Friday 16 December 2011

David Russell: 'Therapy Rapture' and 'My Dream of Madonna'

Extract from Therapy Rapture

Marina disappeared through a mahogany side door, leaving me agog with expectation. She came out in a flowing, low-cut purple satin dress, split skirts – like I'd seen in some 'Come Dancing' broadcasts. Her stockings were near flesh-colour, on the tantalizing edge of bare legs. Those lovely forms moved alluringly through and behind the splits. Sure enough, true to my intuition, Justify My Love came on, deep and sensual. Her shoulders were available to touch; her lips came close. My mind modulated between that video and our tactile reality, as if they were vying against each other. We swayed each other backwards and forwards; through Maria’s undulating movements, beautifully raising her skirt, her shoulders were available to touch; our lips came close. Her body wings flirted alluringly with the horizontal. Her back zip was giddily tantalising. Our dancing was sinuous, muscular, delicious. She drew out of me ballet steps and movements that I never thought I could do, undreamed of suppleness on my trunk, spine and legs. I felt as if I had satisfied a professional. I must have managed a pirouette. Our bodies orbited each other, into planet, out of asteroid, out of planet, into asteroid, into nova, out of nova . . .

"Well done, honey; you got every bit of me moving. Now we'll go on to Part 2. Undo me at the back." I had had a welling up of fantasy desire to do just that, cumulative too; all those years of Hollywood and video belles I had longed to disrobe, the chaperoned sensual icons . . . and then to have the sluice gate opened by an order from reality . . .

Oh, what I'd dreamed of, brought to life! The dress shimmered down to reveal Marina in an exquisite cream corset, luminous, reflective, flickering in the orange light. Madonna in the flesh! At last I could see her legs in full. I had already kicked off my shoes. She stripped me down to my shorts and singlet. We danced on, writhing, edging into an embrace. I massaged her back, felt her erected breasts under the boned corset. We swayed ourselves breathless. My inner fires were rising, seething.

"Now for the deeper plunge; we'll do a swim together."

We left our clothes in a heap in the ballroom. Marina led me through a long, dark corridor to the pool. It was huge, glass-roofed, warm, exotic, flanked with palm trees. The water was turquoise; it was an encapsulated lagoon. She pointed to the changing room in the far corner. There's a costume for you in there, ok?"

What suspense as we changed! Marina had been really telepathic in her planning. They were 50s-style Jantzen trunks. I got a wonderful thrill as I pulled them on in a real flush of hitherto unfulfilled youth. Never before had I felt so sexy in trunks, with someone eyeing me up that I really wanted to; it was almost as if I was going to appear in a male strip show, to show myself to all the most beautiful women in the world, who would sigh in ecstasy at the sight of my body. And Marina felt like all those beautiful women rolled into one.

We both tiptoed out of our cubicles, and came to the pool's edge. Now was the other side of the coin: I had been pretty turned on by the corset, but now Marina was in a clingy purple swimsuit with white stripes top and bottom. My bathing icon was before me, the sight of her glorified by the tinting of subdued light, Ursula Andress and Esther Williams rolled into one. Had there ever, in my whole life, been a plunge like this?

I got into the water first, and drew Marina down by the shoulders to join me; such beautiful shoulders too, just muscular enough. We splashed about a bit at first, then raced together, on and on, until I lost count of lengths and laps. All this unaccustomed exertion was releasing ever more energy. We did lots of different strokes, but my favourite was to see Marina doing the backstroke, her lovely breasts and thighs thrusting up through the water. My reverie alternated between the pool and a bed. We felt so youthful, so healthy, so supple, so strong. The heady power of this exercise was turning us into two supermodels. We submerged, embraced under water. Our self-made maelstrom was tightening our clinch. This was a breathtaking build-up – the flow, the ripples from outside building up the flow, the ripples from within. The Swim Fan sequence surged through my brain. I loved the first stirring of erection in my trunks, and sensed her fires were rising with mine. We were within an ace of doing it there and then, but Marina held me firm.

"We've got to go one step further on our path to make things complete.”

She took my hand and led me on. We approached a shower cubicle. She grabbed me by the waist and pulled me in. “Next item in the unwinding sequence,” she whispered.

It was so delicious; the steamy water pouring down, that tight embrace in front of the mirror, us still in costumes, the slow peeling down, the clinch, the foaming soaping, the gell, the abandoned thrusting in quasi-tropical heat, the total cleaning, the thrust together of all body parts, the rubbing all over with voluminous towels. It was so transporting, we could have been anywhere in our world of travel dreams.

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Extract from My Dream of Madonna

I was tossing and turning, half-dreaming my way into wakefulness. The telephone rang. Before it had finished its third ring, I picked up the receiver.
"Hello honey, you got through."

I sensed the voice with an ethereal shudder. It was hers and no other's. It must have been that chain letter, or that very special message on the Contact Line. "We've got to meet. Midnight at the Imperial Palace. Look your best; be your best."

So it was all going to happen, Madonna would approve me, fulfill me. I was all atremble. I hurriedly shaved, showered and dressed. I looked intellectually smart-casual in dark brown cords? What the hell? Whatever fashion I chose, Madonna was sure to do some really imaginative permutations.

I went down to the vestibule, meaning to call a cab. There, waiting for me, were her bodyguards—tall, coffee-colored, muscular hunks, perfect role-models for my workouts.

"Hi! We've come to collect you. This is your honor and ours."They ushered me into a plush Chevrolet. The engine purred. The upholstery was resilient and pliant, in time, in tune with my quivering anticipation. I was going to be a sex-object for Madonna.

The cathedral's columns tapered into the infinite darkness, like seductive limbs in erotic dress. The bodyguards motioned me to go in, then turned and left. The interior was swathed in a dim red light. I could hear the dulcet, ethereal sounds of a choir. But no singers were to be seen. I looked ahead. I was obviously in the chamber of state, where the emperor made his proclamations. There, in two lines, were twelve beautiful girls, all the same height—about five foot eight. They were wearing white silk robes with pink sashes. They beckoned me to kneel at the altar, and then to stand.

The lights dimmed. Then, from the rear, Madonna entered. She looked exquisite in a purple velvet ball gown, glittering with a handful of jewels flashing all the colors of the rainbow, revealing her shoulders, so wonderfully toned by all that sensual exercise. Her hair was now black and straight, her complexion fresh, without make-up. She stood between the two rows of girls, and then she smiled at me. "You're looking great," shesaid, "I must see more."

She lifted her arms in the air and nodded at the girls. The one on the far left undid her sash, parted her robe, and pushed it back over her shoulders. It fell to the floor to reveal the girl's athletic body, tightly encased in a white girdle and a black bra-top. She came and undid my jacket, then bore it away.

Each girl did the same with one more item of my clothing. Madonna's eyes gradually lit up as my body was revealed to her. At last I stood before her, just wearing black briefs. Madonna was feasting at the sight of my torso and legs. Our faces edged together. Our lips touched and our tongues drew together as we held our breath through a five-minute kiss.

"Wonderful," she whispered. "Could you help me with my preparations now?"

Now I was to undress Madonna! I went up to the altar, put my hands on her slender waist, and looked her straight in the eye. The gown had a zipper at the back. I undid it and eased it down. As it fell to the floor, it captured a moment of eternity.

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Therapy Rapture

4.5/5 Stars

I have been reviewing David Russell’s work the past couple of days, and I must say that I have saved the best for last. Therapy Rapture is one of the most eclectic short stories I have come across. It combines a short story, art, and poetry. Crazy cool, huh?

Our male protagonist has an issue separating fantasy from reality. Throw in a therapist and a fitness trainer, and we have all the hot makings of a sensual read. After reading a few of Russell’s short stories, I see that he has an eye for romance and subtle details. His character lives in the moment, and each movement is filed with emotion and meaning. This builds quite the anticipation for lovemaking. And speaking of lovemaking, David has a soft hand for these types of scenes, preferring to keep the erotic details hidden. I find it refreshing and alluring.

I also really enjoyed how Russell changed up things a little with artwork and poetry. It was an unexpected break from the usual short stories, and one I liked very much. After reviewing Russell’s work over the past couple of days, I’ve come to know his work as truly unique. His writing is very abstract, sophisticated, and sensual, and I highly recommend Therapy Rapture!

My Dream of Madonna &
An Ecstatic Rendezvous

4/5 Stars

David Russell delivers two shorts which focus on dreams and fantasies. His first short is My Dream of Madonna. This title is super brief – only a few pages – and is as it describes – a dream of Madonna. Starting with a phone call from Madonna herself, our male is taken by Madonna’s bodyguards to an extravagant church and then led to a swimming pool where not only does he meet Madonna, but he ravishes her.

Russell did an excellent job recreating a dream state of mind. Dreams are often a series of images, experiences, and desires that collide and form random scenes that elude to our deepest wants. This was certainly the case with this short. Russell excelled in building the anticipation between our male and Madonna. And what I liked even more was when the pair finally made love, there were very few details about the sex. The context clues were prefect and very fitting of this story. It was very different, written in an unique fashion, and I personally liked it.

In An Ecstatic Rendezvous, our nameless male is described as a narcissist from the start with a perfect gym body to match. He is so into himself that he dresses up in 50′s style swimwear and poses in front of a mirror. He even strips his clothing off as he watches himself in the mirror. But eventually he tires of the solo performance and searches for a woman on his level, and meets Sandra.

Our protagonist is serious about role playing. Before meeting up with Sandra, he lets her in on his 50′s era fantasy and even coordinate outfits over the phone, right down to the ironed linen underwear. When they do meet, they role play like it is a real beach party scene from a 50′s movie, complete with a couple’s beauty contest.

Russell was not kidding when he said the protagonist was a narcissist. I found humor in the lengths he makes to play out his fantasy, both alone and with Sandra. Excellently written – this was very much an ecstatic rendezvous, and a short story worth reading!

David Russell

1 comment:

Lily Harlem said...

Great covers, David, and congratulations on great reviews.