The Views

The buildings, though they didn't seem to be tall enough, blinked for very low and confused-flying aircraft. She'd meant to do it in the car, waiting for the sun to go down, showing herself off to drivers in taller vehicles. He liked her to do that. He wanted men to want her, projected himself into their shoes, out at a restaurant with a peek at her pussy across the room, wanderers in a public park finding them fucking against a tree. It would make his night to be one of them, a lucky stumbler-upon in the middle of a dreary day, suddenly struck by sex, a favor of a glance or a stare. He'd lifted her skirt in the car, but she didn't care for it in the daylight, and forced her book down to her panties.

And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.

The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.

The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."

She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.

"What were you thinking about?" he said.

She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.

"How many men?" he asked.

Nothing.

"How many women?"

His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.

"Were you in diapers?"

She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.

"You were in diapers!"

"What? No!"

"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."

"Please just touch me."

"Not until you tell me."

"I was on a table...."

He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"

"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.

"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"

"Yes."

He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.

"And what was I doing?"

"You were watching."

He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.

She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."

"Plugged?"

"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."

"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.

"A man was eating it off of me."

He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.

"And I was watching."

"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."

"He what?"

Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.

"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."

He laughed.

"Shut up!"

"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."

The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.

His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.

"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.