Mars Memoirs Ch. 01

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I couldn’t help but wonder what nurse Lauren Clemens was thinking when she let go of my erection as I lay back in the coffin-like tube. She closed the lid over me, smiled and whispered, “See you in month. Sweet dreams, John.”

Ah, lovely Lauren. Surely I’d dream of her.

I shivered a bit — I was nude and the climate control had not reached the perfect 93 degree temperature — as the gas, smelling faintly of roses, filled my chamber. I breathed deeply, surrendering to the drug, remembering Lauren’s intriguing smile as she’d gently wrapped her fingers around my hard cock, stood it up, and inserted the catheter. Her in and out motions — were they necessary? — had felt a lot like she was sounding me, and had she perhaps given my penis a couple additional brushes as it twitched in her hand?

As I settled in I mused that four weeks was indeed a long time, but the first session had passed quickly. In the staggered schedule dictated by the scientists, each passenger would be awakened after a month to get up and try to reverse whatever bone and muscle loss had occurred, then go back into hibernation.

Our ship, traveling over 12,000 mph in its Hohmann Transfer Orbit, was far too small for all of us sojourners to all be up and about at any one time, so all on board, except the pilots and medical staff, were sleeping our way to the Red Planet. It would take seven cycles of four weeks down, one up to reach the Mars colony, where we’d deplane and begin fulfilling our year-long contracts.

As the first image filled my mind, I marveled at how the gas provoked especially vivid visions, memories from my past. My sexual past. I smiled as the image of Kyla drifted into my mind.


Like every straight guy in the room, I noticed Kyla Bergson the first day of our college biology class. Five-six, sleek, fit and trim, her wide shoulders and shapely hips made her narrow waist appear even thinner. Lustrous sandy hair fell to compact, upturned breasts, and her luscious lips began paper thin at each end and blossomed to a voluptuous pucker. They were habitually cast in an intriguing, ambiguous smile, reflecting the internal conflict between a vivacious, even daring nature, constrained by innate reserve. This juxtaposition created an ineffable allure, but it was her eyes that most compelled attention. Dark amber with luminous gold flecks, they seemed almost too large for her classic, oval face.

Despite my several, gently rebuffed, early overtures, we didn’t get together until the late-spring field trip to the Platte River flats. As the river was five hours from our college, and it was essential to be in the bog just as dawn broke to see all the cute critters, it was an overnight trip, with us students bunking on rollaway beds four to a room at a fleabag that our state U could afford in a small burg on the river.

As I’d been angling for a way to talk to her for months, I leapt at the opportunity provided by the group info-dinner. At the cafeteria-style, pizza-house group repast, I wedged myself into line just behind Kyla, began chatting, and followed her to a table. At first she seemed cool, even aloof, but then my muse seemed to flow and she began smiling, even laughing, at some of my wisecracks as the prof outlined all we’d do tomorrow.

I walked out with her after dinner, continuing our conversation. We talked easily and seemed a natural pairing, perhaps because we were older than the other students. We’d both ignored our academic advisors’ advice — what do they know, anyway? — and delayed taking the science course required to complete the core curriculum. For three years. Thus, we were the only seniors in a class populated by geeky pre-med freshmen and a random collection of second year students who embodied the term “sophomoric” if ever anyone did. I tried to lead Kyla away from the stragglers after dinner, but some of the goo-eyed children seemed insistent on hanging with us. While Kyla didn’t object, I wanted her alone. When I suggested it, she smiled her assent and we went into a bar. When the doorman carded the babies, we found some peace.

And a damned good country band. No, that’s not an oxymoron. While Kyla claimed a table for two in the back, I went to the bar and started a tab. She didn’t question my white lie that they were having a special on Jose Cuervo Especiale Gold shots and Corona bottles. She squeezed the lime into the shot and sipped it like it was V.S.O.P. Courvoisier. I flooded her with questions about herself — a good tactic, as most of us like to talk about ourselves — and it gave me the chance to learn more about her and meld my persona to hers.

While I don’t often dance, I had a slew of lessons as a kid, and when I suggested it and she smiled, I pulled her onto the floor. Kyla had moves and looked quite fine indeed, drawing glances from all the other guys despite the annoyed looks of their partners. I did some of my practiced moves and then just settled into a standard shuffle while Kyla strutted her stuff. She obviously loved dancing, and frequently flashed those captivating brown orbs at me as she illegal bahis undulated enticingly. When I offered a compliment on her dancing, she returned it. I knew it wasn’t true, but was even more charmed.

When we sat sipping tequila between dances — I’d nodded to the barmaid for another round as we went to the floor — Kyla unchained her quirky, winning sense of humor, seductive smile, and weaponized eyes. They flared, those gold flecks flashing, and sucked mine into hers when I slid my stool close. When we began to broach more personal matters I was thrilled. My plan — to woo this fascinating, lovely woman — seemed to have launched propitiously.

As I returned from the bar with a third round of tequilas, I caught those wonderful eyes roaming my body. I hoped that her tongue lightly licking her lower lip indicated that she liked what she saw, a physique toned by running three miles in less than 18 minutes three times a week and punished with heavy dumbbells on the off days. Seeing her check me out made me realize just how captivated, and highly aroused, I was by this beautiful, intelligent, witty, and quite bold young woman. We laughed easily at her clever quips and my bon mots, and I actually felt graceful on the dance floor. We ended up having a great time. And a lot of tequila.

Slow dances were my favorites, and Kyla’s subtle perfume was as enticing as the way she worked her thigh between mine and rubbed against my erection. The last dance of the night — a classic — went on forever, and just a minute into it her scent, her breasts prodding my chest, her rubbing, and the highly sensual aura, had me fighting to control the liquid pooling at the base of my pole, burning, eager for release. As the dance stretched on and on, the fog in the room thickened until only Kyla existed.

When the bar shut down at midnight — we were in the sticks, after all — we just wandered, hand in hand. It was a beautiful, moonlit, cool spring night and we were connecting, definitely not wanting to go to our respective motel rooms. We found ourselves on a secluded bench in a park. My first kiss was tentative — I didn’t want to scare her — but when she responded, it intensified naturally. Then we were seriously making out.

To be clear, I wasn’t being unfaithful. While I’d been reconnecting with Marla, my high school flame, each summer when we both got back in town, we attended different colleges and certainly weren’t exclusive. Kyla wore no telltale ring and wasn’t acting attached. Plus I was high, truly enjoying myself, and Kyla had become more gorgeous and entrancing with each hour. I was truly smitten.

Kyla proved a very good kisser, but what blew my mind was that only two minutes into our osculatory endeavors, when I was still just touching her neck, shoulders, arms and back, plotting a course to her breasts, she reached over and started caressing my cock.

When her fingers closed on it through my shorts, she captured me. Completely. When the tingles got so intense that my wince broke our kiss, she whispered, “Oh, I like your ‘Troublemaker,’ John.” She gave it a nice squeeze as she named it, and it jumped in gratitude. She giggled and kept stroking. My hand landed on her breast, but the fire in my crotch held all my attention. My frustration grew as my gism began to boil.

I’d already called the motel while Kyla had been in the ladies room. Though I was a starving student on a tight budget, I had a credit card and would gladly have sprung for privacy. Alas, no rooms were available, and it was the only lodging in town. While the park bench was secluded, it wasn’t private. I’d already noticed one cop car cruise by. Though I’m not dumb — I did graduate cum laude — I just could not figure out any possible way Kyla and I could be alone. Together. I was wracking my brain as I fondled her breasts and tried to still my seething loins when the matter was decided for us.

Instead of just rolling by the next cruiser stopped. The county Mounty shone his spotlight on us and said it was time to be moving along. If we’d been black, or of the same gender, he might have arrested us, but at least we were young, so were ripe to hassle. He did.

We left.

As we kissed goodnight at her door, Kyla reached down, gave my erection another squeeze and whispered, “I’m sorry this had to end, John. It was a lovely evening. Save it all up for me, will you? We’ll find a way tomorrow,” before slipping in through her door. The coquettish gleam in her lustrous eyes seared into my brain as the door closed before me.

I’d given up all childish things, like falling in love, on my 21st birthday, but when the peeling paint on the old motel, cast in pristine silvery moonlight, struck me as truly beautiful, literally taking my breath away, I knew I was hooked.

I basked in the absolute perfection of everything as I floated back to my room.

Unfortunately, my baby roommates were still up, telling each other lies about their sexual conquests. One leeringly asked how I’d “made out,” and, as they were suspicious, obnoxious nerds, there was no way I illegal bahis siteleri could find surreptitious relief in the bathroom. Plus, Kyla had asked me to save it for her. As I lay under the covers striving to calm my raging libido, it occurred to me that I would probably do anything for her. Anything.

The next day — ah, it was great to be young, able to drink way too much, stay up way too late, and still function early the next morning — after a totally restful three and a half hours of fevered, dripping, erected sleep, I optimistically took a cold shower, put on my clean tee, boxers, and shorts, and skipped out to the bus, where the prof had arranged donuts and coffee. The motel owners seemed to be trying to make the place nice, and I plucked a just-opening bloom of a Stella Doro day lily on my way.

In the humid, pre-dawn haze of the motel parking lot’s streetlights, I spied Kyla from behind, and her behind looked fabulous. All effects of the cold shower were instantly obliterated. As I walked towards her she turned, her eyes twinkled that same gleam, and, as they glanced down, she mouthed, “Troublemaker,” as she sauntered to me.

She said I was sweet as I put the blossom in her hair, and gave me a little peck on the cheek. I’m sure her finger grazing my erection was accidental.

Our class may well have seen an endangered Topeka Shiner that morning, but all I saw was Kyla. It brought to mind some Keats from my English Lit class:

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways she would lean, and sing

A faerie’s song.

The words to Kyla’s titillating tune had the refrain, “Troublemaker,” and I was completely in her thrall. As the sun rose the revelation dawned that just a woman’s eyes can make a penis burgeon and ache. Ooze. Hers did. All morning long. I added a garland of fragrant wild mustard to the Stella Doro in her hair, and she looked every inch Keats’ full beautiful faerie’s child.

We held hands on the bus ride back. A little thing, a trifle, but the delicate, innocent sweetness of it contrasted markedly with the fiery pulsations in my throbbing erection induced by her mere presence, her scent, those eyes, and her affectionate, flirtatious smiles. And mouthed, “Troublemakers,” not to mention the occasional, inadvertent brushes of her fingers.

As we arrived back at the U she leaned close and whispered, “John, can you give a ride to my place? I need to talk to you.” I acceded eagerly. I’d been plotting ways to get her alone, invite her to dinner, a movie, anything. Everything. I felt a pang when she said she needed to talk, but shrugged it off. She directed me west, out of town, and I wondered where she could possibly live in the rural, wooded area into which we were driving.

“John, take that road, to the left.” I turned onto a dirt road, whose meanders ended at a small but stylish log cottage atop a clearing, deep in the woods.

“This is my little hideaway, John. It’s been in my family for years, and is VERY private. No one ever drops in, so we can be alone. Come inside.”

I did my best to keep from skipping. Kyla dropped her suitcase inside the door, led me right into the bedroom and sat me down on the bed. After she settled beside me she lowered the boom.

“I’m truly sorry, John, but I can’t have sex with you. Last night was wonderful, enchanted really, and I was swept away. If there had been any way for us to be together then I’m sure I would have. But I’m already in a relationship, and in the light of day, I just can’t be unfaithful. When we got engaged I promised my fiancé that I wouldn’t fuck anyone else and, though I slipped up a little last night, I have to keep my promise now. I’m sorry.”


The memory is so intensely vivid I relive it in the present tense. Every single time.

I helplessly watch my erotic fantasies of promised sexual bliss melt to dross. See all my nascent, happily-ever-after dreams — the incredible sex, the big wedding, the sex, the three-garage house, the sex, the two kids, the sex, the parties, the sex — all crumble to dust.

I must have looked pathetic, for Kyla makes a purring sound and slides over next to me, whispering, reproving, “Oh John, don’t be so sad. You are very sweet, and I’m sorry that I led you on, teased you — which was a lot of fun, btw — and had you save up all your stuff, but trust me. I promised my fiancé I wouldn’t FUCK anyone else, but…”

With that she takes my chin in hand, turns my downcast head to her and kisses me. My spirits, along with something else, immediately stir. As I begin to respond, to kiss her back with growing ardor, just like the night before Kyla reaches over and captures my penis, again deeming it my “Troublemaker.” As she toys with it, with me, the tsunami of semen that has been repeatedly teased out of my testes begins to gather and boil. The contented sighs and aroused, sweet moans I remember from the night before match my excited breathing and groaning. It seems that, though I may not be able to make Kyla mine forever, canlı bahis siteleri I might get off.

I’m loving the feel of her perfect breast through her thin blouse and sheer bra, but it pales in comparison to her fingers fondling my erection. I’m plotting how to get inside her blouse, her bra, to get Kyla as turned on as I am, when my focus is torn to hands unzipping my shorts. Fingers reach in, find me, and begin giving my cock sweet caresses through my boxers. It is dripping, and she sighs happily as she rubs her thumb over the moist tip.

My unspoken query, “Where can this be going?” is vaporized when Kyla parts my fly and deftly guides my erect penis out, fingers giving it little brushes and teasing, exploratory squeezes. “Ooh, it’s a nice Troublemaker you’ve got, John. Big and thick, just what I like.”

She keeps stroking it, spreading the pre-cum over the tip with one hand while the other slides the skin up and down the shaft. The thought (well, in truth I’m well beyond thinking) strikes me that this could get out-of-hand and I could make a mess on my shirt and shorts.

Kyla doesn’t care. She keeps caressing it and kissing me as she pushes me back on the bed. I’m so fixated on the fire kindling in my cock that I don’t even notice how she sits cross-legged on the bed beside me and adopts the mien of a surgeon about to operate.

I’m plotting how to arrange for us to actually have sex — I have a condom with me, and hope springs eternal — when her left hand grips the top of my shaft and her thumb begins making small circles on the special spot where the stem meets the head. The sensations dissolve my mind and I totally forget everything. Every single thing, except the wonderful, intense fire she is stoking inside me.

Fingers enclosing my balls penetrate my stupor. My scrotum has contracted, pulling them close to my body as it always does when I get close to ejaculating. Kyla has other ideas. As one thumb continues operating on my spot, her other hand begins working my testicles, prizing them away from my crotch and rolling them about. I close my mouth when I realize the loud moaning I’m hearing is me, but am unable to stop my hips from rocking, bucking, instinctive motions of fucking.

As Kyla throws her leg over my belly and sits on my chest, her mellifluous voice becomes salacious, “Oh John, you’re SO hard, and your balls are so big and heavy. It’s time to drain them, don’t you think?” Her giggle has three shards of wicked in it.

I assume her question is rhetorical, which is good, as I’m well beyond the ability to form words. My semen, so often wrung from my testes and prostate, gathers, scalding, and begins to roll up my shaft like a tidal wave. Kyla feels the first contraction and her thumb lashes my spot as her right hand clenches my testicles, pulling and squeezing. When my sac rebels and clamps them tight to my body she thrums her fingers over them and coaxes excitedly, “Yes, John, come! Empty your balls. Give it to me. I want it all!”

Toes curling, back arching, I hear my strangled gasping cries right before all perception is obliterated by the raging burn as my fluid surges to the tip. “One!” Kyla shouts in triumph just as the first rope of steaming gism erupts. Her fingers capture my balls and pull them away from my body again. My ejaculatory system is immediately supercharged, and I cry out, every muscle clenching and spasming as I spew the next geyser of spunk into the air. “Two!”

Each time Kyla feels the next glob pulsate up my shaft, her fingers clamp my balls anew and her cum-covered hand forms a tube and strips down the length of my prick like a succubus’s demonic vagina, forcing it to swell and explode. I keep spewing, over and over, and she keeps counting off. Then, maintaining the exact timing between my ejaculations, she pumps my pole and juices my testes, continuing to milk me long after my cock just burgeons and clenches, obeying her commands, but I have no more semen to eject.

The fiery sensations from her rapacious hand relentlessly wringing my hypersensitive penis become so intense that I can stand no more. As the feelings transform from ecstasy to agony my fevered gasps sound like insane guffaws, delirious laughter at the intense fire that will not stop. My fingers futilely claw at her back, trying to reach her hands and pull them off, but they’re stymied. In a flash I realize that her sitting my chest, just before my first eruption, was a blocking action. Unable to stand the excruciating fire another instant, I surrender, cry uncle. “Kyla! No more! Please! Please stop!” She does, but only after making me suffer through three more searing, stinging, dry ejaculations.

Even through the roar in my ears and my panting I hear her Kyla’s low, celebratory giggling, smug and lubricious, as she sits beside me. She’s drained me. Dominated me. Made me beg for mercy. And loved doing it. As I regain my senses I see her face, flushed with arousal, beaming in triumph, eyes watching me intently. Kyla sweetly brushes my cheek, kisses me and says, “That was wonderful, John, so exciting, so much fun. I counted nine ejaculations. I wanted more, but, well, maybe later. I teased you so much yesterday and today that I know you’ve got more semen inside you. I want it. I want it all. But first, let’s get these wet clothes off of you.”

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