
during our times, is given by the commonality and compatibility of the five senses:
sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch. Every individual on the face of this planet can
experience, explain and reproduce the sensations returned by these five senses.
However, a human has access to more than five senses. The problem appears to be that
not all humans will agree on what they perceive, how they interpret and where their
minds are taken when compiling those other senses. According to historical times, to
fashion trends and maybe happenstance, different names were given to the sixth sense
and beyond. The generic paranormal activity is also addressed under terms such as
abnormal, celestial, ghostly, metaphysical, mysterious, mystic, occult, phenomenal,
preternatural, psychic, spectral, transcendental, incomprehensible, unearthly and so on.
In fact, according to my guessing, it’s just us being too primitive to make sense of our…
well… senses.”
“You say that our natural senses are more than five?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay… Then tell me please, what can I do with your saying about those Hungarian
filmmakers?”
“It’s nothing to do about that, honey. You just gotta trust my logic. These people may
watch you riding my dick as much as they wish. Actually they’ll have to do that many
times in the production phase of their movie. They can stare at you sucking my cock all
day long. But if they move their butts out of the studio, if they see you on the street, they
cannot connect your looks from within the movie with your person in the real life.
They’re sort of blind by association. The two images of you can’t match in their brains.
At least they can find some resemblances, like genotype similarities. But that’s all they
can fathom, not being able to identify you as one-and-the-same in the two different
hypostases.”

“You mean that they’ll have an idea about the ‘real me’ resembling to the ‘porn image’
of mine.” Right?
“Yes, and this is irrelevant to them and safe for you.”
“Maybe for you, but not for me. Not yet! Give me an example, a practical one, so I
can better understand what you’re rambling here.”
“Identical twins. Their biological construct is the same. This is why they can sense
exactly the same perceptions even if living on different continents, in totally separate
situations. Extrapolating the example, it is like there were two of yourself. When dealing
with identical twins, people know that they easily may confuse them, taking one for
another. The brain is predisposed to accept a case for confusion, like an a priori
judgment. They may say something like: ‘oh look, how well this shy lady, that crossed
our way on the street, resembles the braud that we filmed at Schönbrunn the other day.’
Having no intent to associate the two images of you, they won’t spend energy on the
matter and will mind their own business.”
“Is it like having a clone?”
“Nah. The fashionable clone talking sounds more like the arrogance of obtuse
researchers. It’s unnatural and prone to instability. Cloning is an engineering trick, or
hack, with short feet.”
“Hum… Somehow like your hacking of the universe.” I can hear the silence of his
breathing. A sign that my question hit some nerve deep inside his logic.
“Yes. You are correct. Short legs hacking, be it the universe or the DNA, these are
stunts.”
“And they can turn dangerous, no?”
“Indeed they can. Nothing is hundred percent safe under the sun.”
“So then, getting back to my worries again… and again: may those pornographers
identify the shy civilian in me as being the naughty cougar actress in their movie?; shall
my mom be able to recognize me if watching that movie?”
“At your first question, the answer is a less likely yes. At your second question, the
answer is a resolute no!”
“Why are you so sure about my mom?, and what are the unlikely odds for those guys
to identify me?” What I love so much at my Don is that he never tries to lie me, knowing
that this is useless because I can sense him when veering away from the truth, or what he
deems to be the truth.
“Your mom, or any other person of interest for you, doesn’t even know that you’ve
played in this porn movie. She’s not even aware of you visiting Schönbrunn today, of
your exhibitionist inclinations and of all this intimate stuff, as you call it. Her brain isn’t
predisposed to associate you with porn, on a general basis. Now consider that, by some
terribly unfortunate accident, she’s given to watch the movie. Go further and consider
that she would be interested in watching it, and not disgusted beforehand – like many
senior ladies might be, especially her – and that she wants to see the details of your face
more than to follow the actions that you perform (see how many unlikely premises we’re
adding to the equation?). At this questionable point, her brain may inform her that
SOMEONE resembling her daughter is a porn actress. Take it from here and tell me
please how many of your relatives have similar features with you. Oh, and there are
women out there resembling you, but not even related to you. Her brain silently
KNOWS about this huge probability pool and, based on this general presumption, she
won’t want to associate the porn star with her daughter. Go even further and consider the
unthinkable unlikeliness that she may WISH to do that. Her brain will still find it
difficult, if not outrageous, to identify and match the two of your hypostases. This is
because she wants to deny identification, not being comfortable with the association
either.”
“This is why you call it a resolute no?”
“Exactly.”
I like his thinking. I like his radiant confidence. He knows how to chase the ghosts
of fear out of my mind. I love him for this and certainly not just for this.
“As about those filmmakers…” He wants to take his thought on, in order to address
my other question with a good and satisfying answer. But I cut him short.
“Fuck them! I don’t care what they remember or not. You offered me an excellent
thrilling and orgasmic, and cuddling!, night and morning. Judging by the clock, it’s
almost noon. I’d like to think that my perception of lunch applies to all of us, in denial or
not. Can you please take me home. I’m hungry.” Without saying a word to me, he slips
out of the bed, gives me his hand to join him and stand up, then grabs my buttocks in
both his hands so I spread my legs around his waist and press my chin against his
shoulder. I hug him firmly to confirm that I’m ready for the trip. Schönbrunn is no more,
or we are no more in there…

* * *