Red and White

Tyler wears a dark blue jacket and tie with blue jeans. He tries not to look my direction, but we’ve made eye contact several times already. What do you do? We can’t pretend we don’t know each other. I gauge how often the other partners talk to each other and try to keep us in line with that. Maybe they’re all fucking. Wouldn’t that be funny? The idea of Don and Patty all legs-in-the-air in the back of their truck would be hilarious. Don with his old-man pompadour all fallen in his face, Patty screaming about her sciatica.

I receive a text message and resist a blush. I look at it with critical eyes, but inside, a few organs are in the wrong place.

It reads:

That dress is pure liquid sex. I can’t keep my eyes off of you. Go behind that shed there and pinch your nipple for me, hard.

I put the phone back in my purse, noticing that my fingers are playing with the material of the dress. Two fingers hold a fold in place and the middle runs across the arch. I go to the side of an aluminum lean-to shed. Tyler moves so he can see me. I dip my hand inside my dress, the lowest cut I ever had, and find my nipple. I slide it between two fingers and pinch hard. Tyler’s face relaxes a little at my wince. The wince was genuine.

I feel like I should talk to someone, be social, look less like the bewitched jello-as-bones that I become so often when Tyler’s around, but my mouth has no conjugation in it, and my eyes can barely see anything but blurry greens and yellows. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed a crowd forming around me and would have stopped leaning on the cake table before the bride had to order me off of it.

While Jo-Jo and T.J. cut the cake, a miniature ambulance with a heart instead of a red cross on the side, I feel Tyler behind me, very close. I can feel his breath steam-cloud the back of my neck and feel like I need to sit down. An actual drip of pussy juice is sensed, making room for itself between the lips and the clit. I wish I could find a way to push it back and forth. When everyone claps, he lets his fingers swish my back.

No one had any idea about Jo-Jo and T.J. The wedding invitations were their first notice. T.J. simply got a job at another company before they could fire him. No one is sure that they would, but the subject’s in enough debate without Tyler and me.

The next one reads:

Did you see the bowl of Jolly Ranchers for the kids? Go get one of the red ones and slip it into your pussy in the bathroom. I like the red ones.

I walk all atremble over to the bowl, take a small handful and stuff them in my purse. I open a green one and suck it into my mouth, thinking of where the next one’s going. I rub it with my tongue. Tyler looks and I let an end peek out between my lips before I suck it back in. Inside, miraculously, there is no line for the bathroom. I close the door and lean my back on it. I raise my dress, pull my panties to the side and push the candy in after a few swipes at my clit. I’ve got to hold out, I think to myself. I’ve got to hold out.

My pussy is soaking with my thoughts, and I’m curious about how quickly hard candy will melt in it. How many licks to get to the center. I swipe a finger around the entrance to my pussy and slide it into my mouth. Salt. Musty. Sugar and the biting sour of the candy. My panties aren’t coming back from this one. With one more quick flick at the clit, my fingers unable to resist, I shut my legs and go out there.

Tyler breaks out of a conversation with the mother and father of the groom and approaches me at the drinks table. He smiles, conversationally, and in that guise, he asks, “Are you wet? Is it going to be melted by the time I can have you?”

I smile as if he’d made a joke about how drunk the fifteen-year-old nieces are. “Yes. I’ll be sticky as cotton candy by the time you get to me.” He turns and takes a sip of his drink as if we’re having a comfortable lull in the conversation. He bounces on his heels a couple of times and buttons his jacket. He points at a family member of T.J.’s who’s about to return to the Gulf behind me and to the right. The man nods at him and Tyler nods back. He says, as he does this, “I’m so hard right now I could break my buckle. It hurts. I need your pussy. I need your tit in my mouth.”

“I need your mouth,” I say, nodding somberly, the brim of my hat covering my dark and slowly blinking eyes in shadow. I’m wondering about his lips, how he can just walk around with those things all day and not even think about them.

“One hour after the dancing starts. That’s it.”

“Half,” I reply, looking at the vibrations of drink in my hand, the tiny tsunamis that ripple across it. I’d be better off with it poured over my head. I watch his thighs walk away and want mine wrapped around them.

Dinner is served, burgers and potato salad on paper plates. I sit down next to my boss, who complains about gas prices or something. I’m not sure. My phone vibrates in my purse and I jump.

It reads:

Number 17, five minutes.

I look up at Tyler, seated next to Mel, his old partner, who drives like a madman, even for an EMT. I shake my head no. I return to nodding at my boss when my phone buzzes again.

Bring your pussy to number 17 in five minutes or I’ll crawl inside your dress right where you’re sitting.

And then:

Or I could just jerk off into the potato salad.

I laugh and put the phone back in my purse before my boss, who’s gotten curious, can read it.

I look at the food, imagining that this might be something to want for some people, that even I have been “hungry” for “food” at one time or another. It ain’t happening right now.

I look up to Tyler. He’s gone.

Jo-Jo and T.J. agreed that the ambulances were good for their limousine service. They are each decorated in matching red and white. The back of the main one has a sign, “Not injured, just married.” Number 17 is parked next to it in the drive. I walk carefully in the gravel, unused to heels, unused to such practical requests at this time of the day. I get to the back of the truck and am taken suddenly, picked up in a fireman’s carry and laid out on the gurney. He throws my hat off, straps me under the top and middle seatbelts, leaving only my legs free to kick, lifts my dress unceremoniously, gets a pair of medical scissors and cuts open my pantyhose and panties, the cold of the metal against my thighs. He looks at my pussy for a moment, rapidly expanding runs appearing in the hose, exposed now and ready for him, but instead leans over my face, holding his mouth just over my own. He doesn’t kiss, but stands up instead, undoes and drops his jeans, straddles my face and holds his cock out over it. He leans forward and guides it in my mouth.

Is there a way, your pussy already swimming in a sea of itself, swollen beyond its own boundaries, your clit giving up and trying the air for friction, that you can get even more so? I didn’t think so. I was wrong. My thighs bash together and rub as hard as they can, my mouth full of Tyler’s cock, slippery and smooth and I suck it so tight and desperate, opening up the back of my throat, but gagging anyway, rolling the bottom of it back and forth on my tongue. He gasps and leans over more, holding the bottom of the jump seat, his stomach tightening above my eyes. His pubes play at my nostrils and I can smell his pre-come, let it hit that juicy center of my brain the way it does.

“I’ve got to stop,” he says, continuing. I’ve, frankly, had enough of this holding-back talk, especially since our jobs depend on no one getting curious and looking for us. I want to come right now, want him to come right now, so that we could get our minds off of this for a few hours. I crunch up and suck him deeper, take longer pulls faster, twist at the tip of him. His thighs begin to tremble and I work it harder, his knees crushing my shoulders. “I don’t care!” he says and shoots down my throat, his fingers squeaking in the naugahyde of the jump seat, stomach slapping my nose.

He holds for a few seconds and finally exhales, pulling out of my mouth, with a string of come pulling and finally snapping back to my lips.

“Dessert,” he says, and wipes his forehead with his arm.

He sees my thighs grinding each other and pulls them apart. He looks at my pussy for a second, says “You’re all pink,” and bends in. His tongue is everywhere, inside, along the lines and the folds and the soft bends, everywhere except my clit. My thighs crush his head and I begin to beg. “Stop teasing,” I say quietly. “I need.”

He lifts his head for a moment and says, “I’m not teasing, I’m eating.”

“Bastard!” I say, meaning it, grinding my head into the gurney, hooking his shoulders with my ankles and pulling. With the slightest swipe at my clit I freeze, two-thirds of the way to coming right away. He goes painfully slowly, though I twist in the belts. He gains speed for a moment and I plead with him, “Don’t stop. Keep going. Right there.” He slows. I kick his back with my heel. He starts again. “Please. Please. Please. Please.” He slows again. I kick harder. He cups his hand and drills four fingers into me holding my clit up with his thumb. He gently, gently like he’s painting details onto it, licks just the tip in flicks. My body grabs him, holds him and my nose fills with cherry Jolly Rancher and bliss. The lights on the ceiling of the ambulance blur into white, the red in the air. I come for ages, grabbing at the sheets and trying not to scream.

Screaming in an ambulance is the quickest way to get surrounded by EMTs.