Finnish Wood (2 page)

I watched hungrily as insistent fingers snaked their way up along parted thighs to find an aching, sopping, wanting pussy at the summit. Fingers of all kinds, some blunt and rough, others tapered and fine, perversely explored a woman's yearning sex. In time, one disassociated hand became dominant over the others and kept its place, brazenly pleasuring the pretty pussy and its gyrating owner. One, then two fingers slid into the receptive woman with ease. The receiver cried out with pleasure and surprise as yet another finger joined the first two. And then another. The oil made it—not only possible but—an undeniable pleasure. Oily, desperate hands of both sexes roamed over the receiving woman, kneading her flesh and trying in vain to pinch her stiffened, slippery nipples as she writhed and moaned, squeezing herself down onto the hand still thrusting its way inside her. In time, the thumb flattened to the palm, and it too disappeared inside her. She sat atop the pile of greasy bodies like a wanton queen on a throne of writhing flesh.

Through the cacophony of lust, I could hear Aisha gulp with astonishment. Her eyes grew wide as she watched the woman—her cunt stretched lewdly to its maximum width, the tender flesh shiny and taut around the hand inside. And still the delirious woman ground herself downward, demanding ever more.

Her bloated, insatiable cunt gobbled at the hand inside her. Oil and syrup making the hand little more than a fat, malleable plug to be subsumed. Her ravenous pussy devoured the hand down to the last knuckle. And then—with one last push—over it. A low, guttural moan rumbled up from the woman as her cunt stretched to its limit over the widest part of the hand. She paused for just a moment, and then slid right over the whole of the greasy intruder, swallowing it down to the wrist. The hand twisted and writhed, gently but insistently, massaging her as crudely and lovingly as possible. Her growls and rumbles of delight were punctuated with involuntary little shrieks and yelps. She rode the slickened hand like an oily, life-size puppet. Strong hands supported her head, as a more delicate, dexterous hand worked its way up from beneath. Slender fingers encircled the wrist deep inside her, then traced the outline of her stretched and bravely bloated cunt, marveling in the soft flesh grown tight in the throes of the orgy. Without even trying, those fingers traced their way up to the apex of the woman's sex. Splayed as she was, the woman bellowed with pleasure as those determined fingers found her distended clit and began to stroke with insistent, gradually quickening circles. Of all the faces contorted with pleasure, one could not determine the owner of the swirling hand. Soft and fast—faster and faster the hand swirled. The regal receiver of all this pleasure continued her wild ride as devotees cradled her body, skillful fingers massaged her clit, and a whole and slippery hand expertly filled and dilated her hungry, happy pussy.

There was no end to the stroking of her clit. And there was no end to her pleasure. In response to their submissive mistress, the stroking fingers reached a constant speed and swirled no faster. But their power was relentless. The woman's body tensed, and relaxed. Tensed. And relaxed. And tensed again. This time she did not relax. The tension began at her knees. It worked up to her thighs. In time, the little muscles of her belly began to twitch and convulse. A flush began at her quaking breasts, and spread to her neck and then her cheeks. She flailed and snatched at the limbs around her. When all at once her hands clamped down tight on whoever and whatever met her grasp. Her little brown body froze, her back arched in apoplexy, her mouth open in a silent scream. For a moment. Then that silent scream became a very audible one. A joyful, shameless, magnificent orgasmic wail as her cunt gobbled and spasmed around the oily fist inside it. Her entire body began to convulse, and her wails made a song of pain and pleasure and orgiastic celebration. Every sensation at once came crashing down around her—the fist inside her still massaging every inch of her spasming pussy. The hands on her body coursing over her, every touch an exquisite agony, and the slowing hand on her clit forcing an explosion of every synapse in her head. Her wails turned to whimpers, and she nearly cried as her body softened. Through heavy eyes she looked about her, able only to attempt a weak and wan smile of thanks. The hand inside her, cautiously now, began its resurgence, and the woman winced as the width of the hand dragged itself carefully from her excited, vulnerable cunt. Finally, the delicate hand that had brought the woman her final pleasure extracted itself completely, before retreating and slithering back into the tangle of oily, amber bodies beneath.

I looked to Aisha again but she was gone. I looked up to find her standing before me in the room. She was smiling sweetly. Already the oil had begun to saturate her clothes, darkening the fabric and sticking it to her. Shaking her head slightly, as though someone had told her a joke she'd already heard, she loosened her heavy, unctuous trousers and let them fall to the ground with a slap. She stretched her arms high over her head as she pulled off her top. Golden oil coursed down her thighs as she removed the little vest, and she stood as naked and brown as those in the room behind her. Oil slickened her breasts and ran down the gullies made by her cleavage and the delta of her sex. Her supple skin gleamed as she raised her hands up, bathing in the oil and the light. She smoothed back her hair, and began to rub the oil into her skin.

I made to enter, but she smiled again and shook her head. As if I'd said something she didn't understand. She walked toward me, hips swaying seductively, her breasts gently bouncing. When we had only the doorway between us, she looked up at me and smiled for just a moment. Then, she reached out quickly and pulled the door to her. The door closed with a definitive thud and I was again alone in the purple room.

I awoke suddenly. Painfully aroused and on the brink of orgasm. My swollen cock chaffed and strained against the prison of my trousers. I looked around nervously, but Aisha slept soundly beside me. I was pleased. Aisha had never shown me any degree of affection more overt than a kiss on the cheek. So I would have been mortified if she'd caught me dreaming about her so pruriently. The press core chatted quietly behind us, while the other passengers seemed to tend to their own affairs. As my heartbeat slowed and my erection subsided, I smiled at Aisha and hoped she was having the same dream.

There is something of both Paris and Venice within Helsinki. The pride that it takes in being a thriving harbour town, and the way that pride is sewn into its very fibre, gives Helsinki its similarity to the Adriatic city. And the Fins, like the Venetians, are on the whole a happy, healthy and good-spirited people.

The similarities to Paris come with the high, elegant architecture and the café culture that thrives throughout the summer. It is a pleasure to be here at this time of year, as the last time I was in Helsinki the temperature was –15°C. Snow covered everything and the snow banks could blow to twice my height. I distinctly remember one rowdy evening, fuelled by brandy, Karhu beer, and unruly companions; we took to skiing down the steps of the Senaatintori. The event became more riotous and more calamitous until the
poliisi
were finally forced to ask us to move on—for our own safety and the safety of everyone around us.

But on this visit the days were gloriously bright and warm, affording us the opportunity to stop often and take a refreshing beverage al fresco by the harbour. In subsequent days, a very happy Aisha and I wondered about the town, shopping in the Kauppatori (the main market) and the Stockman shopping centre, before wandering into the iconic clothing store Pukupuku.

Aisha can herself be quite a dichotomous soul. In the time that I had known her, her style had always been boyish and functional. She had always been stylish, and there is no denying that she is a very pretty girl. But her sense of style had always seemed, for lack of a better description, unconcerned. However, as soon as we arrived at Pukupuku, she bounded through the sliding doors and was at once at home amongst the playful floral prints. She traipsed around the shop, trying on hats and holding colourful dresses against her while twirling in the mirror. The bright colours seemed made for her smooth, brown skin; and the pale, Nordic shop girls watched her enviously out of the corners of their eyes.

“I want to try this on!” she exclaimed, darting to the changing room clutching a pretty white summer dress printed with red and black poppies.

I was reminded of my dream as I followed her to the changing area. I waited outside, as she entered the cubicle and pulled the loudly printed curtain closed behind her. The curtain was hardly an impervious barrier, and the soft material left tantalising gaps at either side. Furthermore, the curtain extended only two-thirds of the way to the floor, while the walls of the cubicle were lined with mirrors. I was wracked with both guilt and an intense voyeuristic pleasure when I realised that I could, for the most part, still see Aisha although she could not see me.

She stepped out her shoes, and I watched her baggy trousers collect in a heap as she wiggled out of them. She bent over to collect them and her apple-shaped bottom reflected in the mirror. I wondered if she'd mind if she knew I could see her. With two hands, she pulled the hem of her fitted top up and over her head, turning the garment inside out as she did so.

Her little brown body was soft and smooth. I felt my breath draw short as my eyes grazed over her curves, visible through the gaps in the curtain and reflected in the mirror. She was casual in her near-nudity as she paused to turn her top the right way out. Despite her functional outer clothes, her undergarments were a delicate set of matching black lingerie. Her sheer, delicately embroidered panties clung and stretched over her buttocks, emphasising and outlining their fullness, and making no effort to hide the deep cleft between them. In the mirror, the delicate delta of black fabric disappeared between her strong, smooth thighs, just above an even smaller triangle of light where her thighs didn't quite meet.

As I watched, my emotions oscillated wildly between diffident guilt and outright desire. I was embarrassed to find my cock thickening as I watched Aisha. The tall, Nordic shop-girls tidied and folded clothes around me and I shifted position, as casually as I was able, so as not to cause offense. The girls did not give any hint that they knew the changing room was visible from the outside. So I hoped that I appeared to them to be nothing more than a shopper waiting for his friend. Rather than the somewhat inappropriately aroused voyeur I was beginning to feel.

Inside the booth, Aisha had still not dressed. She leant over to place her folded clothes on the bench and her round, shapely bottom ballooned pleasingly with the movement. She stood again. The silken cups of her bra gently caressed the underside of her breasts. While the sheer, black chiffon clung snuggly to the rounded spheres straining comfortably against the fine, mesh lace. Her dark nipples, clearly visible beneath the fine fabric, raised barely a nub in the ethereal cloth. The relaxed and dispassionate state of her nipples made a mockery of my own erection, raging within my clothes. And still, the very fact that she, completely without desire, could effortlessly drive me further to it, served only to excite me more.

It felt wickedly rude to watch her like this. If she only looked up at just the right angle, she would catch me watching. But I supposed that angle to be rather awkward for her to find.

The shop-girls continued to work around me. I could feel the swish of their hair, and smell their perfume. Through it all, my maddeningly unrepentant cock expanded unchecked, as it sought to advertise my inappropriate lust.

Aisha raised her hands above her head and, in one motion, slithered into the dress. The hem fell to her mid thigh and she hastily adjusted it before throwing back the curtain and bursting back into the store. Her return was so sudden that I prepared immediately for my embarrassment and her outrage at my tumescent deviance—a tumescence for which she herself was more than culpable. I prepared for her eyes to hone in on what felt like a bulging hillock below my waist. I wished that my shirt was longer and that I could figure out what to do with my hands. But Aisha only grinned at me, delighting in her own appearance, twirling to the mirror and back again, her sumptuous brown thighs appearing and disappearing from beneath the fabric like a dancer's in mid routine.

“Do you like it?” she beamed. “I think it's so cute!”

“Different from your usual style,” I said with forced indifference, whilst inwardly willing myself back to normalcy.

“But, yes, very beautiful,” I concluded.

“See! Sometimes I can look like a girl!”

She had always looked very much like a girl to me. And a very desirable one—both in and out of her clothes. With a great deal of subterfuge, and maximum use of belt, pockets and (what I hoped to be) slight of hand, I made my midsection presentable for the walk to the counter, where we paid for the dress and made our way out.

Aisha's book signing and promotion was a whirlwind of activity. The first short run of her Finnish edition had sold out quickly and there was much discussion, in rapid, clacking Finnish, of how soon and how big the next print run would be. The small, trendy bookshop was overrun with fans clutching their copies of Aisha's book. And she beamed as her new fans told her how much they enjoyed her literature. I felt so proud for her, and everyone did a wonderful job promoting the work and making the book tour the best it could possibly be.

With Aisha's signings, promotions and interviews behind us, we accepted an invitation to her father's hometown of Tampere—a sizeable lake-town in the southwest of the country. As we boarded the clean, quiet train, Helsinki gleamed in the sun beneath a deep blue, cloudless sky. Despite being a relatively small country, it takes several hours to get from Helsinki to Tampere. The train carved through suburbs and the wide, flat countryside; past the neat, sturdy homes—built skillfully for both the warmest summers and the bitterest winters.