Lascaux — Steve Isaak

Science Institute writer Phillip Hart studied the dimly-lit walls of the Shaft of the Animal People.  Hundreds of skinny cave-art figures copulated in sticky-blocky poses.  Some wore animal masks.  Some held crude phallic symbols.

All of this, painted more than 16,000 years ago – threatened by black fungi, caused and fueled by global warming, other climate change effects.  And all I can think about is –

Arrica Erickson, fellow Institute writer, earth-mother curvy, shifted her flashlight in the cave.  They stood close together, in the tiny space.

She turned.  Her nose and mouth, like his, was covered by a thin white face mask; they wore these string-behind-the-ears masks to minimize their temperature effect on the cave paintings, counted among the oldest in prehistorical art.

As she turned, her hand lightly brushed his outer thigh – again.

Phillip’s erection grew.

“Sorry,” Arrica smiled, looking as uncomfortable as he felt.  Sweat beaded her forehead.

Phillip smiled back.  “Can’t be helped.”

Arrica said something else.  Phillip, embarrassed, didn’t hear what she said.

Excited by a painted figure near him, she darted forward to look at it; her hand brushed his erection.

Arrica gave him an odd look.

“Sorry – again,” she flushed.  “We should talk about this elsewhere.  We’ve been in here for a while. . .”

She exited the cave.

Phillip, burning and wondering, followed.

#   #   #

A few minutes later, masks taken off, they had exited the massive Lascaux cave complex, with its two thousand-plus Upper Paleolithic illustrations of animals, human figures and abstract symbols – theorized to be star charts.

Phillip’s thoughts were still tumultuous, though his erection had subsided.  Arrica, walking ahead of him, hadn’t said anything. 

His lowered gaze rested on her buttocks, lean and tightly represented by her khaki shorts, and, below that, her smooth, tanned legs.

Phillip’s penis took notice, as well.

In order to avoid a full-on pup tent, he turned his attention to Arrica’s tan, Caucasian face; her expression, fringed by short brown hair, was neutral – she appeared to be deep in thought.

Have I offended her?  We’ve been travel and writing partners for more than a year now, and her marriage to Simon seems happy – she rarely says anything about her husband, mostly talks about our work, her favorite pubs and books, that sort of thing–

“Woh!”  Phillip gasped, grabbing a nearby trail post, as he almost slid on loose pebbles that covered the steep slope.   

Arrica turned to look at him, concern flashing across her face.  When she saw that he’d regained footing and stable pacing – along with his renewed flush of embarrassment – she smiled at him, and turned away, her pretty face resuming its neutral expression.

The rock-bare slope that he’d almost slipped on overlooked the commune – village – of Montignac, the Vézère River, and Montignac’s beautiful old bridge, from which the locals lit holiday fireworks.  The view was an impressive sight, still amazingly rustic, considering that almost three thousand people lived there.

Their camp lay straight ahead, on a relatively flat, wider portion of the mountain’s slope. 

Arrica sat down on one of the big rocks that circled their fire pit.

She indicated the rock closest to her, a foot away, and waited for him to sit down.  When he sat, she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped.

Her light brown eyes pinned him, made his heart stutter for a second before it resumed its normal, steady beat. 

“Simon and I have an open marriage,” she said.  “We’re not swingers, we’re just realists, as we both travel for work, separately, a lot of the time.  I’m sure you know what I mean, Phillip.  You’ve been doing this as long I have.”

Phillip nodded.  In his early thirties, like Arrica, he’d lost a few lovers because they couldn’t deal with the fact that he traveled for work, sometimes for weeks or months at a time.

He hadn’t cheated on any of his women, between his monogamous nature, intense work ethic and average looks, but it was, especially in 2008, easy for people to stray, or believe that one’s lover was straying: so much distrust and miscommunication, exacerbated by distance, cynicism and sexualized multimedia influence.

Arrica ducked her head for a second, swallowed.  “If we do this, this cannot become a ‘relationship’ – we’re simply two people, friends, enjoying each other’s company.  More or less what we’ve been doing for the past year, only more intimate, with no ownership of each other.  Agreed?”

Phillip said, “Though I’m unattached, I believe in monogamy – for myself, at least.  Wouldn’t I be a hypocrite, a second-hand cheater, sleeping with a married woman, even one with an open marriage?”  He paused, met her beautiful brown eyes, and felt his cheeks grow hot, in spite of the slightly chilly, cloud-dimmed afternoon.

Arrica’s smile was affectionate, wistful.  She snorted lightly as she rested a warm hand on his clasped hands.  “It’s not cheating if Simon and I have agreed to also see other people. . . right?”

Her touch tingled, almost made him start at her surprise contact.  “You have a point,” he acknowledged, her tingle spreading to his balls and mild-swell penis. 

“Can you accept the fact that I may have other lovers – though, to be blunt, I’m picky about my hay-mates?”

Phillip thought for a few seconds, and nodded.  He could for now.

“Come on,” she joked nervously, “We may even enjoy it!”

Their tents lay a few feet away from their firepit and fold-out work/cook table, its breeze fluttered tarp weighed down by medium-sized stones.

They reached their separate, spacious tents.  Hers was orange; his, a light blue.

She answered two of the questions in his hazel eyes.  “We’ll use your tent, if that’s okay with you, after I get condoms from mine.”

#   #   #

Once inside his tent, they fell on each other, kissing each other hard on the lips, face and neck.  To Phillip, she tasted like coffee, toothpaste and chapstick, with a hint of coconut sunblock; how he tasted to her, he didn’t know, didn’t care to ask.

When he tried to unbutton her light brown blouse, to free her maternal curve breasts, she pushed his hands down to her belt buckle and shorts, voicelessly urging him to undo them.

He happily complied, as she, initially awkward, given his kneeling position, undid his shorts, his erection bulging more obviously when she yanked them down to expose his tight, pre-come stained underwear.

“My, so eager,” she laughed, obvious that she was including herself in her amatoric humor.

By the time she’d rolled the cool sheathe condom down his erection, he’d gotten her shorts off, and was surprised to discover that she wasn’t wearing underwear. 

She laughed again at his face-evident delight, while Phillip took in her soap- and sweat-scented, trimmed brown pubes, which curled minutely around her flushed-for-fucking sex.

Needing no further encouragement, he plunged into her, slick, slip-slide-suction noisy and enthusiastic. 

Their carnality hit his nose in full force, her lightly musky, soapy aroma mixing with his taint-vinegary and sharp-come stink. 

Her expression during most of his had been, by turns, one of softness, rapture and animal wantonness.  “Been, ooh, wanting, ooh, this, ho-ooooh, for –“

She came, verbally ecstatically, seconds after he did, and pulled him, sweaty as herself, to kiss him long and hard, his softening erection slipping out of her.

He fell away from her to her side, panting lightly, atop the layered blankets and sleeping bag that cushioned them for the unforgiving ground and rocks.

After a moment, she carefully slid his condom off his shrinking penis.  She unzipped his tent, flung the condom outside, away from their camp.

“I’ll get it later,” she smiled at him, refulgent as she rezipped the tent, her gaze softer, more adoring than he’d ever seen it. 

His return smile became another look of awe – he still couldn’t believe this was happening – when she unbuttoned her blouse and unsnapped her bra, revealing her tan-lined, chill-nippular breasts.  Crawling forward, on her hands and knees, in timeless, classic pose, she leaned down and kissed his sticky half-erection, and said, “Now I want to do it again – with my first man since Simon.”

____________________

More of Steve Isaak’s sexy stories can be found here.

Steve Isaak, also published under the name Nikki Isaak, lives in California.  He is the author of the anthologies  “Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems” and “Behind the wheel: selected poems”. (available at Lulu.com).   He is also the author/editor of  www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com and the multi-author www.microstoryaweek.blogspot.com.

Lascaux -- Steve Isaak, 3.0 out of 5 based on 3 ratings