Angel and Cicely

It's possible that you've noticed that I'm not writing as much. I've got a lot of excuses, but the main one is that I'm pregnant. This site and all of you have been on my mind just as much, if not more. I'm very excited to be pregnant, but some of you will know what all of this stuff does to your head. The details are pretty revolting, and I'll leave them off the keyboard. I've considered taking a break, but in the end, I just don't want to. Please be patient with me, and I'll be back to full speed as soon as I can.

For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.

The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.

When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.

Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.

Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.

Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.

Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.

God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.

Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.

The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.

The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.

"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.

"No."

"Let's go."

Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.

"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."

Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.

Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.

"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.

"Yes," Cicely says.

Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.

In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.

Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.

"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.

Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.

Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.

"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.

The Lily Pin and the Train to Denver

Mrs. Kingston must have been the tallest woman that Mrs. Bee had ever seen. Mrs. Bee never thought about her own height. She had come to a halt at fourteen, when Miss Everly, standing with her heels firmly on the tiles, pronounced no deviation from the previous year. Her mark was carved just a little deeper, and left there, at a mysterious fraction somewhat between 5' and 5' 1". Mrs. Kingston, Mrs. Bee estimated, was at least as tall as Mrs. Bee's husband, but the final judgment would have to come when she could compare them.

"I'm six foot one inch tall," Mrs. Kingston declared, squaring her shoulders against any possible rumor. Mrs. Bee was meant to be affronted by this accusation of curiosity, but she found very quickly that she didn't have it in her.

"Ah," she found herself saying, nodding a little, as her mother might if told a terrible secret. "I'm happy that you eased my mind so quickly. I don't often notice the height of others." Mrs. Kingston smiled after a flirtation with incredulousness, and asked Mrs. Bee if she would join her for coffee in the lounge car.

"How long have you been married?" Mrs. Bee asked, arranging one heel behind the other and accidentally kicking the front one out. Mrs. Kingston, with the opposite problem, rotated her knees outside of the table.

"Two years," Mrs. Kingston said, and took a sip of her coffee. She'd burnt the roof of her mouth each time she had one. She hid this particular scorching behind a small grimace that Mrs. Bee interpreted as marriage criticism.

"Any children?" Mrs. Bee asked, more out of habit than interest.

"No," Mrs. Kingston answered quickly, and bounced her spoon on the edge of the saucer until it settled, hooked onto the lip.

"No luck?" said Mrs. Bee. The word "luck" rose and fell in one syllable, a statement or question, depending on what Mrs. Kingston wanted. Mrs. Bee was good at conversation, often found herself the repository of many secrets and asked the right questions in just the right ways to receive them. She'd lost interest in people's secrets recently, found them all banal and depressing, but her conversation went that way regardless. It was the only way that she knew to talk.

"Not quite," said Mrs. Kingston.

The tee sound at the end of Mrs. Kingston's "quite" hung in the air, moved on the momentum of the rest of the train. Mrs. Bee waited for it to disappear, then saw the two days ahead of her, her husband in one euphemistically named car or another, the landscape, some of interest, most not, chugging past, and Mrs. Bee herself, stirring another cup of coffee, wondering when it would be appropriate to request a brandy instead. She decided, and made her approach.

"How do you mean?" she asked, and looked at Mrs. Kingston's face for the first time. Mrs. Kingston, she found, was a handsome woman, not pretty, but distinguished, high in the cheekbone if dark in the eye. She had a curious, but intriguing, hairpin, in the shape of a lily that seemed to draw a line to her jaw. Mrs. Kingston settled her knees again, this time at a distance from the table so that they might stop banging into it.

"Now, Mrs. Kingston," Mrs. Bee continued, her face now quite young, leaning over the brown of the coffee, "I live in Wisconsin. I live in a large home looking over Lake Michigan. It's airy in the summer, cozy in the winter, and I've more than enough company in my circle of friends to keep me there until death."

Mrs. Kingston smiled and took another sip of the cup of brimstone.

"This is my first and last trip to the west. I'm only on this train for my sister-in-law's wedding and I won't do it again. You live in...."

"Portland."

"And I swear now to never run into you there. You may talk to me now, or never tell anyone anything."

Mrs. Kingston massaged the freshly irritated burn at the roof of her mouth with the flattened edge of her tongue. She looked at Mrs. Bee, her small, thin hands, the choker at her neck. Mrs. Bee's body was much like her own on a smaller scale, as if she were looking at a funhouse mirror. She wanted to tell her this, but didn't.

"I hate coffee," Mrs. Kingston said, and placed the coffee to the right of its saucer. She stared at it again and moved it again, all the way to the window, where pollen from the fresh daisy in the vase would surely fall in it.

"What time is it?" Mrs. Bee asked.

"Time for two brandies," Mrs. Kingston said.

"Excellent girl," said Mrs. Bee.

The brandies came, cornfields and crossings flew past, the daisy shook pollen into Mrs. Kingston's coffee cup and the two women's feet were on the floor, leaning into one another over their snifters. Within twenty miles, Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston were aware of the other's bedroom troubles, Mr. Kingston's lack of experience, Mr. Bee's fast dwindling interest. They made several statements of indignation, resignation and pointed misinformation before they made a pact.

In the name of science and the propagation of the species, the two women had each one an assignment. They stood up, gave each other a kiss on the cheek, a warm one, and set off to change for supper.

Mrs. Bee, on Mrs. Kingston's orders, placed an ordinary fountain pen in her purse, taking care that the cap was screwed on tightly. Under her corset and above her stockings, she went bare for the first time since she was a newborn. Fear gathered in her chest, felling dust bunnies and pulverizing gallstones. She could always back out, but she thought for a moment of how she would feel if Mrs. Kingston did the same, and made a new determination to face her risk.

Mrs. Kingston, on Mrs. Bee's orders, changed her clothes with a large handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. She blamed the brandy for the warmth in the base of her body, a poorly placed piece of track for her wayward knees. Saliva soaked the cloth, as Mrs. Bee had said it would, and her jaw got tired, as Mrs. Bee said it would, but she smiled at herself in the mirror, thought that the blush in her cheeks became her. Mrs. Kingston, like Mrs. Bee, had sworn off underpants for the next three days, as good as a blood oath between them.

The Bees and the Kingstons took supper at different times, Mr. Kingston's man, a friend of his father's man and as green as Mr. Kingston himself, slow to make the reservations. Mrs. Kingston supped early and was glad of it, feeling that she'd lose her nerve if she had to wait long. Mr. Kingston made his best stab at conversation, found himself pouring forth, his wife smiling and blushing at everything he said. He'd never seen her like this, so pretty and attentive, so fascinated with his drudgeries. He fell more in love with her instantly, hoped that he could find the courage to ask her to be with him that night. When they stood, her height, only an inch above his, mattered not at all to him for the first time. He squeezed her hand and took their dessert back to the room, two éclairs and two glasses with a small decanter of port.

The Bees supped lightly, Mrs. Bee suggesting that it was the heavy meals that were keeping her husband up at night. He reacted as she'd hoped, humored her, found her in the mood for attention, and gave it to her dutifully. She could feel the loose material, soft, if you went with the grain, across her mound. It pulled at the hair there and brushed it, lovingly, caressed it straight and let it bounce into curls again. She felt quite exposed there, no sensible covering, the air and all free of obstacles to her intimacy. Her toe snapped off of the floor again at the weight of her crossed ankle and it went to her husband's ankle. She left it there until he blushed, snapping an escargots fork to the linen. She did not relent, as her upbringing, fully in control of her muscles most days, would oblige her to. She rubbed his ankle in the thin sole of her dress slippers until he grew accustomed to it, then hooked his heel, looking for all the world as if she were engrossed in her sorbet, the predessert for cleansing the pallet, and pulled his foot to the inside of her thighs.

In the room, Mr. Kingston's face and neck were red from the port and the way Mrs. Kingston looked in her dress. He imagined her in the corset and wondered that they'd been married three years and he'd never seen it. He mused that he might have the bravery to stumble upon her once, at her vanity in the morning or disrobing at night. He smiled, noting that he'd had the decanter in hand for at least a minute without attempting a pour when Mrs. Kingston's hand curled around his fingers, replaced the stopper inside of it, set it down and knelt before him.

The train changed tracks, a steady rhythm to distract him before his trousers were unbuttoned at the fly and the waist and dropped, a thud here at the final selection of tracks, a whistle, his underclothes dismantled, the train speeding up, the touch of his wife's lips, here in the light, a warm, soft sensation, there in his cock, and the friction of tight silk. His cock stole all of the blood from his body. He watched her, both eyebrows raised, watched his wife engulf him. Then he swallowed, face slack, and gripped the washbasin at his back. The train gently swayed, but he rumbled, and spilt his seed into his wife's throat. He winced that she must be repulsed, but a final sucking kiss on the end of his cock contradicted him. Mrs. Kingston stood up and poured the port with a shaking hand.

As the train switched tracks, Mr. Bee took his ankle back and scowled, half meaning it, at his wife. She let some sorbet drip on the side of her mouth from the spoon and licked it in.

"Mrs. Bee," said Mr. Bee, "are you having some trouble with your liquids tonight?"

"I've an idea of how to manage them, Mr. Bee, but you shall have to lend me a bit of license to do so."

Mr. Bee's head cocked a bit and he opened his mouth to speak for a moment. "You sluttish woman," he mouthed, his after-dinner coffee cup blocking intrusive eyes.

Mrs. Bee looked shocked for a moment, and stirred her sorbet until the frozen parts had melted with the solids.

Mr. Bee mocked leading his wife down the hallway after dinner, his hand on the back of her arm, but she'd gone in another direction from their berth, swinging through car after car until she'd found one locked. At this, she pulled her fountain pen out. Mrs. Kingston had taken note that all of the "locks" on the train were opened by the porters using the backside of fountain pens, and had made this part of her dare. She pushed the fountain pen into the lock and slid the door open, the first luggage car. Mr. Bee waited for the door to shut behind him, tested it for fastness, and lifted his wife's skirts above her waist.

"You are a sluttish little bitch, aren't you, Mrs. Bee?"

He searched the room, a lit match before him, until he found a spare coal shovel, flat and black from soot. He returned to his wife, bent her over a large crate, handed her the box of matches and told her to keep one lit until he was finished. Mrs. Bee lit one. She received a slap on the bottom for her troubles. There were three more, each of more stinging intensity, until the flame came down to her fingers. Her husband waited and blew it out. She lit another. It distracted her from the pain. There was another spank.

"You are a filthy, sluttish woman."

Another spank.

"Your backside is black and filthy now, like you."

Another spank. The second match burned down to her fingers, but her husband did not blow it out. It burned her instead.

"Light another."

She dropped the second, watching the dull red as it fell to the floor, and lit another. Mr. Bee pulled her arm behind her back so her hand, the match in the air, lay over her waist, illuminating her small, smooth body, all filthy like an ill-behaved child. He unbuttoned his trousers, bent his knees, though her legs dangled above the floor, and screwed her, fucked her. He watched this match too go out at her fingertips and watched the red coal fall on her skin. She trembled and clenched his cock inside her. He pumped his seed inside of her, clenched so hard as he was, as the coal on the match went out on her skin, and smelled the smoke.

The women met for luncheon the next day, as they had planned, and shared their stories, watching the satisfying shock and blush rise in the other's face. Though they felt sure that much of what they said couldn't be heard by others above the clacks and clicks of the wheels on the tracks and the crashing of plates, Mrs. Kingston asked a porter for a pencil and stationery so that they might pass it in notes.

"It tasted awfully strange," wrote Mrs. Kingston. "I thought it would be sweet, but there was an odd taste, some bitter chemical."

Mrs. Bee nodded and shrugged. She wrote, "Yes, that's what Mr. Bee tastes of too, but I don't find it off-putting, really."

Mrs. Kingston read this and shrugged as well. She wrote, "What did Mr. Bee call you?"

Mrs. Bee wrote it down and passed it on. Mrs. Kingston hid a laugh behind her hand and clasped Mrs. Bee's hand. The two of them sat and laughed for a few moments, and Mrs. Bee's hand curled up to enclose the other. "I'm glad we've met," she said.

"I'm very pleased myself. I don't normally talk to strange women on trains."

"I'm not strange anymore, am I, Mrs. Kingston?" said Mrs. Bee, warmly.

"No," said Mrs. Kingston, "you're a...." Mrs. Kingston folded the paper and pointed at what Mr. Bee had called her the previous evening.

The two women finished their luncheon, Mrs. Kingston asking that it be put on Mr. Kingston's bill, and they walked arm in arm through the train, silently, and comfortably so, until Mrs. Bee mentioned that this was their last day on the train. Mr. Bee and herself would be alighting in Denver. Mrs. Kingston drew Mrs. Bee's arm in tighter and kissed her on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth. The two women stood for a moment and contemplated this, then Mrs. Bee drew Mrs. Kingston down along the hallway a car more.

"This is our compartment," Mrs. Bee said, and opened the door, "though I daresay Mr. Bee won't be back from his card game for quite some time. Would you care to come in?"

Mrs. Kingston didn't answer, but leaned into Mrs. Bee's mouth again. She kissed swiftly and deeply, catching Mrs. Bee in a wave of heat, before she could find her senses and open her door. Upon its closure, with the two women inside, Mrs. Bee pulled her bunk down and placed Mrs. Kingston at its edge. She sat. Mrs. Bee leaned and Kissed Mrs. Kingston for a few more minutes, affection and sadness within it, and broke it off to speak.

"You have reminded me of spontaneity and fearlessness. I have one more lesson, this one for you to pass to your husband. Lift your skirts for me?"

Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston marveled at her legs revealing themselves, the flesh of them, the curves and the organic intimacy. Mrs. Bee parted Mrs. Kingston's legs, dropped her hand between them and found the place, the secret one.

Mrs. Bee had found this place when her mother's maidservant, under orders to punish her for the slight of showing for supper ten minutes late, had bent her over her knee. She cried as the maidservant paddled her with the back of a mirror and her mother, satisfied with listening to the sounds of the slaps, left the room. The maid pulled her skirts up higher, her underpants down lower, for the girl was seventeen at the time, and rubbed the younger Mrs. Bee with her thumb in the secret place, all the while paddling away at her backside. Mrs. Bee was married and moved out within six months, but she never forgot the secret place, nor the kind maidservant, who would never have spanked her without orders to do so.

Mrs. Bee put her thumb on Mrs. Kingston's secret place and kissed her gently. She found it warm and then wet, and soon enough found Mrs. Kingston's breathing heavy, her mouth distracted. "There," Mrs. Bee said, and pushed some fingers inside as she rubbed. "There now." Mrs. Kingston's face came to rapture, then exhaustion, her body in convulsions before she grew still.

"Teach that to your husband," said Mrs. Bee, "and I will remember you."

Mrs. Kingston took a few moments, unable to form words for crying, laughter and shock. Instead, she stood, removed the jeweled hairpin, the one in the shape of a lily, and put it in the hair of her funhouse mirror self, exactly as it was on her.

"Let your husband find you when her returns tonight, doing what you just did to me," Mrs. Kingston said.

"Mr. Kingston should take you from behind tonight," Mrs. Bee said.

The two women regarded each other, nodded and parted.

Lizzie and Jenny

Note: Holy cow, this was ridden with typos. I think I got them all. Sorry for the cringe factor.

“You guys just want to stay on the boat?” asks Lisa’s old roommate, her hand on the button of the voiceover microphone.

We look to the left, across the shoulder-level floor that revolves with the boats. There’s no line or anything. “Yeah!”

“Then just stay there,” she says, rotating just out of our neck angle.

The completely tweaked out recorded voice plays again and again as we rotate in the moat, rubber squeaking against rubber. The voice reminds us, “Please keep your hands and feet inside the boat at all times. As you enjoy the ride’s sixty foot drop, keep your belongings close to you. Hold onto children, and enjoy the rest of your day at Marriot’s Great America! Please keep your hands and feet inside the boat….”

Jenny’s soaking wet, sitting in front of me, she takes all the big water and I get only what I can’t easily avoid. The seats are like a lengthwise bench with one divider in the middle. They can hold about six kids or something like that, but we’re four adults, Lisa and her boyfriend Ted, all wrapped up into each other on the front side of the divider, and Jenny and me, our boyfriends off to wait in the three-hour line for The Demon. They’re all excited because they get to go upside down, but the fucking ride only lasts around two minutes. We could stay on the water rides all night, us four, and we do.

It’s a warm night, but wet like this, Jenny and I shiver a little, looking over the side of the long up-ramp on the boat. Across the park, rides flit all over, screaming and the whoosh of rails and hard brakes. Jenny keeps trying to get me to look straight down, but I won’t. I don’t know if I’m still scared like I used to be when I was a kid, but I don’t want to check. She’s having such a good time teasing me anyway.

“I’m looking down, I’m looking down, I’m looking downnnn,” she says, leaning just a little too far over the edge.

“Stop!”

I hold her tight to me, but she just laughs and pulls harder. “Oh, look over there! It’s your body! All flat and bloody!”

“Jenny!”

I call for Ted and Lisa, but they’re occupied. Jenny takes this as a more interesting course of overexcitement and leans back onto me. “Do you think they’re doing it?” she asks. “Do you think they’re doing it right now in front of us?”

“Please.”

“I don’t know where Ted’s right hand is, but his left hand is on her booby.”

“Her booby?”

“Yeah, like the one of yours that I’m squishing right now! Do you think they’d throw us out if we smoked up here?”

The boat reaches the top of the hill, makes a small drop for speed and begins winding around the course.

“I don’t think you’d be able to light it,” I answer.

She frowns and takes my arms in her hands. “Touch my boobies, Ted!” she says, imitating Lisa, but taking both my hands to her tits and holding them there. She forcibly kneads my fingers, “Oh, Ted! That feels so gooooood!”

I would remove them, but she won’t change the subject until she has her way. Her nipples are rock hard through the shirt. “Mmmm, Lizzie!”

“Cut it out, Jenny!” The drop is straight ahead. Ted and Lisa, about to go over, don’t come up for air in their kiss. “God, you’re such a lesbo!”

“So what?” she says, and turns around as the boat goes over. Her lips touch mine and she sucks them in and we’re falling, falling straight down the chute. Just before we hit bottom, she takes my hand up her dress, her legs wide open, the water flies in and she’s soaked. After the boat settles, she faces forward again and says “You tell anyone, and I’ll just deny it.”

“You guys want to just stay there?” Lisa’s old roommate says.

“Yeah!” the four of us say, and as we go up the ramp, Jenny turns to me again, kisses me, takes my hands and puts them where she wants.

Poker

I’m dealt a seven and a jack, suited, and call the ten dollar bet that Natalie is so shamelessly bluffing with. “I dunno what his problem is, really. He just gets so political when he’s mad at me,” she says. Samantha folds, but I don’t think she had anything anyway. Drew folds too. “You can see him like looking around the apartment for anything really viable to be mad at me about, because he knows his position is ridiculous, so he turns on the news and starts shouting about the war,” Natalie continues. Anna looks to me and folds, letting me take the fall if I’m wrong. “I don’t want to fuck him when he’s like that. It’s so that he’s the only one who gets to be angry.”

“We’re not allowed to be angry,” I finish for her, waiting for the flop.

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” she says and stands up to lean across the table to deal. A seven, an ace and a five, the five and ace in diamonds, like both my cards. “We get pissed and we’re imagining things, being overdramatic or something, but they get pissed off and they’re being strong men, reacting to some real injustice, right? And we’re just supposed to cry until we feel better.”

“Because we can’t fix an imaginary problem,” Drew says, stirring her vodka-tonic with her pinkie. “So we just get all sad until we realize that there was never anything wrong in the first place.”

“It’s fucking frustrating!” Natalie says. She stares at the cards in front of her for a while and steels herself, throws in another ten dollars. “Why can’t I be a lesbian?”

“Really!” Drew says.

“Yeah, girls are nice!” Samantha says.

“But they don’t have dicks,” Anna says. “And I’m afraid I need dick.”

I put in ten dollars, look at Natalie and decide to raise her. She gets a crestfallen look in the side of her mouth.

“Yeah,” she says, “I think I do too.”

“Anyone ever gone there?” Samantha asks, leaning back in her chair. “Drewwww?”

Natalie puts another ten in the pot and quickly deals the turn. A seven of clubs.

“Well, I made out with that girl in the back of Berlin that one time, remember?” Drew says, scratching an itch on the back of her head.

“Mmmhmm. Anna?” She shakes her head no. Natalie looks up at me and throws in fifteen. Shit. Maybe she’s got sevens. “Isabel?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” I answer, calling Natalie.

“Really?”

“It’s not that weird.”

“I don’t believe you,” Natalie says, genuinely shocked. Her cards begin to shake in her hands. She puts them down.

“Anna, have I fucked a girl?” I ask.

Anna is the authority on all things Isabel since she’s known me since I was ten.

“Yep. You were together for like a year, weren’t you?”

“Nine months.”

“What’s it like!” Samantha asks, slamming the front two legs of her chair down and leaning over the table. Natalie winces, but listens carefully.

“Softer, I guess. Everything is softer. The skin, the hair, the lips.” I catch Natalie looking at my lips. She’s got the remainder of the deck in hand, her long fingers over the top card, but she doesn’t pull it.

“And when you say fucked, you mean….” Sam asks.

I pull my hair behind my ears and put my cards down. “Strapon. Both of us. And of course we licked each other’s pussies and all that.”

“I heard that’s better with a girl,” Drew says, grinning.

I gave a non-committal side to side head motion. “It can be. At least she was more willing than half the guys I’ve been with.” Natalie’s got the card out and holds it face down in the center of the table. She’s breathing deeply, in shock no doubt, but doesn’t say anything.

“Is it easier to go down on a girl than a guy?” Sam asks.

“You know how your jaw gets sore?” Sam, Drew and Anna nod. “That’s your tongue. But it tastes completely different and it’s very, very wet.”

The word “wet” hangs in the air for a few seconds before Natalie turns the river over. It’s a three of diamonds. Natalie, with a seven and a jack in her hand, has lost.

“I’m getting another drink,” she says.

I follow her into my kitchen, leaving the others to talk about me, which they’re entitled to now. She turns at the counter and gently presses her glass onto it. She jumps a little when she sees me behind her, then smiles apologetically.

“How could you tell I was bluffing?” she asks me.

“Sit up a little when you’re bluffing. It makes it look like you’ve got a great hand and you can’t wait to win. I’m sorry if the conversation got a little weird in there for you. Sam gets a little overexcited when she thinks she knows how to drink.”

“That’s all?” Natalie asks. “Just how I was sitting?”

“Anyway, you’re clearly uncomfortable about it, and I just want you to know that it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Do I sit up when I’ve got a good hand?”

“Yeah. Everyone does.”

She stares at my shoulder for a little while and I take her glass to the fridge. I fill it up with ice cubes and hand her the empty tray. She takes it to the sink and refills it, her breasts rearranging themselves as she turns the tray in the stream.

“And,” I continue, “you get an itch on the side of your face, here….” I swipe the pad of my forefinger on her upper cheekbone. “And you keep scratching it.” An explosion of laughter comes from the dining room. The girls have changed the subject. I hope. Natalie puts her glass down and goes into the bathroom. I’ve really freaked her out now. She will come out and tell me she’s lost enough money and go home forever. I pour myself another drink, watching her ice turn to water at the edges.

There’s another roar in the dining room, I head toward it, what I’m hoping is a sweet smile on my face. A hand pops out of the bathroom, grabs my arm and pulls me in.

Natalie stands before me in the orange light of the bathroom, her lips open and hopeful, her eyes wide, brown, full of flawless mascara, eyeliner mudding in the corners. It seems so sudden to me, something that some part of me had noticed and discarded before I could consider it, that Natalie was on the no-kiss list, and it seemed impossible to remove her from it. She saw my surprise, though not disgust, and leaned into me. An intake of air and there they are, girl lips, sticky and forceless, something I’d forgotten. I turn into her, pressing her into the sink, her breasts against mine, hers large and heavy, mine small and tight, making room for each other. She has one hand on the back of my arm and holds me there, just a suggestion to my elbow. I pull back anyhow, wiping my mouth in my palm.

“Is this what you want?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

Without returning to her mouth, my hand drops on her shoulder, falls slowly down, curves around her breast and curls up again. Her eyelids drop and flutter. I go down, under her shirt and come up again, under her bra, coming up to put her nipple between fore- and index fingers. Her mouth opens and her bottom lip twitches. I raise her shirt to her armpits and go around the back, undoing her bra quick in a pinch. I pull the bra up and stare at them for a moment. She wonders what I’m doing and opens her eyes, sees me and closes them. I flick her nipple with my tongue and blow on it. It stiffens and points at me. I do it again with the other. She shivers.

“Sam never asked if you’d done this before. Have you?”

“No.”

I take her nipple between my lips and suck it into submission. It sharpens, fights. “That feels good,’ she says, just under what wave form would penetrate the door.

And this is what I want. Dropping to my knees, lifting her long skirt to her hips is what I want. The triangle, entirely empty of cock, trimmed to the quick, the swollen pussy lips and the gift between them, also swollen, pink flesh shyly peeking out. My mouth waters thinking about it, this slung focus that I haven’t seen in years. My hands turn to fists, rolling her skirt in them, and I press her hips back over the sink, her abashed deference, rolling back kindly. I put her heels on my shoulders and dive in.

“Oh my God,” she says, her clit speaking for her now. “Oh my God.” My tongue swipes along her folds, dipping in when it can, flicking like she was soft serve. My body responds in amused tickles. It lights like a puddle of 151.

My fingers enter her, first one, then two, then three and turn up, looking for a g-spot, if there is one. I fuck her with them, this girl who only known men, and hasn’t really known sex either, hasn’t turned that brown part of her soul to bright green. I’m digging the vibration in her, the way she jolts forward the second my tongue makes contact with her clit and I pause so I can feel it again. Her right hand goes up to her breast and pinches the nipple gently as I did. Her mouth hangs open, careful, measured breaths in and out.

I pull my tongue in for a moment and watch her, my third-wheel thumb taking over for a while.

“Has anyone ever made you come before?” I ask her, because I’m sure of the answer.

“No.”

“Have you ever come before?”

She doesn’t answer, but grits her teeth for a moment. I kiss her knee.

“You’re going to now,” I tell her. “Just relax and concentrate on your clit.”

I split her pussy lips between the forefinger and thumb of my other hand and start to lick her in earnest. Her thighs shake and occasionally batter my head, but I keep a steady pace, continuing to fuck her with my other hand. My tongue gets sore, but I don’t stop. She moans, louder and louder, no question in my mind that the other three girls are listening now, but I don’t stop. The low, square heels on her sandals dig into my shoulders, but I don’t stop.

“Isabel, please,” she whimpers, leaving no question as to who is servicing whom to the other three, “pleeeease.” Her heels press in hard suddenly and I have to press back against my toes to keep her from pushing me away. “Oh God, God, God, Guh!” and she falls completely apart, spasming all over the sink as I slowly, unrelentingly, lick it out of her. She comes for about a minute. It’s only when her hands push against the top of my head that I let up. I sit on my heels and look up at her darkly.

“Your face is all wet,” she whispers, laughing. She is gorgeous, I notice for the first time.

“Are you okay?” I ask, taking her fingers in mine.

“Hell yeah. You?”

“You think it’s just my face that’s wet?”

She is overwhelmed by a fit of embarrassed giggles. I stand up and kiss them out of her.

“We should go back out there,” she says in my ear. She stands up, adjusts her hair in the mirror and goes first. I wipe my face in a washcloth, put her panties in the cabinet under the sink, quell a smile and go back to the table. The three girls stare back and forth between the two of us.

“Drew, it’s your deal, hon,” I say.

Two Phones and the Internet

“I never do,” I said, covering my face, though she couldn’t see it. I really hoped she’d never ask.

“You don’t masturbate?”

“No. I mean I tried a couple of times and just, I dunno, nothing happened. I felt numb and dry.”

“Get some lube.”

“What?”

“Get some lube. Go to the Walgreens or whatever and buy some freaking lube.”

“I don’t know if I want to talk about this.”

There was a long pause and the sound of her having a sip of something over the phone.

“Well, I do,” she said, having made up her mind. The only way to get out of this conversation now would have been to get off the phone.

“I just don’t get into it that much,” I said, desperately searching my mind for something else to talk about.

“I’m emailing you a porn site.”

“No! Come on.”

“There, click on it. I’ll watch with you.”

I clicked and the window popped up.

“I’ll give you my password. It’s J. S. Y. R. 1. 3. O. R.”

I hadn’t even found the field for it yet and had to ask her to repeat it. I was shaking, but told myself I was being silly. People do this all the time, right?

“Okay, I’m in. What do I do?”

“It’s a website, Megan, do what you would normally do. Find something you’re interested in and click on it.”

“This one looks pretty normal, I guess. Um, try the….” I couldn’t decide what kind of words to use.

“The one with the guy fucking the girl scissors style?”

“Um. Sure?”

“Okay, we’ll click at the same time. Let me know when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

We watched on the count of three. It started with a guy in a ridiculous haircut taking a girl by the sides and pulling her face to him on a couch. Her hair was curly and enormous.

“Her hair is huge,” I said.

“Shh.”

He kissed her hard and then tried to gag her with his tongue.

“Are they always this bad?” I asked.

“Usually, but most people fast forward through this part. Don’t say anything, okay? Just watch.”

He grabbed her breast like it was about to run away and she moaned like it was the most amazing thing ever. I took the phone away from my ear so Nina couldn’t hear me laugh. The man in the video took the woman’s hand and put it on his dick. She squealed a little and squirmed down to it. She unzipped his pants and pulled his dick out. Things became very silent between me and Nina. The woman in the video slid off the couch and looked up at the man from her knees. He held his dick over her as if to bless her with it. She took it and played with it, her tongue, unnaturally long, slapping it and rubbing it. Then she put it in her fist and sucked it in. I watched her as she went down on him, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes the same shots repeated, her face elongated and slack in the cheek, her eyes watery staring up at him. They would focus in on his face occasionally, bored, really, staring down at her.

Two minutes passed and the only sound was Nina’s breath.

“Are you feeling anything yet?” she asked.

I decided not to lie. I didn’t want to get out of this as much anymore. “A little warm, tingly, kinda. I feel like I’m slowing down.”

“Are you wet?”

“What?”

“Are you wet?”

“Nina!”

“Check.”

I slid the seat of my panties to find out and find myself very wet, to my surprise, swollen too.

“Yeah! Wow!”

“Good, keep watching and then decide what to do.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“Megan, come on. You hang up and you’ll shut it off. I know you will. So stay on the phone.”

“All. Right.”

The man was standing then, his arms akimbo, unclothed, the girl in stockings and high heels sucking him off vigorously. The camera shifted and showed her enormous fingernails on her clit, digging in.

“Are you doing that?” I asked.

“Aren’t you?”

Nina was so fearless, so scary sometimes. I worried about myself around her. Whether I was afraid that I was nothing like her or that I was going to become her, I can’t say for sure. I pushed my panties to the side anyway, though it was hopeless, of course.

“You need to get some of that wet on your fingers,” Nina said. I was blushing, like an awkward boy being forced to dance. I went to the hole and coated my hand.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Rub.”

“Where?”

“You don’t know?”

She was not making this easy for me. “I… I don’t know where it is.”

She sighed for me and said, “Okay, here’s what you do. Put your index finger in the entrance to your naughty hole.”

“My ‘naughty hole’?”

“I’m trying not to make you uncomfortable.”

I did. She continued. “Now, there’s something like a ski slope between two folds just above it. Can you find it?”

My fingers stabbed around a bit until the inner lips separated and I saw what she meant, a little ramp.

“I think I’ve got it.”

“Follow it.”

My finger slid up and ran to the top. I pressed in. “There’s a piece of cartilage or something in there.”

“Don’t press that hard. Think of it like trying to clean the keys on your computer without pressing them down.”

I flinched and had to find it again. “Okay.”

“Now, just little flicks…. Cleaning the keyboard…. And keep your nails… away.”

The man had the woman on her back, one heel over his left shoulder, the other on the floor. His face was tense and he was panting. I began to flick.

“Oh God,” I said. It was like being tickled but you didn’t want it to stop.

“There you go,” Nina said. She was gasping, her breaths like wool across the phone.

“Oh God, Nina, holy shit!” There was a zip and a vibration up my spine. My feet were sweating and my knees were shaking.

“Slow down…. You’re gonna come too… too fast.”

The man in the video twisted the girl onto her stomach with her knees on the floor behind her. I tried to keep watching, but my neck was taking my head in all kinds of directions. My eyes were blurring.

Nina began to whine and yelled out, “Fuck!” I heard her lose control over the phone and finally heard it slap to the floor. I let mine go and it rested on my breast. Jolts started where the shaking began in my knees and something terrible, something unbearable, something beautiful tore like a penis shaped arrow through my body. I screamed through my nose, biting my lip, and rode the orgasm, because that’s what it had to be, through to its end. I shivered for a while and felt a new elation change my body for the good, the electric warmth gradually subsiding enough for me to pick up the phone again.

“Megan?”

“Yeah?”

“You came, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, good. Now, clear the history on your browser and go to bed.”

“Nina?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, friend.”