Torture

He stared down at his wife lying on her stomach; her body tan from two days of strolling naked on a secluded beach, tan except for the white strand from her thong. It was like a divining rod, pointing to a little bit of heaven. But that little bit of heaven was off limits, most of the time, at least. She had taboos, taboos ingrained in her brain from her mother. Certain parts of the body, her mother declared in broken English, were “ditty.” Of course, as A Japanese woman who had married an alcoholic GI, her mother considered all men “ditty.”

He had cured his wife of most of her hang-ups, but he had to be careful. One wrong move and she wouldn’t be strolling naked on the beach. She’d be strolling in shorts and a tee shirt, if strolling at all. But he had an advantage – he was an interrogator, and he was able to focus in on the little things. Twitches, lip movements, sounds – these all gave away what people were thinking. Some of his colleagues relied on torture. Not he. He knew that torture was futile. No. Take your time. Observe. Watch. Weigh the evidence, and then come to a conclusion.

He kissed the back of her neck. She murmured “I love you” and relaxed a bit, turning her head from one side to the other, nestling it in her pillow. He nipped at her ears, smiling at her giggling. He kissed his way down between her shoulder blades, carefully measuring the increase in her breathing. It could be a good sign or a bad sign. Increased breathing could indicate excitement or fear. Fifty two percent, he concluded. Fifty two percent in his favor.

He moved over and kissed the underside or one arm, and then slid over to kiss the underside of the other. “Mmmm,” she sighed. A good sign. Yes, she was enjoying the attention, but would he be able to overcome the taboo? Too early to tell.

He traced her spine with his tongue, moving up and down, touching the top near her neck and the bottom at the tip of her butt. She wiggled a bit and whispered, “Stop it.” But it was an insincere whisper, a calculated flirt. But, still, it was too early to tell. It was like one of those eight balls, the kind with liquid inside of them, the kind where you asked it a question and it answered, “Anything is possible.”

He kissed the outside of her hips, sucking in the flesh, and then nipping it. She jumped a bit when he moved towards the crevice between her cheeks. Bad sign! Back off! But he saw the beads of sweat forming in the nape of her back. It could be that their tropical paradise room had no air conditioning, or it could be sexual tension. He didn’t know. But he calculated the odds, and increased them to sixty percent. Not enough to overcome the taboo yet, but getting better.

He hovered over her, felling the heat rising from between her legs, the smell of sex assaulting his nose. Another good sign, but, still, not enough to make his decision.

He licked the sweat from her back. She pressed her pelvis into the bed. That could be a good sign or a bad sign. It could be from lustful yearnings or from taboo fears. When she made little circles with her hips, he knew it was the former. He watched, fascinated, his cock aching, as she ground against the sheets. The odds were good now, more than seventy five percent, but he had to be sure, very sure. Taboos were hard to overcome, and he loved her. The last thing he wanted was his own desires to come between them. He needed more evidence.

Many times he had wondered if there was a formal name for the crease that existed between the bottom of a butt and the top of a thigh, that fold of flesh that excited men, and maybe woman, so much. Just a hint sticking out from a bikini bottom or pair of shorts made him crazy. He had his own name – the DMZ. Cross that line at your own risk. You might make it in one piece, or you may be shot down.

He kissed the DMZ on the left side of her body. She gasped, shifted her weight, and whispered, “No!” But when she shifted her weight, her legs opened a little further. So he kissed the other side of the DMZ. She shifted again and whispered “No” again, but again her legs opened further.

The odds were increasing!

He was ready for the final test. He sucked the skin of the DMZ into his mouth and bit down with his teeth.

She moaned, “Oh my God! Don’t!”

He had all the evidence he needed. He crossed the DMZ!

She exploded, lifting her body as his tongue drove into her tight hole, the tangy taste of her innards exciting him. He rolled onto his back. She rolled on top of him, arching her back, closing her eyes, opening her mouth in a silent scream as her hips moved in a blur.

Later, they lay together in silence, only the sound of their breathing punctuating the air of their little cabin in paradise.

“That was torture,” she whispered.

“No,” he laughed. “You know I don’t believe in torture.”