Takers

We couldn't tie her to us, so we held hands with her, me and him. We decided to keep the blindfold on, the whole night looking like we were leading her to a birthday cake. She spent a lot of time, at first, grinning like we were. Martin was on some fantasy that I was a little jealous of her attentions and when he touched her, he grinned too, and snapped back like I had ordered him to or something. It was like that whenever he got a chance, when he thought I wasn't looking, he'd slide his fingers up and down her back and reach, his hand already cupped, toward her front. She'd perk up then, like the kitten that she was, begging to be petted, her back arched and her neck all out. Martin's face would light up like a morning glory and then he'd look at me and pull away. I'd take her hand to me when I felt the urge, on my nipple or my lips or my cock, my fingers pressed into the undersides of hers so she couldn't bend them, couldn't do anything but feel me, well, couldn't have any ideas of her own.

We propped her right up on the hood of my car in the parking lot of the town library and waited until it closed, when the men would trickle out of it, their eyes all full of paper and dust, and we asked, one by one, if anyone wanted to see her. Most said no, or didn't say anything, people don't see what they don't believe, but it was one man, whose head bent over his PDA like his neck was broken, a skinny kid with long, stringy blonde hair, who didn't even look to see if her hands were tied or not. He simply saw the situation and said "Yes." Martin lifted her shirt above her breasts, just the edges of his nails across the skin of her chest and she breathed like she was making to faint. She spread her legs apart on the hood of the car to keep from falling over. The kid, who was somewhere between seventeen and twenty-seven years old or some such, held quiet for a few seconds, his PDA at eye-level and rising to the side of his head. Martin got another look in his eye and turned toward her, stuck his tongue out and licked one of her nipples. The kid sprung a pole in his pants so quick he could've used it as a kick-stand. Martin's full of evil. It's why I asked him along.

Another one came around our way and I asked him to go ahead and have a look. This one was about our age, with a belly and a wedding band. His eyes went a little dark and he held his hand out, his eyes breaking for a nod of my approval, and raised her skirt just a little bit, leaving his fingers on her knee just a little too long. I kissed the back of her head and waited for him to leave. He kind of rocked there for a little while, his mind full of ideas and mixing them good, and he walked away quiet and business-like, to his car, which he sat in for a good while before driving off. I pulled her shirt down and nudged her off the car. She landed with her feet wide apart, slipping in the gravel before catching herself. Martin's hand went up under her skirt, though her legs snapped shut in a reflex. I could tell by the way that his face changed that she was wet. I wanted him to appreciate this, his short visit to the world of women who are actually turned on in his presence. He touched his belt briefly and took her hand again. The parking lot was drained of takers and we needed to move on.

We got surprising few looks at the grocery store. I suppose that late at night on a Tuesday you got the third-tier shift. The stocker-boys just kept to their canned peas as a woman, liquid with sex, was pulled past them by two determined men. We found no harassment in the wide-open spaces of the produce section, the fish shop and the butcher, their sections titled in wide, comfortable, italicized script, below, hard block letters to announce their absence. I walked us over to a roll of plastic bags and removed one, snapping it open as if to announce our presence. To who, I'm not sure.

I took one of those peppers, the ones that are just a little hot that curve on the end like a tongue, and told Abby to get herself off with it. We kicked her legs apart and let go of her hands. She backed into the edge of a large pile of potatoes and dipped the edge of the pepper into her pussy, then moved it forward and toyed real fast at her clit, which stood out under those fluorescents like a worm in the lettuce. She shook at her elbows and let out just a tiny moan before I stopped her. I put the pepper in the plastic bag, twisted the end tight and split her ass cheeks. She didn't know where I was going with it until it was popped in, sucked up into her and swallowed whole. She clutched a potato and went real red. Martin seemed real delighted with this and laughed like he'd found a way to suck his own asshole. Pure stinking evil, our Martin.

I took a bottle of water on the way out and explained that I'd eaten a pepper and wanted to pay for that too. Martin walked right behind me with Abby all blindfolded and her nipples up under her dress like peas fresh out of the pod, but it was the fact that I'd eaten a pepper that made this teenage girl with no part in her hair give me a dirty look.

"What kind of pepper?" she asked.

"Those short, red, curvy ones that look like backwards raindrops," I said. I figured this kind of talk would charm her a little, but she just rang it up, one Fresno pepper, large.

In the parking lot, I took her by her new tail and pulled her, and therefore, Martin too, across the street to a park. Just out of the blue of a floodlight down by some trees was a water fountain. Martin and I lifted her up by the insides of her thighs and sat her down on it, her pussy right up to the guard behind the spout. She took a little steadying, but settled finally before I pressed my thumb on the button and the water sprung up. It was cold. I could feel it where the leaks dribbled down my hand, but Abby's mouth wasn't tense like that because it was hurting her. She trembled and chattered just like she did sometimes when I fucked her, and sometimes when I walked in on her fucking herself. Martin, who'd surely never seen this kind of behavior before in a woman, wrapped his arms around her from behind and watched, a look of concern on his face. Well, it only looked like concern. It was probably just the concentrated curiosity of a baboon looking at its first soccer ball. I took her face by the cheek and watched her, her face stinging me with its beauty, all scrunched up like she was about to cry. Or sneeze. When her mouth drew open I let go of the button and watched her fall back into panting. I hit it again, punched little squirts on her like licks, each one making her back jolt, before I let the stream go and watched her come, good and hard and even groaning. Martin was fascinated. He clutched her like she was having a dangerous fit.

I pulled the pepper out by the tail, took it out of the bag and fed it to her, still up on the fountain, rubbing the seeds on her lips where I knew they'd burn. She bit and licked her lips after she was finished. They swelled up at the top of the ridge and she pouted. It was what she did best.

I was sorely tempted to declare that now would be the best time for Martin to stick his dick in her mouth, when it was all still full of pepper heat and would probably teach him some sort of lesson about people and how he is with them, but I'm just not that mean. Besides, Abby didn't know it was Martin that I took along with us, and his bitching and moaning would just plain give him away. Instead, I raised her skirt again and split her pussy lips, cold under my fingers, and let him get a good look at her. She swayed, but I pulled the collar of her shirt in my fist to hold her up. Martin stared at her and laughed quietly to himself, probably comparing what flesh God had put on his bones and how it compared to hers, all pink and smooth and elastic.

She said she was thirsty. I opened the bottle of water and held it to her mouth, tilting it just a little too high so most of it came out the sides. It went down her shirt and started to show in her sides, sticking the fabric to her.

Back in the Jeep and onto a two-lane highway, headed west and south, I told Martin to get in the tiny back seat with her and fuck her now, all out in the wind, her hair flapping in her face, her ass and her pussy exposed to everything and everybody. He jumped right back there and stripped her naked, handing me her clothes so I could put them in the storage compartment between the seats. He bent her over the seat and pulled his pants down just enough, put a condom on and pressed his knees forward between hers. From there it was just the back of Abby's thighs and Martin's ass in the rearview mirror, but for me, I was looking at the other cars timing the moment when they all realized what was going on, the short swerve and catch of their steering. I'd never had so much fun. An SUV came up close behind us and appeared to be in no hurry to pass, though I was going just five over the speed limit. I caught what looked like a male profile in the driver's seat and puffed myself up with pride.

When Martin finished and sat back down on the seat, I had a good look at Abby's pussy, all swollen and open right there in the rear view, flashes of wet reflecting in the headlights of oncoming traffic. That was it. I pulled the jeep over, put my flashers on and climbed right back there. I took her blindfold off, picked her up and hung her over the rollbar, facing the front, her feet resting on either of the front seats. Her pussy hung over the car like the missing overhead light. I pressed my face into it, smelled her sweet and salt and stuck my hand in my pants, cars whizzing past, crickets singing, the world mine, and rose on the thrill of it, Abby's big night out and mine.

Feedback

There was the camera at the top of the screen, centered and patient, a green light next to it. I could look at it askance, but not straight on. I couldn't face the strangers, even if I wanted to. Below were three simple boxes on a white background. One: What I looked like. Two: What they looked like, because precious few were ready to turn on their cameras. There were 442 people watching at first, a faceless and incomprehensible number. Were they enough to fill the seats in a small theater? A large restaurant? How many people work in my company? How many work under me? When I watched, I didn't turn my camera on either, though I'd imagined they could see me, or just the parts of me I wanted them to see. A finger and a clit.

Finally, there was the third box, the one I wanted to see the most, though I knew that if we were successful, no one would be able to type. This one was a stream of thoughts, stupid and flattering, or childish and painful. I would imagine that they wouldn't be able to agree, that some would demand that I play with my tits while other would ask me to press up on my arms.

It turns out that people are used to a leader, and let one person do the talking for them, a man named dirtyhands. It was a leader's name, I gave them that.

dirtyhands

massage her tits

And Ryan's hands, thick and callused, came around my sides and kneaded my nipples. I watched our backward reflection on the screen and waited for the next order. My skin looked alien in the picture, spotless and blurry, the navel barely discernable, the large, dark nipples not much more than shadows between Ryan's fingers. I tried to pull one of his hands down between my legs, but he wouldn't budge. This wasn't about me. I went myself, so distracted that I hadn't noticed how wet I'd become, how sensitive and shaken. Ryan's hands seemed to dwarf me, as if we were in a fisheye. I leaned back so they could see me rub.

3497 users online
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dirtyhands

show her your cock

Ryan came around me so that he was facing the camera. He took the hand in my crotch and wrapped it around his cock. I twisted it, showed it to be flexible as girl hands are, thin, fragile and helpless. My fingers were still wet and I slid up and down lightly, an innocent entering a strange cave, touching the unfamiliar. Ryan said, because our microphone was on too, "Do you like that?"

dirtyhands

tell her to suck it

"No faces," Ryan said.

dirtyhands

have her face you

I wasn't allowed to see their profiles, didn't think that I'd want to, but I began to wonder who dirtyhands was. No matter.

I backed up, straddled the laptop and bent over. Ryan's cock slid into my mouth easily, and I twisted and pulled, licked and tightened my lips around him. Saliva dripped out of the corners and onto the sheets. He smelled the same, felt the same. The sheets were our sheets.

Ryan said, "He wants you to touch yourself. Split yourself good first. Let them see you."

I did as they said, though it was too much rocket fuel. While my hands had been away, my pussy had turned to hard rubber in melted ice cream. I stuck my fingers inside instead.

Ryan said, "He likes it."

I could feel my muscles crush my fingers, suck them in. Ryan pulled out of my mouth.

"Talk to him," Ryan said.

"I want you in my pussy. Stick it in me."

"Turn around," Ryan said.

"No."

"Just keep your face up," he said, holding me by the chin.

I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want this liquid pouring out of my pussy. I didn't want to want to come.

"No."

He pushed my knees back on the sheets and placed the laptop in front of my knees. "They can't see your face."

I reached out for the camera, wanted to put my thumb over the lens.

"Do it," Ryan said, putting my fingers back between my legs and rubbing them. I closed my eyes. I'd seen the number. 578. I heard Ryan breathe. He was out of the camera range.

Miles of people were watching me, some just watching, some just starting to play. Some were couples. Some were women. I saw them come, felt their eyes on me, little fiber optic lines through the lens of my camera.

"Are they fucking you?" Ryan said.

I said nothing. Tingles were turning to heat in me.

"Are they fucking you?"

"Yes."

I opened my eyes and faced them. Only five had their cameras on. dirtyhands lay limp. I'd only just noticed.

"What?"

Ryan bent me over the laptop and pushed his thumbs inside me. I came, not there, not in my body, watching myself come like the camera watched me. I writhed and bucked and yelled.

"Goodnight, all," Ryan said, and quit the browser. dirtyhands had logged off.

Tell

There's a fat spider in the corner of the ceiling, a highway robber between the vent and the yellow light. I'm afraid of spiders, terrified of watching them move, the way they seem to glide without legs, zooming then creeping. Between dicks I've watched this thing, at least two inches long, and begged it to keep still. I can't climb up on the toilet seat to kill it, even if I could pull together those kind of guts. I can't put my face over the stalls. I'd get the crap beaten out of me, if I wasn't arrested. I hold this guy, a shorter one, but veiny, trimmed, the young ones are, in my thick glove, hand hidden inside, and hold him steady in my mouth, forever bargaining with the spider. I'm so distracted that I don't notice him coming, miss the sounds and the trembling ankles. I'm ready to ask for one more from the spider, but it could be hours. My fingers stroke, but the spider has made me go dry. I wait for the man to leave, then total silence, then head for my car in the lot.

"I just can't watch that stuff," Debra said. "It's just... blech." She chased two shaved pieces of red cabbage in her salad to a different part of the plastic bowl. All over the room, women in sensible sweaters and huge hair pointed at each other with their forks or finger foods, movement on top of the cropped beige carpet and the beige wallpaper, flat in the fluorescent. Men sat back in their chairs, knees apart, like fathers at PTA meetings.

Casey blinked at me, then turned to Debra. "What, two men kissing? Big deal," she said. "I'm a fag hag," she said proudly, but blushed, and rearranged herself in the chair.

"I read somewhere that fag hags are all lesbians," Debra said. Casey didn't look at her, but put her sandwich down and left her mouth open in case she came up with the gumption to respond. They were waiting for me to say something. I peeled my orange and stacked the strips on top of each other, even little triangles rocking back and forth.

My eyes close and I'm back on my knees in the men's bathroom, one cock or the other slipping through my lips. The man comes again and again, losing everything to his dream. My legs are bent against the floor on the futon couch, the shades closed, the pads of my fingers kneading me.

"What's your name?" the guy asks. I can see his hands buttoning his jeans. I dodge in case he looks. "Dude, what's your name?"

My back arches on the futon and my eyes go crossed and blank. Waaa uh. Uh. UH.

George grips my hand and takes a deep sip of his bottled water. It's a hazy night, people's sweat seeming to cause the halos on the streetlights. Sticky men pass us and size George up. He ignores them. I wonder if I've ever sucked any of these guys off or if George is right, I've only sucked straight men with a fantasy. "Hhhhuuuuhhh!" George says, as if he's just noticed the First Lady making out with a girl. "We've gotta go to Deliveries in Rear tonight!"

"No!" I say, and I mean it.

"Yes! Come on." He takes me tightly by the hand and pulls me up the sidewalk. His hands are smallish, not painfully large to hold like my other ex-boyfriends' or thin and poky like my older sister's. They fit.

The bouncer exhales pointedly when I hand him my ID, shakes the flashlight over it and hands it back to me quickly. He looks deep into the club as if he has a secret tell for the entire staff, like a baseball coach, a noserub and neck twitch indicating "fucking girl in here."

I was sick of swimming and decided to jump from one end of the pool to the other just to keep moving. My toes touched the bottom on the deep end, my face well under and I leapt up and forward, emerging into the cold air, and crunched down again. A boy wouldn't get out of my way and I was forced to tread for awhile. I didn't know him, and the way he smiled at me made me nervous.

"What?" I said.

"You're a boy," he said.

"I'm not! I'm a girl!" I said and swum around him.

I jumped again a few more times, splashing gloriously from the water with each one. The boy was there again. I looked for friends, neighbors, but remembered I'd come alone.

"Don't lie. You're a boy."

"I'm a girl!"

I dove and jumped a few more times, a little too fast. Water bubbled in my loose terrycloth suit and pulled it down too much. He ruined my thing, this boy. He was there again. I tried to swim around him, but he blocked me.

"You're a boy!" he said.

George takes me straight to the back of the club, his one eye lazy from drinking. "You order," he says, and socks a twenty in my hand.

I can't look around. The bar is dark but for sharp beams of light that you only see if you're looking straight at them. I see blurs of men in small groups, the special shine of skin. Others cruise, watching the groups with their backs against load-bearing poles. I want to be a spider, to watch them as anything but a woman, but I'm conspicuous here as Queen Victoria. I decide that going to the bar will keep my eyes busy.

"I'm a girl! God!" I said to the boy. He smiled at me as if I were falling for some sort of bait. "What do you want?" I asked.

The bartender is slim and short with a faux-hawk. He clashes with the leather-men.

"What will this lesbian be ordering this evening?" he asks, repulsed.

"This girl wants two Ketel and cranberries."

"Does the lesbian want a twist?"

The boy almost lost himself in victory. "Prove to me you're a girl," he said.

"No! Go away!" I looked at the lifeguard, but he was busy watching older girls directly under him. They were talking to him and he smiled, holding the whistle in his mouth absentmindedly.

"The girl doesn't, no."

"Good!" the bartender says, and slaps the drinks down on the service mat so that much of the liquid splashes out. He looks at me up and down and rolls his eyes. "That'll be sixteen-fifty for the lesbian."

I would have waved my arms for the lifeguard, but I didn't want to raise them. This boy was waiting to touch me. "Hey!" I yelled instead. "Heeeeey!" He blew his whistle, amazingly. The voiceover came on the loudspeaker.

"Adult swim," it said. "Ten minute rest period."

"Here's twenty dollars for the asshole."

"Thanks, lesbian."

"Anytime, asshole."

I swam as fast as I could to the edge of the pool, pulled myself out, and ran for the girls' locker room.

George had been sitting beside me, but saw none of this. I examine the glasses for cloudy floaties, but find none. I give one to him.

George and I went to separate colleges after graduation and didn't see each other until Thanksgiving. He picked me up in his car but didn't kiss me.

"I've held out for you," I said.

"I know," he said.

"So you're gay?" I said.

"Yeah," he said.

"And I'm an idiot," I said.

"If there were a girl...," he said.

"That you would have sex with it would be me, right?" I said.

"But you're a girl," he said.

"Do you love me?" I said.

"Of course," he said.

"Screw me anyway," I said.

"No," he said.

"Then you can go," I said.

The music, if the rumpy-bumpy beat could be called that, goes loud and then off. George hands me his empty and I put it behind me on the bar.

"It's time," says a voiceover, "for adult swim. You've got ten minutes."

The bare lightbulbs go out and George shoves me forward into what must be the crowd. I try to turn around but find the bare chests of men, their fingers in my hair, a dick in jeans at my ass. Before the one can reach around, I drop too hard to my knees and bury my head in his bulge. He pulls locks of my hair between his fingers and unzips. The music grows louder.

George let me kiss him in the car. The two of our faces were wet with tears. I slid my hand up his thighs and found his cock. It was limp, but I'd gotten it going before. Keep your eyes closed, I whispered. I'm a boy. This is my first time with another boy. He lifted his hips so I could lower his jeans. I'm careful to keep my voicebox out of my speech. I'm scared, but I want to touch you.

The man's cock is thin and long. It goes hard right away and I suck to the music. I can feel him trembling and go faster. His fingers pull through my hair tighter and tighter. My pussy swells, needs this. Three minutes pass, four, five. "Yes," he says, "that's a good boy."

I'd been ready for almost a year, ready to lose my virginity to George, would close my eyes in movies and will him to fuck me later. I'd imagined him staring me in the eyes, blinking slowly as he pumped, declaring his love before he came. He lay inert in the car seat as I straddled him, one of my legs forward into the backseat the other twisted and shaking in the well. I'll let you fuck me, I whisper. I'm so scared, but I'll let you do it. I held his cock between my fingers, found the wet spot that I'd tested with hot dogs and Barbie dolls, and put him inside me. It didn't hurt. I thought it would hurt.

Another set of hands moves up and down my shoulders. The man in my mouth's knees shiver. The hands dip down and pull at my ass in my jeans. I want them to slide under me. I want them to press into me. A little bit of friction is all I need. They roll up my hips for a moment, then cross to the front.

It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I grasped the back of George's seat and concentrated. I've got a huge erection, but I don't want you to touch it. I just want to give you this. He was sweating, his shoulders tense and his stomach cranking with his breaths. You feel so good inside me.

The man in my mouth is coming. He holds my head in place and dives into my throat. The taste is there, the swim of salt and lemon and savory. I forget about the arms around me until I notice that one is at my breast and the other is feeling the front of my neck.

George's mouth opened and he grunted just a little, an mmmm-guh, then quickly got a pained look on his face.

"Am I done?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too," he said.

"You don't have to speak to me again," I said.

His eyes opened and he looked at me, considering it.

He's checking for an Adam's apple. The hands are thin and the arms are too. I stand up quickly, but he's got me in a hold.

"It's little bitch cunts like you that fuck us all up," he says in my ear.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

The voice of a girl on the floor gets the lights turned on. A bouncer heads toward us from the back. The man lets me go and heads for the exit. I push him. He turns around and grabs my face, runs me back to the bar. I punch him. I've never thrown a punch before and don't even know if I've made contact. I punch again and keep on punching. His face. His chest. He looks furious with me and dodges some of them, trying to catch my arms. My knuckles are bloody and sore. My cheeks sting. He pushes his fingertips into them. The bouncer is a few feet away. I twist my face out of the guy's hands and head for the exit. My cel phone begins to ring. People look at me and someone behind me. Must be the bouncer.

The air is fresh now and I climb into a cab. The phone call was George. The stings were tears in wounds.

The cab takes me to my car and I drive for two hours to the edge of the suburbs. A different forest preserve. Another hour passes before I have my first visitor. He approaches slowly. I watch and close my eyes. His hand touches my cheek through the hole instead. I stare at the hair on his knuckles.

"You got a little beat up there," he says. "What's your name?"

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.

On the Chair

The smell of you, the citrus salt of your body as I come to focus, and know that now I can, now I can touch you, and I make sense. The sharp blue of your eyes as they blur, still blue in the blur, hints now instead of jabs, blurring because you're too close to see. Don't need to see you when you're this close, I guess. Just bodies and savory now. The heat of you in the magnet, over the barrier, into the wet. And there I need every part of you to flatten out and surround me, untouched parts bitter and indignant. Pull your hips closer, your arms tighter, your shins bent into my thighs.

The feel of the string in your sweatpants, the worm loosened and the soft cotton lowered over your ass. You say you want to wear dresses more, that being around these girls makes you feel like a lesbian, sitting on a chair with your legs apart, knots in your hair untangled in your fingers, but then I wouldn't have this loose softness to contrast your skin, and find your skin better, and feel it make contact with that on my thighs. It's soft before it's sticky, a glue between us, natural as the one in my mind.

I enter you awkward and bent, a pop of straightening inside. There. Your hands on my shoulders. There. Home. What do we do when we're not doing this? What's out there that's so fucking important? I don't even want to move, don't want to arch, don't want to feel myself leave you ever again.

You've put a picture of us on your radiator, to mingle with your oldest friends and your dead relatives. I balked when I saw it, ready to comment on it, but it's true that you've put my old friends and dead relatives in your shadow. My shoulders fell and I got a shot of that drug in my diaphragm. I can see it now, pressed into this chair by the weight of you. It opens like origami in my chest.

I didn't notice that you've started to move on me, your teeth in my shoulder, slippery and sharp. Sex jumps in me like a dog invited for a walk. In and you groan tight around me, out and you take it away. Fuck me. My neck bends back over the back of the chair, and I inhale quick, oxygen to red the blood. It pumps around me, curling my toes and shuddering the back of my shins against the crosspieces between the chair legs. The ball rolls uphill, spiky and suction-cupped. Fuck me.

My hands hold you to me by the backs of the neck and hips. I'm drawing my drug out of you, the wine of sex and mourning. It's meeting, its parts jigsawing together between us and the ball jumps the ramp, suicides off the other side of the hill. My eyes fill with stars and air and we meet, our bodies flattened and surrounding each other. No parts of us left untouched.

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.

Landscape

Petrovich wanted me to call him Peter. He wasn't Russian, he said, any more than he was American, so I might as well call him something I could fit in my teeth. That's the way he said it, "fit in my teeth," as if even his name was something that had to be gripped in the jaw and ripped off.

to: angelica@un.org

from:petro@sakhalinuniversitet.ru

Angelica,

The sun hasn't come up in days. We live through this time of year on large fires and quiet stories. Time doesn't seem to pass, like you're in jet lag forever, or still on the plane, following the darkness and hiding from the sun. We wait to land, squirming in our seats, looking for joy in the salt at the bottom of our bag of peanuts. Or that's how I would explain it, if I could, to my people here. My life has cleaved since I met you, and you're the only one I could talk to about peanuts.

It's quiet too. I want to yell.

Some of us think about the light of the sun on the ocean, see it when we blink, or imagine fresh berries, feel ourselves picking them as fast as we can put them in our mouths, but I think about a parking garage in New York City, the curls of your hair in the wind and across your cheek, the sounds of the street below as if they were pumped through the speakers of your car, and the odd silence when we closed the windows and the squeak of my knees on the seats.

The windows are good and rolled up, the sounds of the street caught between the glass and its seal on the door. I pause the recording and place the laptop in the other seat. He was there just a few weeks ago, and now I've got nothing but the slowly trailing cursor of a media player, his voice, at once Russian and not Russian, but if I close my eyes, he's there. He lives in the folds of my shirt in my arms, the grip of my feet in my shoes, the seam of my underpants, under my skirt and over my clit. I breathe, holding my throat in its knot, and press the space bar again.

When I can't bear to think of you, I think about the parking garage itself. I think of the spiraling floors and dizzy views, that merge of street and building. My mind scales the concrete and circles up faster and faster, and the red cars blend in with the blue and I see only the buildings swirl past. I open my eyes and see only the orange of a fire reflected in the snow or the stars that move so slowly you have to crawl to see them shift. Nothing moves here like it does in New York. Nothing blurs like cars in a parking garage.

Peter was born to a Nivkh tribe on Sakhalin in the northwest Pacific. No one has ever been able to decide who owns the thing. It's been passed between the Japanese, the Manchurians, the Russians and even the Koreans for as long as anyone's memory. It's full of blood and treaties and dubious claims and petty grudges. For now, it seems that it's part of Russia, which is at least stability, if not quite justice. Peter, like every other child, was removed from the care of his tribe and his parents as an infant, raised Russified, and hadn't given his real home more than a few battered thoughts since. It was only when the last, least suspicious invaders came into the Nivkh settlement without knocking, that Peter, Petrovich, returned. These invaders were the NGOs, non-governmental-organizations, culprits like the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Fund.

Nothing smells like anything in the cold. That's what I miss the most out here. We can smell each other, and cooking, but other smells, grass and fruit and leaves rotting, dead animals and fresh flowers, all of that is frozen, and smells like nothing but the water that it's crusted within. Ice is sterile. It smells nothing like you.

You smelled like almonds and cinnamon and salt and lemon. I buried my face between your breasts and took it in like I could scar you into my nose, as if I could tattoo your scent within me. I'd never smelled a woman like you before. The Russian women and girls were taught that we were dirty. The women of the tribe smell of fish and wet animal. I hadn't gotten near them yet anyway. I was helpless there, in that parking garage. Maybe I would have had some wits about me if you smelled like ice, which is to say, nothing.

The Russian government is compensated by the NGOs for the amount of land that they cordon off from humanity. This was an all-around good idea to anyone with any sense until I met Peter. Humanity includes indigenous tribes, apparently, and people who have lived on nothing but the vast expanse of land around them are now being locked out of their homes, forced into cities without so much as a public park, and made to live on money and utilities instead. Peter came to New York, to the United Nations, to me, to put up a case in favor of thousands of people he'd never met, but who looked more than a little like him.

I was clumsy, but you were sure. I was rigid in fear and excitement for you. You found me inside. That I needed you, that I was scared, that my insides were calling for you, that my muscles wouldn't respond to the simplest commands was something that I tried to hide, but you knew of course. You kissed me, a touching of lips that I hadn't experienced before, nor am likely to have again. You opened my trousers, burned the skin of my chest in your fingers, took my hand to the inside of your thighs.

My voice is strained now. I know it. My English falls apart when I think of you, though my thoughts don't sit well in Russian either.

In the parking garage, 13b, fifth space from the door to the right and bent over my steering wheel, I'm there with Peter. His body is there, and it faces the brown bricks of the back of some old skyscraper again, locked into his seat. His hand is buried under his thigh, but I reach to it and slide my index finger into his palm.

They'd chosen me because my grandmother was Aleut, and I looked just a little bit like him.

I want to turn this recording off now, because my English is about to get worse and my words are about to fall away from each other. I leave it to you, Angelica, because I can't seem to do it, and won't be able to make myself edit this last part out before I find a way to email this to you. You may shut this off now. Do it now, if you want to.

Peter's eyes were pooled black shine in his face, his lips trembling, as I took him into the back seat of the my car, this car. He looked down on me the way that no man ever had before, or will again, with his guts up in his face, his whole life exposed, and even I wasn't too cynical to see it. I wrapped my body around him as if he were the still in the arctic, as if I'd seen him shivering on the ice, thrown out of his tribe without his clothes. I made love to him until I couldn't see the blue anymore on his lips.

Angelica, I'm going to say this and then I'm going to yell. I'm going to scream and howl and yell some more, and then I'm going to stop the recording and I won't send another.

Here it is. You were the only one. You still are the only one. You and that parking garage are all I think about. I love you. Now listen to the ice crack as I scream. That is your goodbye.

We yelled at once, me, windows rolled down, the echo and descent of my howl across the concrete, knocking into the brown brick building, the crushed and broken voice of Peter, Russian and not Russian in a little media player on my laptop, cracking the ice thousands of miles away. We yelled and screamed and crushed our throats in the vibration. Tears ran down my face and plopped down onto thighs in quiet splashes, but we yelled and yelled and stopped at last, listening to the last of it dissipate into our landscapes, these vast things that were never our homes. And then I sat and listened to him breathe, forty-five seconds of quiet in a media player, before the cursor stopped at the end.

Like Me

There was a time when you were my roommate, when the door across the hall was warm with your mystery, and the bang of a hanger on the doorknob would make me sit up straight, arrange my clothes, bury my big toe under the little ones so you couldn’t see that it was curved wrong. You’d walk into the living room, rubbing your eyes, your blonde hair always straight up from the pillow, and you’d light a cigarette and regard me through the blur of morning. As it was, we’d usually been out just a few hours before.

When you sat like that in a pair of loose boxers, always blue striped, I’d try not to let you see me look, would pretend to stare at your cigarette as you leaned forward. Always down the left leg, all the way to the break where your groin muscle dipped in between the front and the back of the thigh. I wondered sometimes if you saw me looking.

I saw it in action that one time, do you remember? Of course you do. That time I came in and found you at your computer when I said I’d be out and forgot my I.D. I didn’t make a sound, but watched you for a long time, watched the bend in your neck, the pull inward of your shoulders. I was there long enough to feel a part of it, as if it were suddenly natural enough for me to drop my own pants, kick them to my room and come back, fingers deep inside of my wet pussy, and if you noticed, I felt you’d do nothing but smile. I didn’t tell you how long I watched. I don’t know how long I watched. I remember backing down the hallway until I hit that creaky patch and heard a rumble in your room.

I’d dream at night that you would come to my bed, the old twin I used to have that made the bedroom seem so small. It squeaked when I moved, bounced enough to throw me off if you jumped on it, and I’d lay there and wait for you, bracing the edge in my fingers I was so sure it would happen. I believed you’d come to me, tears in your eyes, telling me that you’d noticed that I was the one, that I could never accept it, you know, but that you had to tell me anyway. I’d wrap your arm around me and you’d kiss my neck and I’d feel that wet on my neck from your eyes. And it was the kiss. It was all about that kiss you’d give me. In my bouncy bed, waiting for you, I’d lift a thigh and find myself streaming, wet enough to lubricate the entrance of a magnum of Champagne. I didn’t even think of sex until the end, before that, it was only a kiss.

We never dated anyone, you or me. We never talked to anyone. We’d screen calls like an SS officer and with as much respect. One night, drunk and driving home from the clubs, you were chatty, and told me how much you wanted to find someone just like me. I sat there, just like me, and kept my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel.

Splick

He sits in a fog that matches his towel. I make out two brown nipples over what looks, from here, a good fifteen feet of mist in between us, like perfect, unmottled skin. A gift to the world in his own packaging, a box of goodies wrapped in a flat stomach and strong thighs. I've been trying to make eye contact with him, unseizing, unblinking. Though he's caught me twice, I haven't looked away, and his smile, the slightest turn of lip in the steam, hasn't shaken my confidence.

My bag rings. My stare turns into a pout, a distant intruder to make me look hard to get. I make eye contact again and cock my head apologetically before getting the phone. He looks unimpressed, ready to wave a hand in dismissal at me, but I smile fully before he can.

"Hello."

"Hey, sweetie. Just calling to see how your meeting went today."

"I don't know, really," I mumble into the fog and the distant techno thump. The phone, noise-cancelling, only passes on my voice. "I thought it went alright. Everything worked, anyway." My conquest now faces me dead on and taps his foot impatiently, looking at the phone, then my eyes, then my towel. "I'll find out tomorrow, I guess."

"Well, it's a relief your fucking PowerPoint didn't blow up, then," she said. "How's the hotel?"

"Typical hotel room, I guess. Two beds. One desk. One movie channel. WiFi."

There's a long pause in the conversation. The conquest digs his knuckles into his bench, looks at me for confirmation, then stands up.

"I've been missing you," she says.

"I miss you too. Been awhile since we were apart like this, huh?"

The conquest walks, all casual and confidence, to me, his feet spreading across the floor. I can do nothing but watch.

"It's been awhile, yeah," she says. The conquest, now less of a conquest and more like my winnings, leans into me and breathes into the non-phone ear.

"Who is that on the phone?" he says.

"My bed is all cold and empty, honey," I say, loud enough.

"The boyfriend," he says. His mouth is hot. He follows with his teeth and nibbles my ear.

"I've been thinking about you all night. I want to do it by phone, okay?"

My gasp answers her. "Put on that babydoll I bought you."

"Oooh. Your man's a dress-up boy, huh?" he says, then runs the back of his fingers down my sides and up my chest.

"Do you have it on?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, panting a little. I can just hear it, the two of them in either ear. He pulls back and straddles my lap, looking over my body and ending at my eyes.

"That's a good girl," I say, pointing my chin at "girl."

He leans in again. "The wife!" he says.

"Now," I continue, "raise that thing for me. I want to see that pussy."

The man looks affronted in a joking way and unknots his towel at the hip. His cock is half up, slightly curved at his thigh. I stare at it.

It really had been a long time.

"Can you see it?" she asks.

"Yes. Now touch yourself. Start slow." The man takes my free hand and puts it on his cock. I'm hypnotized, distracted and falling. I pull it absently, but not from lack of interest, from fascination, as if I'd never seen one before. "Are you wet?"

"Yes. I'm soaking. I want you."

I begin to stroke him earnestly, as if his were mine. Mine is strapped down under terrycloth, edging between thigh and hip. He hasn't looked yet.

"Play with your tits for me."

The man's head is bent back, his neck strong and smooth but for an arête of an Adam's Apple. His lips are open, swollen, as if I'd been sucking on them. His fingers on his left hand sweep his stomach and pinch his nipple. I let go of him for a moment, take his right hand and place it on my towel's knot.

"Do you have it in your hand?" she asks. "Are you stroking it?"

"Yes baby. I want to be inside you."

He unknots my towel with fumbling fingers and finds my cock. My head slams back.

"You are," she says. "I'm fucking myself."

She's got a dildo, a rubbery, translucent one, slightly smaller than me. I imagine it plunging inside of her and stroke the guy faster. He opens my bag. I shoot him a serious look until he fishes a bottle of lube from it. I'm so dizzy I never would've remembered. He flips open the cap, pours a generous amount on him and my open hand, then me, and returns to me, full duty.

"God, that's good," I gasp.

"I want to hear it," she says. "Put the phone next to it."

I exhale, lower the phone to my cock and lean into the man. He kisses me deep, darting a tongue and rubbing my lips with it. I listen for the sound of our hands on each other and hear it in the haze. Splick splick splick. I bring the phone up, the man's mouth leaving mine in steam. My wife is breathing quickly, catching and releasing each breath. "Did you hear it?" I ask her. My body is starting to rumble. So is my captor's.

"Yes baby. You're fucking me so... good."

"You're so ready. You're so beautiful." I look at him as I say this. He smiles, then returns to shaky pleasure.

"Just keep fucking me. My clit is on fire."

The man leans forward and puts one hand on the wall behind me. He's humping my legs.

"Are you ready to come?" I ask.

"Yes."

He humps faster, his stomach curling hard. I slip down his cock and hold for a moment, then up again, a little more with each stroke. I feel a tickle deep inside. "I'm ready," I say.

He fucks my hand and strokes me with the same hard rhythm.

"Ohhh, God," she says. "Ohhhhh, God. Oh! Oh fuck! OH!"

He comes, grasping tight on my cock, trembling, shooting out one, two, three on my stomach. His arm gives and he falls into my lips, breathing my exhales. I don't mean to, but I bite his lip and jerk forward, coming hard, pulling something deeper than usual, coating his stomach, moaning. Moaning loud.

Twilight in the Morning

The sky is purple, bringing out the green and blue in the trees. I’m talking to my downstairs neighbor’s dog, Percival, who sounds like my first boyfriend. “Judy,” Percival says, leaning dangerously over the hibachi in the gondola, “you don’t understand me.” His voice is intensely like Peter’s. Percival becomes Peter. Peter leans in as if to kiss, but he doesn’t. He leans back and talks to a woman who wasn’t there before. She kicks at the heels of the gondolier and yells, “I don’t speak Urdu! I don’t speak Urdu!” I get up to grab at a passing barge pole and get off of this boat, but the boat is going too quickly, at least forty miles an hour now.

“Aren’t you scared?” Peter asks, right into my ear. An intense feeling comes over me. I can smell him, salty sour and burning sex in my nostrils. I’m frozen now. I feel his beard at my thighs, his nose buried deep in my crevice. “Judy,” he says, “aren’t you scared?” But he can’t be saying that, because my legs have been pushed apart, his tongue sliding along at my clit. Another wave of the smell and electric pleasure falls into me like an interior blanket. I’m ready for him to talk again, but I don’t hear him. I try to move, to test it, but I can’t.

I’m pulled out of the dream like air bubbling through water. When I arrive, grey and still on the bed, the pleasure doesn’t go away. I open my eyes slowly, the tear of the first blink of morning, and bend my head just enough to see the top of a man’s head below. I close my eyes and stay inside.

Two men in hospital scrubs to the waist hold my legs open and watch. A third, bent over the edge of the bed, straps my pussy lips open in long, elastic belts. I’m exposed to him. Still in sleep paralysis, I can easily imagine the men holding my arms down as well. They look me in the face, but with curiosity instead of sympathy, then watch, panting, as the man in the middle begins to lick.

My ankles are lashed down too, my breasts crisscrossed with similar elastic bands, only the nipples out, pointed up at the ceiling, helpless. One of the men in scrubs licks his thumb and twists the pad along one of the nipples, testing it for hardness. My neck bends back, the licks at my pussy getting stronger, harder, wetter. Another man in scrubs appears and pulls his green pants down below his waist. He looks at the other men, who inhale with anticipation. The man turns my head and begins to jerk off over my lips.

The bed quivers as my husband rearranges himself, but I don’t pull myself into reality. I resolve it in a twist of the gurney. The other two men in scrubs have scorching erections, but they can’t touch them, their hands occupied in holding me down. They begin to hump the gurney, slowly, their hands grasping tighter, painfully, onto my arms and thighs. My clit is battered some more, rubbed and slapped and dug into. The forth man, the latecomer, begins to moan just audibly. He gasps. He’s going to come. I need to see it, to feel it, to taste it. The one between my thighs feels me shake before I do and finds a tight structure, a steady, rising tempo. I can’t move to slow it. I can’t hide or twist away or close my legs. The man above my mouth yells out and the other two, the green scrubs so tight on their hips, gasp with him. He shoots all over my mouth, above it, inside it, across my cheek and some in my nose. The smell fills me again.

I lose control, lose sight, lose the men in my head, fall under the spell of a twisting tongue at me, and my back arches, my mouth open, and I wake myself up with the sound of my own cranked growling, something leftover from my dream, as the barge poles are whipping past and Peter asking, “Aren’t you scared?”

Indian Summer

She pulled into the rest area. Our minivan, in barn red, almost enough to camouflage her against the turning trees, but I saw her. I watched her pull into the front parking area and took the back. She didn’t see me. I’d borrowed the car and my face, my body, was a blind spot anyway. Through the scratched glass of the rest stop building, beyond the highway map and the vending machines that charged $1.50 for a can of Pepsi products, she swung open the door at the opposite entrance, her right leg stepping in first. It was a beautiful leg, long and supple like a frog’s on a plate, but it had been a while since I noticed it. Only now, when she was about to lend it out to someone else was when I could see it like someone else would. The other man’s eyes were the only things that could unblur mine, could take me far enough from my own experience and see her again. Pure sex on leave from monogamy.

He walked right past me, retucking his shirt in his jeans, a younger man than me, but just by a little bit, a handsomer man than me, but only in a completely different way. I was big, rough, all forearms and shins. He was slight, but clean-cut, more educated, no doubt. Probably a vegetarian. He had grey hairs at his temples and there only. Other than that, it appeared, as he lifted his glasses over his ears and arranged them, that my wife’s temporary suitor was her idea of Harry Potter in fifteen or twenty years. Down to the twitching grin when he saw her.

She smiled that smile I’d forgotten, and I noticed little wrinkles that were nothing but endearing in the corners of her eyes. She kissed him and stepped back quickly, as if she were a little girl ordered to kiss Santa. He didn’t accept that, however, and leaned into her hungrily, his left hand, slightly toward me, held her upper arm and pulled her into him, their necks bending to get closer. She opened her eyes to look at him before he was finished and let them flutter down again, unsure, then fully there in the moment, feeling him and that and whatever else she allowed herself to feel, alone, in her head, alone and trying to make out this shock of affection for her. His hand, brightly lit in the setting sun behind me, slid around her arm and clutched her breast, pushing it up. She stopped kissing him and watched and blushed.

He whispered something in her ear, and they turned as one my way. I dropped behind the bumper of my borrowed car and froze until they decided which way to go. I circled the car the opposite direction of them and only stood up when they were halfway up the fallow hill behind the rest stop, the dry grass rustling at their ankles. When they hit the crest and dropped slowly over, I followed, the grass tickling me, the wind hissing in it.

They were still standing when I got to the top of the hill. He was undressing her, dropping her sweater over her shoulders, her nipples emerging only to be covered by his lips. Her breasts, in silhouette against the orange-pink sunset, looked unnaturally full, more than I remembered ever dreaming them, but the proof was there, then, as he let her nipples slide out of his lips. He dropped to his knees and lifted her long pencil skirt, the one I’d absently thought frumpy, now suddenly stunningly graceful and stylish, her knees turned into each other under it, coyly preventing his face full entry to her cunt. He looked into her face and stroked her thighs gently until she caved and let them fall apart. She’d shaved. I would never have noticed without this, and I just caught a glint, red in the sunset, of the wet escaping the lips. My hand went under the waistband of my jeans, the swollen desperation I’d forgotten she had the ability to cause.

He admired her for a moment, then, with caution, split her lips in his thumbs and turned his head into her. Her face turned up and her neck, just a few feet above the brown grasses, echoed them, amber and fragile. She trembled for a few minutes under his ministrations, and my forced reaction, the only one possible, was to unzip and unbutton my pants, drop to my knees myself and spit saliva into my hand. My right knee fell on a small, smooth rock. I left it.

The wind swiped the side of the hill, crawled up the back of my shirt and swooped down to them, her hair flying, wild, in it. The whoosh and rattle of it must have sounded the same to her, and it was as if I’d personally passed it on to her, given it to her as a silencing gift. It made an enclosure of us, the three of us, a ceiling over the grass and wildflowers.

Her little girl act ended here, as if she’d remembered me, remembered the clock, remembered the world around her in the wind, she dropped to her knees, pushing his head away and then his shoulders down, and descended his front, the little slut that she was, descended him and took him in her mouth. I inched forward, completely secure that I could not be seen, on my knees and one elbow, to watch her better. His cock ascended her mouth and her hair stuck to the Indian Summer sweat on her cheeks. She worked him hard, her spit shining on him, her arms bulging at the triceps. His eyes closed and he moaned, under this squib bag of come, this spittoon, this worn fleshlight that my wife seemed to be, under her lips and her swinging breasts.

He jumped up and flipped her roughly, something like a smile, or perhaps the smirk of the Park Place owner buying Boardwalk, let him do it. He stood, full on his feet, bent her over so she was touching her toes, her heels flexed and held his cock down for a moment, looking at his prize. My prize, gathering dust on my trophy shelf. Her cunt was bright pink, twisted into itself like a complicated knot. In the orange light of the sunset her skin was brownish, flawless, ready, her cunt like a button that reads “Do Not Press.” He turned his head for a moment and entered her. My knees trembled. I stroked harder. He plunged deep and held her to him by the hips, then began to fuck, deep and twisting and groaning.

A smell came from the north as the wind turned, of burning leaves. The red and yellow and orange of the far-off trees turned to shadow and then black. It shifted again, roaring like an ocean wave to me and her words drifted into it, Shit. Shit. Shit. It matched the air. Shhhh. And then another slight shift and his now, Mmm, take it. Take it. ShhHHHHhhhhhhaawwww.

I didn’t want to fight for the parking lot, would rather retreat than flank, so I sped up my hand, spitting constantly into it, and the pleasure, mixed with the sting prickle of the friction, started its chain reaction in me. I saw, but did not hear, my wife’s groaning orgasm, her mouth an archery bow, her lips stretched tight. I knew for sure that she came when I saw the change in his face. Her cunt muscles were like vises. He still seemed surprised. I’d forgotten, really. And up from my balls and down my cock it came, my come, pumping into the grass and slipping down, falling into translucent islands and returning to the water cycle. I was sure it was her coughing yelp I heard, the one that made me crawl backward from the top of the hill, zip up and walk down to the car. When I blinked, I saw her leg come through the glass door, again and again.

Something silly for your Sunday

input type: verbal command; ts: 21:17; command rank: human Marcie
command content: lick me here; executed: 21:17-21:29; task terminated verbal command: human Marcie; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 03:21; command rank: human Marcie
command content: lick me here, slow; executed: 03:21-03-23; task terminated verbal command: human Henrik; task report: incomplete

input type: keypad command; ts: 05:49; command rank: human Marcie
command content: meet me in the bathroom in five minutes; executed: 05:54; closed task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 05:54; command rank: human Marcie
command content: lick me here, quickly; executed: 05:54-06:00; task terminated verbal command: human Marcie; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 16:49; command rank: human Marcie
command content: vaginal intercourse with clitoral stimulation, no vibration; executed: 16:49-17:17; task terminated verbal command: human Henrik; task report: incomplete

input type: manual command; ts: 17:17; command rank: human Henrik; command content: forced shutdown; task report: shutdown complete 17:17

input type: manual command: ts: 01:14; command rank: human Marcie; command content: boot; task report: boot complete 01:16

input type: keypad command; ts: 01:16; command rank: human Marcie: command content: go down to car, get in passenger seat; compound command executed 01:16-01:18; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 01:25; command rank: human Marcie: command content: find motel room; connect 192.255.1.1; desired zip code 60610; MasterCard ending in 8120; purchase confirmed 01:25; EFT digital signature accepted; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 01:36; command rank: human Marcie: command content: go to room 314; executed: 01:36-01:39; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 01:41; command rank: human Marcie: command content: hold me; excecuted: 01:41-07:22; task terminated verbal command: human Marcie; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 07:22; command rank: human Marcie; command content not registered; error report: human Marcie under duress, message garbled; task report: forced termination due to error

input type: keypad command; ts: 07:22; command rank: human Marcie; command content: vaginal intercourse, no clitoral stimulation; executed: 07:22-07:31; task terminated verbal command: human Marcie; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:16; command rank: human Henrik; command content not registered; error report: human Henrik under duress, message garbled; task report: forced termination due to error

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:16; command rank: human Henrik; command content: tie Marcie to the bed; executed: 10:16-10:21; closed task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:21; command rank; human Henrik; command content: bend over, vaginal vibration on, lubrication on; executed 10:21-10:28; task terminated verbal command: human Henrik; task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:29; command rank; human Henrik; command content: say "Henrik, I Iove you"; executed: 10:29; closed task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:29; command rank; human Henrik; command content: say "Henrik, I hate you"; executed: 10:29; closed task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:29; command rank; human Henrik; command content: say "Henrik, you are the Prime Minister of Gondwanaland"; executed: 10:29; closed task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:29; command rank; human Henrik; command content: say "Marcie, I'm not real"; executed: 10:29; closed task report: successful

input type: verbal command; ts: 10:30; command rank; human Marcie; command content: kiss me goodbye; executed: 10:30; closed task report: successful

Selfish

My cell phone rings. It’s Christopher.

“Would you meet me in my office, please?”

The office is exactly two doors away. I swing out of bed and go to the hallway. The door to the office is closed. I’m compelled to knock.

“Enter,” he says.

The doorknob twists and it occurs to me that I’ve never turned it. Never had this door closed before. Christopher is at his desk, facing the other way.

“Yes?” I ask, trying to quell a laugh.

“What did you do with your vacation day yesterday?”

“I relaxed.”

“I can see that,” he says.

“Well, I suppose I should have done the dishes or something, but I just wanted to take a day and do nothing.”

“Why don’t you come over here?” he asks, getting out of his chair. I’m about to take it, but he kicks it to the side. “Bend over the desk, please,” he says, with a less polite hand on the back of my neck. I’m confused, but do it anyway. He reaches around my front, unties my sweatpants and drops them. He reaches around me, takes the mouse and double clicks on what I now notice is a folder full of .mov files. The silver window pops up and begins to play. It’s me in the bedroom, legs spread, fingers inside.

A teenager voice appears in my twenty-five-year-old throat. “You’ve got a camera in there?”

My ass is spanked, open handed and hard. In the video, the cat jumps on the bed, but I don’t notice her. I’m about to come, my head throwing back, my breasts cresting. The cat sits in the window and stares at me. Here, my ass is spanked again.

“Yes, I’ve got a camera in there. For good reason, it seems. This is what you do all day while I’m off” [spank] “earning money for us?”

There is no answer, so I don’t give one. He spanks me again, and I’m trembling. The pain, from its three centers, begins to join into one stinging, itching sore. In the video, I’m done, my chest heaving, my hand on my thigh, the cat looking out the window. He clicks that one shut and then picks another one. At first, he seems to look randomly, but then finds a specific file, one that seems to bother him the most. Double click and it’s me again, at this desk, my feet spread on either end of it. On the screen is a video. It’s too bright to make out, but I know what it was.

“All day long,” he says. He opens his lower left hand drawer, pulls out a paddle. I see this out of the corner of my eye, but try to turn anyway, to see one of these cameras. He doesn’t let me, takes my head and points it forward. “Yes, you have to look,” he grumbles. The exposure of my ass has become palpable to me. It suddenly feels cold, vulnerable. I didn’t know about the paddle. I dread it. “Look at yourself, you selfish little girl. This was about when I was working through lunch. I’m bent over my desk….” The paddle comes down. My knees bend, my face twists, my pussy, shockingly, swells. It’s the video, I tell myself, and feel the polished wood make gentle contact back where it hit, resting there. “And you’re straddling the one at home. Selfish!” he yells, and the paddle comes down again. “Selfish,” [smack], “selfish,” [smack] “selfish!” My eyes are tearing up. He leaves this video going and opens another, drags it to another corner of the screen. It’s me again, in the bathroom this time. Over the toilet, a bottle of baby oil to my right, a rabbit vibe in the other. My toes curl over the doorknob. I’m spanked again, again, again. My pussy is somehow lit, straining, dripping. He kicks my legs apart, opens yet another video. Me in bed again, a different part of the day, the sun higher across the comforter. The cat is at the foot, resting on my toes as if nothing is happening.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks.

“I…” [spank] “ouch.”

“That’s right, you greedy, selfish bitch.” [spank] “No consideration for me. No thought of my cock.” [spank} “Stupidly going to work while you diddle away all day.” In the video, my eyes stare vapidly at the ceiling. I can’t imagine what I was thinking about. Probably Christopher’s cock, actually. That I didn’t look forward and find a camera is a mystery. [spank] My ass is a giant, burning sting now, the desire in my pussy put into vivid contrast. I would do anything to have him in me right now.

Three movies open now. I’m coming in the one at the desk, my back bent over the chair, my legs trembling. It’s a strange picture. You never see a woman come in porn. I’ve never, actually, seen this before, my knees shut, my whole body rolling in the air. He distracts me with another spank and suddenly I’m impaled on him, his cock reaching for my liver.

“You do the work,” he says. I grasp the sides of the desk and begin to move, to service him. He spanks and I go tighter on him, trying to strangle him in my muscles. The desk video freezes, out of information. In the bathroom, my mouth hangs open, my foot slipping and catching on the door. I’m suddenly intensely envious of myself in these videos. My clit is screaming for contact with anything at all right now. I’m sweating from the effort, grinding Christopher, fucking him at this impossible angle. In the bed video, I’m screaming out “God, God, God, that’s it!” The cat is kicked off the bed with an indignant yelp. “Selfish bitch,” Christopher simply states. I can see his point now. There is rise deep in his nose, a gruff, sinister groan. He’s coming, and I slow on him until he freezes my hips in his hands. He pulls out and spanks me again.

“Close the videos, put something I like on your body and meet me downstairs. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

He leaves me bent over the desk. I know I shouldn’t, but I put my hands between my legs and slip the handle of the paddle inside. It’s still warm from his fist. A few hard swipes on my clit and I come, squirming over the desk, falling to my knees. My ankles hit my ass and I can feel the red hot in the cheeks. After a few moments, I pull myself up, control q the videos away, and go to my bedroom dresser to find something to wear.

Eponymous

We lounge on your couch, grape-eating style, our legs intertwined, your cock lazy and curled on your stomach, one of your balls hanging between your thighs, the other stuck against your left thigh. Your stomach is hairy, soft, reddish brown. It’s flat, the result of years of agonizing denial and a certain Siddhartha masochism. Mine isn’t. It’s round and pudgy, jovial, the result of years of lazing around on couches. Doctors could cut me open and count the rings, “Ah,” they’d say to each other, “that was 2002, the year she found out she liked mayonnaise.” “It was a good year,” the other would say. You poke me in the stomach with your big toe and look me in the eye. I smile.

“Why aren’t there any good words for female masturbation?” you ask, as if it’s been my responsibility all along to create one.

“The only good one I ever heard was ‘petting the old man in the rowboat,’ but we need something shorter.”

“Yes. Flicking?” you suggest.

“Hmm. That’s good. Nub rubbing?”

“Nah.” Your toe slides up my stomach and absently toys with my nipple. It’s turning me on, but I don’t betray it. “Tender tapping?”

“Tapping?”

“Well, I don’t really ‘jerk’ either.”

My nipple is hard now, could tickle the bottom of your feet if you’d let it. My mouth has been opening slowly. I close it.

“Flicking’s good,” I say, because I can’t think with you doing that.

“How often do you flick, then?” you ask, releasing my nipple. You drop your foot between my side and the couch, supporting my back with it. Your toenails scratch an itch.

“It varies. About three times a week on average, but I’ve been known to let it drop to once a week.”

“My God, how do you live like that?” you ask, a twitch in your cock. I pretend not to notice.

“But I have many weeks where I must at least once a day, and some days are completely lost in self-ravaging.”

“Flicking, darling.”

“Flicking. Mostly it varies on time and opportunity. You?”

“Twice a day.”

“Standard.”

“Is it, do you think?”

“Uh-huh. But this morning…. Have you today?”

“Saving it up,” you say, casually. I smile though. You risk a glance and see it. The compliment hit. “You?”

“Saving it up.”

“Why?”

“It’s better if I haven’t in a while.”

“I’m saving because I want to coat that pretty face of yours, though.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

“Hopeless romantic, that’s me,” you joke, but the twitch has become something of a half-erection. “How do you do it?” you ask. We’re going down that road now.

I blush. I buy time. “Do what?”

“Flick,” you say, simply, the K sound emphasized and precise.

“I open the lips, check for wetness….”

“Show me.”

I knew this was coming, but I’m still blushing madly. This conversation is a lot like being tied down. I stare at you, all faux-shock, but you continue to calmly watch, all seriousness and scientific curiosity. My hand slides down and I throw a leg, as elegantly as I can, over the back of your couch. Your eyes drop. My finger goes in, separates the lips so you can see, so I’m exposed to you. I dip a finger, wet, and work back up. And there, less of a flick and more like a rub, I begin.

I’m watching your cock, the arc it makes over your lower abdomen as it raises, unfurls, solidifies. It’s a perfect fit for my mouth and I think about that as I rub myself, what that tastes like, what it feels like to flatten your veins under my lips, making you lose yourself finally, making you unleash, grasping my shoulder as you explode. It works well, my hand coated now. My eyes open again and you’re breathing deeply, an open look in your face and your cock hovering over your lower body, finding no friction in the air. Your hands, however, lay calmly on your chest and between the couch and its cushions. I’m going in then. You can’t expect me to stay here.

I draw my legs back, lean forward, roll onto my knees, and handless, pull your cock into my mouth with a hooked tongue. The rounded tip, the nose of a rocket, all swollen and spongy in the skin. Farther, my lips sliding over the tip, like making my way over the points of an arrow, headed for the shaft, and the skin here is softer, looser. It’s been years since I’ve had an uncut one in my mouth. I play with it for awhile, move the skin around with the tip of my tongue, then try to hold the slack with it, moving back and forth along the skin with my lips. My fingers slip easily over my clit, the angle allowing a free flow of slick wetness to my fingers. Now, farther down on your cock, the lips scouting before they pull you in, my tongue welcoming you, warming you, teasing you and tasting you. And my fingers find a new high, and my back arches for a moment. I snap them off of me for a moment, grab your balls instead, cradle them, pull them a little in their tight suede bag. Then, my fingers still a little wet, now receiving a bit of the saliva that drips from my mouth, I go behind your balls, massage you there firmly.

You jump a little as I find a rhythm, matching the swing of my fingers to the one in my neck. I want to ask you what you want, but my mouth is full.

“Go back to yourself,” you say. “Get flicking, girl.”

So I let your cock down slowly, push off your knees and sit back, my legs splaying even less elegantly than before. And there, the fingers of my left hand spread my lips in a V shape, my clit left out there, a helpless little thing to be battered, hard like a cherry and soaking in its own brandy. The other hand reaches and batters it, pushes harder into the side, and I can feel it throb, my mind singularizing on this spot, clit, clit, clit. You’ve started to stroke yourself, and your lips pull. Your eyes close for a moment and you have a half swoon. So do I. You sit up, crawl to me on your knees, and whimper. Come squirts before you’re ready, swipes my breasts, my stomach, my clit. I rub it in there and lose you and the world for a moment, crash inside, lose thought and self. There is you and there is peace and there is joy and then, then, then, there is breath again.

“You know,” you say, falling back to your side of the couch, “when I was watching you….”

“Yeah?”

“I think ‘petting the old man in the rowboat’ might be better.”

I roll some of your come in my index finger and flick it in your face.

The Missing Sex Scene: Superman

Clark sits on the roof of The Daily Planet, watching the slow rotation of the world. Metropolis is all lights and the squeaking of brakes. He loves it here, but decides to do it anyway. He holds his breath for a few moments, thinks of Lois, her bright eyes. She teased him today, his winter boots, large and furry. She said he ought to shave his legs, farmboy. The weather doesn’t bother him, but she does. He bought the boots for the tease. He exhales smoothly and evenly, starting with the clouds. Atoms stick to atoms in them and they begin to come down, alarming frozen ice shards. He can do snowflakes, convincing ones even if they’re simple, but he doesn’t have the time. The ice shards make little flock flock noises as they hit his face and overcoat. He knows that the shock of his body breaks them at the crystalline level. He wonders if they would hurt a normal man and eases them back a little bit. That’s the problem with imperviousness. Tweaking is impossible.

He blows, still in the same breath, across new windcurrents, rearranging them, creating distortion in the upper atmosphere that drift down through the higher air pressure. He finishes with a few small puffs aimed at power lines miles in the distance. He focuses in on them and watches them fall. Large parts of the city go dark except for a few headlights and cigarettes. Each pop makes him feel bad, but it’s nights like this that keep the spirit of the city up. People need a challenge to come together, he thinks, then laughs at his pun.

The Daily Planet goes dark, and more importantly, Lois’s apartment goes dark. He made sure of that, snapped the little power line right on her street. If he’s going to do this, he will not mess up. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to Lois. Because Lois is perfection. It’s time to rush down to her now, turn over a few chairs in a bumbling way. Call out her name, as if he needs her help, is afraid of the dark. There is no dark for him. He’s embarrassed watching people struggle in it, their eyes open and arms out. He wants to help them, but he can’t.

“I love you, Lois,” he says in a voice that’s booming, but so low-pitched that only he can hear it, and heads down to save her.



“It’s alright, Lois, no monkey business. I’ll sleep on the couch,” Clark says just before he closes the door. She watches him lock it before she sighs and accepts the night ahead of her.

“Did you just say ‘monkey business’?” she asks, but shakes his response off before he can give it to her. A housefly hovers over her head. He’s mortified and takes it out with a quick zap of the eyes. It lands on her head, legs in the air. He sends a quick puff to throw it off of her. “Drafty in here, huh?” she says. He sighs. Flies or drafts, he will always disappoint her. She goes to his framed pictures on the windowsill. When she looks at his visage, he sends warm waves to her pussy from behind. He’s never done this before, not on purpose. His X-ray vision shows some subtle effects. So far, so good. “You know what, Clark?” she says, a little cautiously, “You were a good looking kid. Is that your house?”

“Yes,” Clark says. He warms his body temperature as he walks to her, radiates near her. He’s not doing it on purpose. He asked Jimmy one day if this happened to him when he was in love and Jimmy stared at him for a moment. Clark panicked, thought he’d just given something away, but Jimmy just admitted that he’d never been in love with a girl before.

Lois looks a little awkward, searching for a way into normal conversation, Clark at her side. He reaches around her, positively molten now, and points at the photo of the house. “Yes,” he says. “That’s the tree that my father planted as a boy, that’s him there, and this is the back door, and this is the window to my bedroom.” It was a bad way to end it, the mention of the bedroom. Clumsy. But he couldn’t find anything else in the picture to comment on. He has lots of powers, but smell isn’t one of them. His sense of smell is simply normal. For the first time in his life, he regrets it. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to Lois before in calm air and would love to smell every part of her. He smells only her hair and that Lois perfume.

The space between them is palpable, more liquid than gas. Clark can see her breasts rise and fall slowly in his peripheral vision. He stands quietly and radiates, happier than he’s ever been. The rest of it would be nice, but he doesn’t need it anymore. He turns his head and says it again, if anything, louder than he did before, “I love you, Lois!”

“That was weird,” she says. “Did you just feel that?”

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, pushing up his glasses. Standing this close, she can see they’re non-prescription and he shouldn’t have drawn attention to them, but he did anyway. Habit.

She turns to him and looks for a moment right at him. He thinks his jig is up until he realizes she’s only looking at his eyes.

“No, thank you. It’s late.” She breaks apart from him. “I’m going to bed.” As she walks away, he gets a good look at her pussy. It’s dripping. He considers running to her, picking her up, sweeping her into the sky, surrounding her in the warmth of his cape, watching the ice shards melt on her skin as he makes love to her. His feet remain where they are and he listens to the crush of the ice on his windows.



He lies on the couch and watches her try to sleep through the wall. She turns and flips and pulls at his shirt. He’s been popping her with warmth, as subtle as rain in the summer. In the end, he’d be content to do this all night, to watch her squirm, make her lose her inhibitions and make herself come. He’s lying in a fetal position on the couch, the ache in his pajama pants begging for relief. “Make love to me,” he says in the deep voice, not terribly loudly. “Make love to me, Lois.”

Lois opens her legs and slips her fingers into the side of her panties. Clark gasps. She punches the mattress.

“Fuck it,” she says, and Clark is shocked at the word. His mouth is still open when she gets out of bed, goes to him on the couch, spreads his legs and lies down between them.

“Is this okay, Clark?” Her voice is broken as if she’s been crying, but it always gets this way when she’s under any kind of stress. “I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I don’t… know… what’s coming… over me.”

“Lois,” he says in a controlled voice that sounds too much like his alter ego, “I….” He kisses her and she begins to move over him, to slide on him, to let her fingers go to all his places. He shivers like a scared schoolgirl and he wonders if some of this Clark persona has started to metastasize onto his real personality. He picks her up from what should be an impossible leverage and carries her reverently back to the bedroom, the side of her bottom bumping his penis, and lays her down, his hands sliding up her sides as lets her down, finally ending in her hair. He opens her legs and lets his cheeks brush across the inside of her thighs as he descends. He pushes forward, the smell of her at last, and wraps the loose crotch of her panties in one superhuman finger.

She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He leans into her glistening want, splits her between the finger and thumb and lets her have this, just this. That’s the least of what she deserves.

His tongue flaps so fast on her that his saliva can barely balance out the friction. He makes quick, indiscernible dips down between licks to pick up some of her oozing sweet to keep it up. She has an orgasm, releasing across the bed madly, sheets in her fists, with barely a moment to yell before he brings her to another. He works her into three before she begs him to stop, begs him to come up and fuck her. She said that word again. He accepts it. She can’t quite be all there right now.

He climbs her, dropping his pajamas as he goes, her face still open and panting. He keeps his face away to be polite, but she leans forward and kisses him anyway, a feral Lois, new and shocking. “Fuck me,” she says again, taking his penis to her between two fingers, pushing him forward with her legs around his torso.

She can’t know, he reminds himself. Why can’t she know? She just can’t, he reminds himself again. He struggles, counting, as he makes love to her, as she sheathes him inside of her. He tweaks it until he thinks he has a normal pace, though he can’t say for sure. He keeps it to the same rhythm that Mr. White exhibited when he mimed making love to a temp. It’s good this way anyway, he tells himself. He can pay attention to every part of her, can nuzzle her neck and tenderly cup her breasts. She’s sweating and he can taste it. He loves her, knows that he’s practically setting fire to her with his body temperature but can’t help it. He opens his eyes for a moment and burns a cigarette-sized hole in the pillow next to her face. Darn.

“What’s burning?” she asks, but soon forgets it.

She sighs, stops him, makes some adjustment, feels his penis in her fingers and bends her knees back to her chest. She guides his penis down as he stares at her, unsure of what she’s doing. “Lois?” he says.

She pushes his penis into her behind. “Lo-“ he starts again, then feels the tight around him. He swallows and waits disbelievingly as she slowly falls onto him, wincing. A wall inside of her relaxes. He gets in further. He is overcome by the tight, the intense pressure of her. Another wall falls and she relaxes. “Go,” she says.

He begins to make love to her behind, his mind melted, his body outside of his control. He starts to go as fast as he can, which is to say, faster that any normal man can. Her eyes squint and she has another orgasm. He’s sure that he’s hurt her, but she’s not hurt, she screams his name out. “Clark!” she yells.

“Lois, I love you,” he says in a normal voice, the sense in him vanished somewhere in the air.

“I love you too, Superman,” she says.

He has no time to react, pulls out before he gets her, orgasms with Superman force, blowing a hole in her pillow and consequently the wall. Feathers are flying when he opens his eyes. One lands on her lips. She puffs it away and smiles at him. “I love you too, Superman,” she says and laughs. That Kryptonite laugh of hers.