I can’t think of many fates more frustrating than growing up a smart, horny, deeply closeted lesbian in a small town in upstate New York. I took all the hard classes, banged out homework, and remained studiously indifferent whenever anybody brought up the subject of boys or dating. Meanwhile I whacked off furiously to all the girls at school, but Tara Franks in particular. She was in my AP English class: a strawberry-blonde volleyball star, honors society president, presumptive valedictorian, straight as an arrow and totally out of my league.
In retrospect, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fooling anyone, my parents in particular.
The house across the street from us finally sold. It was one of those awful McMansions, immense and generic, and in immensely poor taste, and it had stood empty for years, a monolithic testament to the recession and the financial crisis.
The people who bought the place were from New York City. Yuppies. Weekenders.
They were a gay couple (which I thought was cool, though I don’t think that has anything to do with this story) and they had kids — two girls, identical twins actually — who were almost exactly my own age. They were cute, in a wholesome Life Magazine sort of way, but they were from an utterly different world. They went to school at some fancy private school down in the city. I rarely ever even saw them, but they seemed nice enough. At least Faith did; Grace struck me as a bit of a twat. Actually, I had trouble telling them apart. But that didn’t stop me from whacking off to them.
Like I said, I didn’t see them very often. But one fine Saturday morning in September, when my parents were at the god-damned farmer’s market and I was home alone in my bedroom, horny and kind of bored as usual, I happened to look out the window and saw one of the twins sitting alone on her white plastic front porch, reading a book. Some combination of boredom, lust, and curiosity impelled me to cross the street and go say ‘hi’ to her.
She closed her book and watched me approach, making me feel self-conscious in the extreme as I plodded across their neatly manicured lawn.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m glad you came over! I’m Faith by the way. It’s OK, people get us mixed up all the time. Do you want to do something? Do you want to go for a hike?”
Did I ever!
“Cool, it’ll be a hoot. Come on upstairs with me while I change.”
I didn’t know why she needed to change clothes – she was wearing jeans and a light sweater – but I didn’t mind. I followed her inside and up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with her twin.
The place was sterile, operating-room clean, far cleaner than our house had been, ever. I felt schlubby and corn-fed in those austere surroundings. We went into a bedroom that looked like a page out of the Ikea catalogue. The door closed behind me, and Faith pulled her sweater off over her head.
Her boobs weren’t all that big, but she was wearing an expensive-looking lacy and frilly scarlet bra, the kind that I didn’t own and probably never would. It looked damn good on her. She flashed me a smile – didn’t even try to hide it – and slithered out of her jeans. Her panties – what there were of them – matched the bra.
“Do you like them?” Faith asked, “Do you want to see what’s inside?”
I just stammered and gaped.
“I’ve been following your eyes,” she said, “Go ahead, you know you want to. It’s no big deal.” She tossed her blonde hair fetchingly. “Practically everyone at our school does it.”
I emitted an unsexy squeak that must have sounded close enough to a ‘yes’. Faith peeled off her skimpy, sassy panties. Her tan lines were starkly defined, and her pussy was shaved just as bare as in the pornos. She looked beautiful.
My own panties were sopping wet, and my clit was at rigid attention. I wanted to lick her cunt in the worst sort of way.
Faith sat down on the edge of her bed and spread her legs apart. Petite lips pouted slightly open. Her labia glistened wetly, and a strand of drool hung tantalizingly suspended in space. She was excited too.
“Go ahead, have a lick,” she told me, biting her lips flirtatiously, just like a magazine model. “I want you to.”
I got down on my knees with my face so close to her pussy I could feel the heat radiating off it. She sighed softly and ran her fingers through my hair. “Lick me,” she whispered. Her clit was fat and pink, and seemed to strain out toward me.
I’d tasted plenty of pussy before: my own. This was an entirely different kettle of fish. I shivered with anticipatory delight. I stuck my tongue out and gently traced the opening of her slit, all the way from the fold of her butt-cheeks to her hooded clit. She was salty and musky and I was immediately addicted.
Faith moaned out loud and gripped my hair tighter as I licked her pussy. I didn’t know what I was doing; I made it up as I went along, probing the depths of her pussy and circling her clit. Whatever I was doing, it sure seemed to be working: she was soaking wet and huffing and puffing like a steam train. Of course, the more excited she got, the wetter that made me.
I slid a finger, then two, up inside her pussy. She was hot and tight inside, and her pussy seemed to gobble me up. She was flat on her back on the bed now, moaning and groaning in a most gratifying way. Her wetness was all over my face as I tickled her bulging clit with the tip of my tongue.
“Put a finger in my ass!” she begged/commanded. Her butthole was tiny and crinkled and sexy. I withdrew one of the fingers from her pussy, slick with her juice, and pressed it against her winking anus. It slid right up inside, captured by the little ring of muscle.
“Oh fuck me!” Faith wailed. Her legs were kicking wildly in the air, her hips were bucking hard, mashing her wet pussy against my face. I kept my tongue glued to her clit as I fucked her pussy and her ass with my long fingers.
“I’m going to fucking come! …You’re going to make me come! Holy shit, I’m coming! I’M FUCKING COMING!!”
I couldn’t breathe, and I didn’t much care. I stayed with her all the way through her flailing, thrashing orgasm. When she finally settled down, I came up for air, grinning like a fiend. I felt like Queen of Fucking Everything.
“Well let the whole block know, why don’t you?” Faith’s sister Grace was leaning in the doorway, applauding sarcastically. “Nicely done,” she said to me. “Now are we going to the fucking mall, or what?”
Faith got dressed without a sideways glance at me. I followed them downstairs. They got into their sporty little red convertible, and since they didn’t seem inclined to invite me along, I plodded back across the road to my own house, feeling like a fall leaf tossed and tumbled in the wind.
It was the next Saturday morning, and I was raking leaves. It seemed like a pretty pointless activity to me; they just blew back down again, and they’d all be covered with snow soon anyway; but my Dad insisted, and he paid my allowance.
I was lost in meandering thought, playing back in my head the events of the previous weekend while the rake rasped, when I happened to look up. There she was, standing not six feet away from me, watching me work with an appraising look on her face.
Despite myself, I broke out into a huge, idiotic grin.
“You’re really good at it,” she said. “Or that’s what my sister says.”
Oh fuck. It was her.
Grace stuck her tongue out at me. “You looked really good at it too,” she said. “Only one way to be sure though. Come on over.”
I let the rake fall, the handle burying itself in grass and brown leaves. I’d spend half an hour searching for it later on. I followed Grace blindly across the street, dodging an SUV that was doing at least twice the speed limit.
Inside the house, Faith was sitting by the coffee table with their two dads and some grown up guests. She flashed me a sweet smile as I followed her sister meekly up the stairs.
In the bedroom, the door closed behind me with a click. Good thing. I’m not sure I would have had the presence of mind to close it myself.
Grace turned to face me. She shrugged and brushed the hair out of her face. “You want me? Go ahead and undress me.”
I could hear muffled conversation downstairs. Feeling clumsy and slightly ridiculous, I lifted her pink sweater up and pulled it off over her head. Grace stood passively, barely raising her arms to help.
She stood in front of me in a black lace bra and jeans. I got down on my knees and unlaced her tennis shoes, pulling them off one at a time. When I pulled her socks off, she raised her legs, one at a time, offering me the soles of her feet to kiss. My panties were sticky and drenched, my clit throbbing.
I fumbled with the fly of her jeans while she smirked down at me. I could feel the heat of her pussy even through the denim. Finally I got them unbuttoned and tugged them down around her ankles. She was wearing black panties that matched her bra. My own underwear hardly ever matched.
She sighed dramatically, reached around her back, and unsnapped her own bra, letting it fall on the floor beside me. I gazed up at her tits as she pulled and pinched her own nipples.
“Go on,” she said impatiently. “While we’re still young here.”
I pulled her panties down. They slid down her smooth legs and settled in a small heap around her ankles. Grace’s pussy was bare as a baby’s. Not a single stray hair, no hint of stubble. She was drooling wet, and her clit bulged expectantly out. Even that up close and personal, I couldn’t tell her apart from her sister.
“Lick,” Grace said, squeezing her fat labia with two fingers, making her clit bulge out even more. I licked, flicking my tongue like a kitten drinking from a bowl of milk. She tasted like sex; that is to say salty and tangy, and if not actually delicious then absolutely intoxicating. She seemed to like what I was doing: my lips were covered in her wetness and her juices were dribbling down my chin.
“You look fucking horny like that,” Grace told me. I grinned into her pussy and redoubled my efforts, lapping until my tongue ached.
“I want to feel inside you,” I told her, running my fingers up and down her juicy, swollen vulva, teasing in between the lips.
“Oh no you don’t,” Grace said, grabbing my hand and moving it out of the way. “Not unless you’re rich. I’m a virgin. Bonafide. And I intend to stay that way until I get a suitable offer. Now keep licking.”
I kept licking.
It didn’t take her very long. When Grace came, she grabbed me by the hair and mashed my face into her pussy, grinding my outstretched tongue against her clitoris. She sucked air in through her teeth with a hiss, stood up on her tip-toes, and her whole body quivered. I felt like God. My cunt had never been wetter.
When she was done, she took a step back, pushing me away. I had soaked straight through my jeans.
“You are good,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Now that you’ve had lunch, are you ready for dessert?”
She turned around, bent over the bed, presenting her gorgeous pale ass to me. I swear, it was like she could read my filthy mind. I dove in, sticking my face right between her cheeks and lapping eagerly at her dainty little asshole while she masturbated. It was fucking hot.
Grace came again, with that same quivering hiss, and I almost came right along with her, just from the raunchiness of the situation. My face was slick with her come, and there was a massive dark wet spot in the crotch of my jeans.
She finally pulled away from me, and I fell to the floor, panting. Grace turned around to face me, and ran one lazy finger in between her puffy labia, slowly and deliberately licking her juices off of it. Her sister cleared her throat, directly behind me.
“I came up to see if you guys wanted any cookies,” Faith said. “But I see you’ve already eaten.”
“Honey, your friends are here.”
I’d been upstairs, slogging away at homework, and thinking seriously about ditching it and whacking off instead. Faith and Grace had become my favorite masturbatory subjects of late, though Tana was still a close second.
There they were, framed in the doorway, their sporty little red convertible parked in our driveway.
“You should go out with them,” my mom said. “You’re always so diligent about schoolwork. Go out and have some fun for once!”
Two minutes later I was wedged into the back of that red convertible while the twins exceeded the speed limit by an order of magnitude.
We went to the Blue Stone Tavern, a bar my parents went to sometimes. Nobody seemed to look twice at us as we sat down at a table and ordered drinks. I asked for a whiskey sour. It felt cool and exciting to be masquerading as an adult.
The twins took pills with their vodka tonics; a handful of multi-colored capsules apiece. They didn’t offer me any. The place was dark and musty and the music was loud. Grace deftly unbuttoned my pants.
Faith was on my left, and Grace was on my right. “Pull your panties down,” Grace whispered in my ear.
I did as I was told, feeling wild and totally out of control. I was, of course, soaking wet and slick already.
Grace and Faith were wearing matching cute little schoolgirl skirts. I slid a hand under both their skirts and found out that they weren’t wearing panties. Both of them were slick and wet. They reached across my lap and started touching me under the table, running their fingers up and down my clit, darting inside my pussy, circling my clit. I could feel their thighs pressed against my own. Above the table, we maintained a façade of normal conversation. They were bitching about the allowance they got from their dads, which was about ninety dollars a week more than I got.
A redneck with a denim jacket, a skanky beard, and a faded blue denim jacket sat nonchalantly down at our table. The girls, their fingers buried to the hilt in my crotch, smiled like they’d been expecting him.
There was a transaction. Between the cocktail and the fingers that never stopped molesting my cunt, I was fuzzy as to the details; but Dude handed Grace a rolled-up wad of cash, a lot of twenties rubber-banded together; and Faith discretely passed him a ziplock bag.
“Who’s your friend?” the redneck leered. “She’s awful quiet.”
“She’d love to suck your dick,” Grace said.
“But it’ll cost you double,” Faith put in.
Dude laughed like he was in on the joke, and disappeared into the crowded bar. I squirmed, squelching in a puddle of my own making, aching to come.
“I’ve got to pee,” Grace announced.
“Care to join us in the ladies?” Faith asked.
I hurriedly pulled up my panties and buttoned my pants, and followed the twins to the bathroom.
Thank God it was clean. Faith and Grace snorted lines of what I assume was coke off the sink. Then Faith sat down on the toilet and spread her legs, and I got down on my knees and licked her wet pussy until she came, while Grace filmed us with her iPhone.
They traded places. I took the opportunity to pull down my pants again. “That’s right babe,” Grace said, “Masturbate for us.”
Someone knocked on the door. “Just a minute,” Faith called, as she slipped the tip of one wet finger up my asshole. I lapped furiously at Grace’s pussy.
Grace came hard, kicking her legs and hissing like a cat. I was just about there myself. Faith’s finger was insinuating itself deeper and deeper up my butt.
“Don’t move,” Grace growled, and I didn’t. My face was coated in her tangy, slick juice, my tongue pressed against her slick swollen cunt.
The knock at the door again, more insistent this time. “Just a minute,” Faith repeated, extracting her finger from my gasping butt hole.
Grace urinated right into my mouth. It took me by surprise, so some if it splashed onto my face and shirt, but mostly the warm, salty liquid just filled my mouth like some weird kind of sports drink. I swallowed thirstily. It didn’t taste gross or anything; I didn’t think it was nasty, just super hot. When she was done, I licked her clean, we all three got dressed, and left the bathroom, parading smugly past a line of impatient women.
In the back seat, on the way home, I spread my legs and whacked off furiously while Grace and Faith watched in the rear-view mirror.
“We’re having a party at the house next weekend,” Grace said.
“Our dads are staying down in the city, so it’ll be just us,” Faith put in. “Will you be our guest?”
“You’ll be the piñata,” Grace said.
Of course I would come.
Everyone was there. All the jocks, all the rich and popular kids; everyone I would never hang out with. It was a party I would never ever have been invited to.
Tara Franks was there, looking gorgeous and effervescent in a fluffy pink sweater. Her boyfriend was there too, Cliff Something-Or-Other, the quarterback of the football team and class president.
The music was blastingly loud, Lady Gaga or some shit that I don’t listen to. Everyone was drinking, and the whole house reeked of pot.
They led me upstairs, into the bedroom. They’d shoved the bed to one side and set up the big, class-topped coffee table in the middle of the floor.
I stripped while the twins watched me objectively. There was only one bed in the bedroom, I noticed for the first time. They must sleep in it together at night. The implications of that made me a little weak in the knees.
When I was naked, they had me kneel atop the coffee table. Faith produced a pair of shiny steel chrome handcuffs and secured my hands behind my back. The window panes rattled in time with the bass line.
Grace had a large and expensive-looking bottle in her hand. “Have you ever had a champagne enema?” Faith asked me.
I’d never had an enema of any sort.
“You’ll love it,” Grace told me, and gave her sister’s boob an affectionate squeeze through her shirt. “Bend over.”
I lay my head down on the glass tabletop, with my naked rump thrust up in the air. After a bit of a struggle the sisters got the cork out with a satisfying *pop*, and foamy liquid came bubbling out. Grace proceeded to shove the neck of the bottle up my ass.
It felt distinctly strange. First of all, getting it in kind of hurt, and Grace wasn’t gentle about it. Once the neck of the bottle was in past my anus though, it mostly just felt weird. I felt vulnerable and kind and ridiculous, but my clit was definitely singing. The bubbly liquid stung and cramped as it infiltrated my bowels. I moaned, and Grace giggled. I wished I could touch my clit, but my hands were cuffed behind my back. The position I was in was deeply humiliating, and I felt totally out of control. Grace was right, I did love it.
Without any warning, she yanked the bottle out, leaving my asshole gasping. I went off like a geyser, spraying champagne across the bedroom. Both girls squealed with hysterical laughter.
It was about then that it hit me, like a framing hammer right in the forehead, that I was drunk. Fucked-up, shattered, shitfaced drunk.
Faith opened the door to the bedroom, and kids came in and started milling around. It should have freaked me out to be naked and on display in front of all the popular kids from school, but between the alcohol and my libido, I don’t remember it bothering me at all.
“Everything is free tonight,” announced Grace, “Everything is on the house. You want something to take home, just talk to Faith.”
You know how some people black out when they get too drunk, and can’t remember a thing? Well I remember it all, in glorious living Technicolor, though it has a disjointed quality to it, like someone’s vacation slides where the sequence got all mixed up.
I remember random people squeezing my butt and my boobs. I remember seeing a bunch of kids doing lines off the top of the dresser. I remember seeing Cliff Something-Or-Other, with Faith’s help, shoving a big needle into his muscular forearm. I remember Tara screaming at him, calling him an asshole, and a bunch of people laughing.
Then Cliff got naked and climbed onto the bed, and Faith and Grace stripped down to their underwear and snorted fat lines of cocaine off his erect cock.
I’d never seen an actual erection before, and I remember thinking it looked strangely biological. I didn’t find it disgusting or anything, just odd. What a weird design. I don’t know how anyone kind finds the things attractive. But to each their own…
The lights got turned down, and it got quieter, and I think the mood and focus of the party shifted. I saw Grace and Faith in bed together, tangled up in a 69, while Cliff masturbated.
Then someone tried to stick his dick in my pussy, but came before he could get it inside. Someone else was trying to stuff his cock into my mouth, but it wouldn’t seem to get hard, and he was yelling furiously at me and slapping me across the face like it was all my fault or something.
And then Tara grabbed me and pulled me away and helped me get down the stairs, and we ended up in another bedroom, the Dads I guess, and we were kissing in the dark, and then her clothes came off and I was eating her pussy out like a starving woman.
She had soft fur down there, and she was very wet, and she tasted like some spice I can’t think of, and she came so long and hard and loud that it was kind of scary.
Then I started to feel a little sick, then a lot sick, and then I was dry-heaving, and struggling my way out of the house and across the lawn and across the street and into my own front yard. I crawled the last little way into the house, gagging and sobbing.
My mom, to whom I am forever grateful, didn’t ask any questions beyond “Are you OK?”. She cleaned me up, used a bobby pin to unlock the handcuffs, got some pajamas on me, and put me to bed. I slept long and hard, and felt like shit the next day.
American History was my worst class. It was the only class I had that wasn’t A.P. or honors, and it was painfully boring. I still felt shaky and fragile, and I knew that half the school had seen me naked, and it was only Monday morning and I already wanted the day to be over. Mr. Crowfoot, the teacher, was droning on and on about the Reconstruction, and I was more or less wishing I was dead, when Cliff What’s-His-Name collapsed.
I’d never paid much attention to Cliff: he sat in the back of the class and was kind of a loudmouth joker. The only reason I’d even been aware of him was that he was my primary crush’s boyfriend. Anyway, he fell out of his seat like a big bag of potatoes, and the whole class kind of gasped simultaneously, and then things started happening really fast. Mr. Crowfoot walked over and checked his pulse, and then yelled “Someone call 911!” and started doing CPR, and suddenly there were sirens everywhere and people were sobbing and parents were showing up and grabbing their kids and no-one seemed to know what was going on.
In the end, eight kids died that day, and another thirteen were in critical condition. The word was someone had been selling bad heroin from down in the city. Later that day, every cop car in the world converged on the house across the street. By that weekend, a For Sale sign had gone up. I never saw or heard from Faith and Grace again.
Tara Franks caught up with me in the hall.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m OK,” I said cautiously, “How is your boyfriend?”
“Cliff,” she said. “Ex-boyfriend. He’s still in the hospital. They say he might have brain damage. I’m not sure how they could tell.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Listen,” Tara said, and suddenly she was very close to me, and my heart was pounding in my chest. “Listen, you made me feel really good the other night at the party. I’d like to make you feel good too. Do you think you could teach me?”
I took her hand, and she squeezed my fingers. My clit jumped and my pussy drooled. She did not let go of my hand. “I’d be happy,” I said, “to teach you anything you want to learn.”
I’d told my wife I’d be out working on my sunburn. She was already sitting in front of the computer, plugging away at her novel. I went down to the beach.
I was sitting on my beach chair under a very large and very ugly umbrella, hiding behind a cheap pair of dark sunglasses, pretending to read Dostoyevsky. In actuality, I was looking at all the pretty girls go by, mentally undressing and molesting them. Some were in bikinis, some in one-piece suits, some in shorts and tees. My dick was lazily half-hard in my swim trunks. I love the female body in all its iterations: the fat and the skinny ones, the wives and mommies who are my age, the college chicks half as old as me, and their saucy and giggling younger sisters too. I’m going to hell, I know it, but I’d fuck them all, each and every one, young and old, in the pussy and up the ass.
Two girls were coming toward me, sashaying along the scandalously young end of the spectrum. I studied them from behind the safety of my shades. They were both wearing shorts and t-shirts. One girl was tall and winsome, like a sapling willow, with dirty shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and the smallest hint of breasts under her camisole. The girl walking beside her was short and curvy, chunky even, with a cheerful freckled round face, an up-turned button nose, short dark hair, cut-off denim shorts, and big round boobs that bounced pleasantly under her shirt as she walked. She was holding a large blue Slurpee, and when her pretty lips wrapped around that straw for a sip, I died a small death.
I studied them carefully as they approached, as secure behind my sunglasses as an arc welder behind his mask. There was something funky about the way the shorter girl walked. Finally, I figured it out. Her legs ended at the knee. From there on down, she was walking on dull, metallic gun-metal grey carbon-and-titanium prosthetics, terminating in black high-top sneakers. Were her legs amputated? Was she born that way?
Suddenly, the girls were right in front of me, almost close enough to reach out and touch. What was going on? I wondered if they had felt the intensity of my gaze. I blushed behind my glasses. I couldn’t decide if it was worse that I was staring at the short girl’s prosthetic legs, or at her tits. They stopped directly in front of me, and my heart pounded. My thoughts were most definitely impure.
I wondered what their pussies looked like: did they shave, were they trimmed, did they have bald little snatches? The tall one, I guessed, had a neat little landing strip; her shorter friend would be the natural type. Pouty, hidden lips; or proud pink labia that peeked out? They both had really cute tits. Fuck, I was getting hard. They stood just in front of my beach towel, the skinny girl’s toes curling in the sand. The chunky girl with the mechanical legs looked impatient.
She nudged her taller, skinnier friend. “Um,” Skinny Girl said, “Excuse me. I was wondering… do you think we could borrow twenty dollars?”
“Pardon me?” I set my book down in the sand, losing my imaginary place.
Artificial Legs nudged her again and Skinny seemed to get a little bolder. “Could we, like, you know, borrow twenty bucks from you?” She sounded like a spoiled little brat asking Daddy for an advance on her allowance. Christ, just how old were these girls? Or, more to the point, how young?
“We’ll make it worth your while,” Shorty chimed in. “C’mon Jessy, show him your boobs.”
Skinny Girl Jessy froze. She stood up straight and glanced quickly side to side. The tips of her ears glowed fiery red. “Catherine–”
Short Girl Catharine elbowed her hard, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Don’t use my real name!” she hissed. “Just show him your fucking tits.”
Jessy sighed dramatically. The blush had spread from the tips of her ears down to her angelic cheeks. She wriggled out of her t-shirt. She was wearing a little purple bikini top underneath. Shyly, she lifted up one cup, exposing the boob beneath.
It was perfect, the kind of breast that might have been Photoshopped up by the editors of some sleazy website devoted to beautiful, airbrushed, flat-chested teenage girls. It was pale and flawless, barely a speedbump, with a tiny little nipple, stiff and erect, like a luscious little candy, right in the center.
I saw it for a second, and then it was gone, hidden behind the soft and silky fabric of Jessy’s swimsuit.
“Pfft!” Catharine scoffed. “He’s not going to give you twenty dollars for that. Now here’s a pair of twenty-dollar tits!”
She lifted up her own shirt, clenching it between her teeth, revealing a pink and frilly bra. Both hands gripped the cups of her brassiere, and her breasts tumbled out: huge and soft and jiggly, with large, crinkled brown areolae and thick, stiff nipples that poked out like pencil erasers.
Catherine let me ogle her boobs for a long moment before stuffing them back into their restraints. My dick was now standing straight up inside my aqua-blue swim shorts.
“Well Jess,” Catharine sniggered, “It looks like we have his attention. Maybe you’d like a look at her purdy little pussy. That should be worth twenty bucks.”
Jessy unbuttoned her cut-off shorts and shimmied them slightly down. She was wearing a skimpy purple bikini bottom underneath. She hooked a thumb in the front of them, and leaned forward, offering me a glimpse of what lay inside: an large unruly patch of soft and fluffy light-brown hair.
“Pretty nice, huh?” Catharine stuck out her tongue at me. “You should taste it… delicious!” She unbuttoned her own jeans. “I’m not wearing a bathing suit.” She opened up her fly to give me a peek. I saw fleshy, puffy, baby-bare labia coming together in a pouting hairless crease. “I’m going skinny dipping later on.” She smiled wryly. “Or chubby-dipping.”
Catharine brushed the backs of her fingers against the erection that was straining to burst out of my swim trunks. It felt like she was jangling a jackhammer directly on my nerves endings. I clenched my ass as my dick jumped like an over-excited Labrador puppy about to go for a walk.
Jessy stood in front of me, and I let my eyes slowly traverse her body. Her navel was a tiny dent, a crater-like button in the midst of her otherwise flat stomach. I imagined my cock slamming into her, sliding in and out of her juicy, tight pussy, coated in her young juices. I imagined myself pulling out at the penultimate moment and squirting all over her, filling that belly button up with semen even as her own orgasm rocked through her tender, lithe body. It was a pretty nice image.
“OK then,” Catharine said to me with an air of finality. “Let’s see the goods.”
Suddenly I knew exactly where this was going. As soon as I was naked, I was vulnerable. My trunks would come off, and the girls would snatch my swimsuit out of my hand and run away squealing and giggling and pointing, leaving me with a waggling flagpole of a boner in the middle of a public beach. The police might or might not be summoned. Either way, it would not end well.
I looked around. There were probably a couple of hundred people in this section of beach, but no-one seemed to be looking at a sallow-faced, middle-aged white dude sitting under an umbrella talking to a couple of teenage girls. I shrugged and pulled my swim trunks down and off, exposing my privates to the unfamiliar sensation of direct sunlight.
“Ver-r-rey nice,” Catharine cooed. Jessy smiled and bit her lip. “That’s the nicest one we’ve seen in a long time. Sizeable, but not too enormous. I’d go so far as to call it perfect. And look at those balls! They’re so cute!”
I wasn’t sure what I thought of my nuts being referred to as ‘cute’, but I didn’t say anything.
“Jessy may not be very good at sucking cock,” Catharine went on matter-of-factly, “but I bet she could give you twenty dollars worth of blowjob. Whaddya say?”
Well, what was I going to say? Catharine didn’t wait for an answer. She turned to Jessy. “Whatcha waitin’ for, sis? Get down on your knees and start sucking his dick. And pull your top down, bitch. You look cute like that.”
Jessy glanced around and apparently came to the same conclusion that I had: nobody was paying any special attention to us. She slithered her bikini top down around her midsection, exposing her pale, barely existent breasts, and got down on her knees on the sand in front of my chair. I could feel her hot breath on my cock as she knelt down in front of me. The she opened up her mouth and took the plunge.
My wife doesn’t hold with oral sex, so it had been a long, long time since I’d gotten a real blowjob. This girl was beautiful, and the sight of her dirty blonde hair cascading down, her naked breasts and shoulders, and her pretty lips and delicate tongue on my meat was plenty of stimulation. The warm wetness of her mouth was exquisite. But Catharine was right. Jessy wasn’t very good at giving head. My sense was that she was just deeply inexperienced. She couldn’t find a rhythm. She kept getting distracted. Her teeth got in the way. Worst of all, she kept popping up and looking to Catharine and me for approval. It felt amazing, but every time I started to get really worked up, she lost it. It was a kind of delirious torture, and I loved every second of it.
I moaned out loud and Catharine grinned. “Aren’t you afraid someone will hear?” Between the seagulls and the surf and the yammering kids, I didn’t think that was anything we had to worry about. I wasn’t going to worry about it anyhow.
While Jessy kept on gloriously bungling the blowjob, Catharine slid her hand down the front of her own shorts and waggled her eyebrows at me salaciously. I imagined her lying flat on her back on the sand, shorts discarded, tits hanging out. I imagine licking her bald pussy, her artificial legs wrapped around the back of my head. Servo motors whine, pulling me into her like some sex-crazed terminator. I suck desperately at her clit and slide my fingers up her pussy and asshole. She is sopping wet, and when she comes, she squirts all over my face.
Catharine finally pulled her hand out of her pants, her middle finger shiny and slick. Grinning evilly, she wormed her hand down the back of Jessy’s shorts, which solicited a grunt.
“Jess likes it when I play with her asshole,” Catharine said. “Well, that’s not exactly true,” she corrected herself. “I like it. I’ve never asked her. But her cunt sure is wet.”
This went on for a brief eternity; Jessy ineptly sucking me while Catharine molested her from behind. How long could this torment/bliss go on? Much more and I was going to lose my mind; more to the point, somebody was bound to notice the action under my umbrella.
Catharine suddenly stood up straight, extracting her hand Jessy’s shorts. She wafted her finger under my nose. The scent was intoxicating.
I took the opportunity to look around, and sure enough, a heavyset woman in a black one-piece swimsuit with a big floppy hat was lying on her side gazing raptly in our direction while her kids built messy sandcastles. She smiled. One hand was captured between her thick, fleshy thighs.
Catharine gripped Jessy by the forehead. She mashed the back of Jessy’s head hard against her own denim-covered crotch, grinding up and down like a scrub-brush. This had the effect of forcing Jessy’s head down on my dick, jamming my cock halfway down her throat. She choked, coughed, and gagged, but stayed with me. I felt myself slipping over the edge.
I’m pretty sure Jessy couldn’t breathe at all; she was kind of convulsing, and the red marks her fingers left on my thighs lingered for weeks. Her tiny tits jiggled adorably; her throat made gurgling, gargling noises.
“Fuck her mouth,” Catharine growled huskily, and I complied, humping away at Jessy’s throat.
Catharine bore down hard on the back of Jessy’s head, masturbating herself with a vengeance, reveling in the friction. This had the effect of forcing Jessy’s mouth all the way down my erection. Jessy’s face was pressed hard against my pubes, her slobber was running down my balls. She choked and convulsed. Her spasms were just enough to set me off, and through the blissful haze of my orgasm, I was aware of Catharine coming, eyes screwed shut and grunting like a bull.
My own orgasm seemed to last forever. It felt like I had just shot off more semen than I ever had before in my life, gallons and gallons of the white sticky stuff. I never saw a drop though; Jessy swallowed it all.
Catharine released her, and my wet dick slipped out of her wide-open mouth as she collapsed, gasping into the sand. The first thing she did after she’d taken a breath was wiggle her bikini top up, covering her exposed little breasts. I was in no condition to practice any such modesty; I sat there naked in my beach chair, bedazzled and bemused, my soft wet dick hanging out there for anyone passing my to see.
Catharine adjusted her shorts, pulling them out of her crack, gave one fat tit a playful squeeze and winked at me. She then picked up her big blue Slurpee from where she had set it in the sand, and proceeded to pour the liquid contents down the back of Jessy’s pants. Jessy squealed in a way that didn’t sound especially distressed.
“I’ll be licking all that up later on,” Catharine said over her shoulder to me. She gave Jessy, who was still coughing and rasping, a hand up. Jessy’s bottom was distinctly wet, and a large blue stain was spreading down the backs of her thighs. Catharine’s mechanical legs clicked softly but audibly as the two walked hand-in-hand away from me down the beach and out of sight. I hastily pulled up my shorts before anyone could come over and investigate. My heavyset neighbor in the big floppy hat under the next umbrella over grinned and licked one finger seductively.
The first thing I did was check my wallet, which astonishingly was still where I had left it, next to my beach chair. I looked inside, and all my credit cards were present and accounted for, as well as the two hundred bucks I had taken out of the ATM that morning.
I hoisted my book, flipped to a random page, and pretended to read. My curvaceous friend in the black one-piece and hat was strolling casually over, her kids safely occupied playing dump trucks and front-end loaders in the sand. No doubt she was about to ask me the same question I was currently asking myself:
“What the hell just happened?’
I’ve been waiting for him, waiting patiently, for a very long time.
The sun is already so bright that the glare off the sandy beach, white as uncut Columbian cocaine, makes me squint, even behind my dark sunglasses. A few tourists are up and about, chatting happily, ordering breakfast. Seagulls dodge and swoop in the morning breeze, for the sheer joy of it. The roar of the surf is ceaseless, great Atlantic breakers lining up to slam into the beach. Below that, a constant, barely audible subsonic hum, felt more than heard, tickling the soles of my feet. The Doomsday Machine, percolating away, counting down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds, deep in the vaults below the island.
I idly swirl my straw, tinkling the ice cubes in my glass, agitating the unnaturally blue liquid before drinking it down in one long slow, lazy slurp. The stuff is the color of antifreeze, the consistency of crude oil. Raspberry Nyquil. It numbs the back of my throat, filling me with a sickly rush of nausea. I lift my pinky finger, signaling the waiter. He knows his cue, and brings me a fresh bottle, pre-chilled. They keep a case of the stuff sitting on ice behind the bar, just for me.
White dress with navy-blue polka dots. Classic American cut. My nails are perfectly lacquered, poison-apple red. My hair is neatly coiffed, the same chestnut brown it was twenty years ago when he first came to me, up out of the sea. Thank you, Miss Clairol. Pearl earrings in gold settings. Red belt, red flats. A titanium pendant hangs suspended around my neck. My breasts aren’t the same breasts they were two decades ago, but I do what I can with what I’ve got. Surgery, I always believed, is a liar’s game.
A lone man is swimming toward the beach, diving underneath tremendous crashing breakers, drowned for sure, only to surface again in the bubbling, frothy whitewater. After each set of waves he is a little closer, until he stands up and climbs out of the surf. I pick up my binoculars, and one hand strays between my legs.
There are sharks out there in those waters, out beyond the break.
I am wearing the same dress I wore the day I first met Jack. It is the same dress and it is not the same dress. My cough syrup cocktail sits on the plastic table in front of me, condensation beading up on the sides of the glass, utterly forgotten for the moment. My labia are suddenly swollen and moist. One hand pets my pussy through the sheer fabric of my panties, while the other hand attempts to hold the binoculars steady. He always said he’d be back.
It is him. It is not him, but it is him. He is walking up the beach toward me now, directly toward me, focused with intent. I examine him through the 20x Zhumells. It is not him. This one is young, far too young; his chest is smooth and hairless; he has a tattoo on one arm, a seal balancing a beach ball on its nose; but my imagination lets all that slide. It is him. He wears nothing but black swim trunks, a trim little black backpack, and a combat dagger strapped to his ankle. The swim trunks leave nothing to the imagination. He is not circumcised, and doesn’t suffer from shrinkage. The backpack will contain a delicate little handgun with a big fat silencer, and a bunch of other deadly little gadgets. He has killed before, this one has. He’s got the walk. My cunt is juicy wet, and my clitoris is hard as a diamond.
He walks like a predator, a big jungle cat. They always do. Relaxed but ready. Baryshnikov in a bespoke suit, packing a submachine gun. SAS, SEAL, Spetsnaz; they all have that same walk.
It is my Jack, come back to me from the bosom of the sea, and it is not my Jack.
My dress is piled up on my lap, a confusion of deep blue polka dots. I may be making a spectacle of myself. My fingers slide inside the elastic of my panties and come back wet and slick. I am ready for him.
I was really just a kid. Straight out of the Midwest. A bona fide virgin, as a matter of fact. I was working for Doctor Nyet at the time. He’d been trolling the strip, looking for pretty girls to round out his new headquarters. He was so clumsy and awkward with the girls it was comical, and endearing. We got to talking, and I guess we hit it off. I’d already done a little modeling, the kind you don’t bring home to show mother; and when he offered me the job, I was dancing at a go-go club. So I wasn’t exactly an innocent. But I wasn’t very worldly either. This was before Google, before the internet was everywhere, before everyone had a cell phone, before Cleveland was reduced to a pile of smoking radioactive rubble as a demonstration of Project X. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d do it all over again.
Jack killed him, of course. That was what he’d come to do. Pop,pop…pop,pop,pop. His tiny little automatic sounded just like popcorn. Two bullets in the head, three in the chest just to be sure. I couldn’t watch; I covered my face and sobbed like a little girl. He kissed me before he left, a kiss that told me that he meant it when he said he loved me, and he told me he’d be back. I could still feel the heat of his gun.
I was Dr. Leonid Nyet’s personal secretary, which wasn’t nearly as sordid as you might think. My duties included a little light typing, answering telephones, hanging around and looking pretty; and most importantly holding the key. The key is an interrupt, the stop codon to the Machine. Doctor Nyet hung it around my neck one night, and it has remained there ever since. He told me that he trusted me. He told me to protect it with my life.
Some of the other girls complained about the Doctor. They told whispered stories of girls wrapped up in Saran wrap and left to expire in their own body heat; girls dipped in liquid nitrogen; girls thrown out of helicopters. It was hard for me to imagine the Doctor doing anything of the sort.
They complained about being used as sexual playthings; dancing topless for visiting dignitaries, sucking the cocks of oil sheiks and Russian scientists, stories of getting golden showers and spankings from Korean generals. None of that sounded so bad to me. One girl said she’d been greased-up and butt-fucked by the Doctor himself out in the courtyard above the sea wall. Another claimed he’d raped her. I didn’t believe it. The Doctor, I was fairly certain, was gay. The girls were just bitter. And some of them were lezzies, as I was to discover later on.
Sally Slipknot came to me one night, when the Doctor was celebrating the initial success of Project X with his friends and investors. She was the head of Security, and she was beautiful in the same way that a finely crafted weapon is beautiful. She was strong and lithe and utterly feminine. She reminded me of a snake, and she showed me things that two girls could do together that I hadn’t imagined before. She teased my virginity with her fingers, but never quite plunged inside. She played with my anus as she kissed and nibbled up and down my pussy. Her flicking tongue brought me right over the edge, something that hadn’t happened to me before, not with another person, not without the help of my buzzing pink plastic vibrator. As the sun came up over the storm-churned Atlantic, she kissed me goodnight and slithered out of my bedroom, leaving me dazed, shaky, and confused. Did this mean that I was a lesbian too?
I wanted to be alone. I wanted time to think. I was still wet and sticky and sensitive between my legs. I pulled my navy blue polka dot dress on over my naked body and went down to the beach to walk by the waves.
Jack came to me out of the roaring surf. He wore nothing but black swim trunks, trunks that left nothing to the imagination; a combat dagger on a belt; and a little black backpack that contained, among other things, a tiny automatic handgun, and a beautifully fitted hand-tailored black suit.
He swept me off my feet, quite literally. He was soaking wet and salty from the cool ocean water. His chest was covered in curly dark hair. His muscles rippled smoothly under his skin. He moved like a man who killed men. We ran through the waves together, and he lifted me up and whispered in my ear that I was beautiful and that he wanted to see me again.
My dress was wet with seawater and my pussy was naked and vulnerable underneath. He was hard. He kissed me, and I gave him my passcard, the magnetic-striped card that allowed access to the compound. When I got back, I explained to the guards that I had left earlier without my card, and they let me through without question.
The Doctor had no time for me. He was lying on a bed of heated stones, getting a massage from two young Asian boys. Another Asian boy, who looked like he might have been twelve, was giving his head a fresh shave. It was going to be a busy day in the command center; the American had capitulated after the Doctor’s autonomous robots had incinerated Cleveland, and paid an unprecedented ransom. The next stop was the United Nations. There was to be a teleconference on the Jumbotron with the Secretary General at noon, and all the technicians were getting the gear ready. Sally Slipknot refused to look at me. The Doctor rolled over onto his back, and the solemn-faced Asian boys removed the towel around his waist.
I ran back to my bedroom and took a very long and very hot shower.
The Doctor loved me. He liked me, for sure. He certainly trusted me. He loved me, I’m pretty sure of it, in his own way. He never knew his own father, he told me once. My dad ran out on us when I was little. I think Dr. Nyet liked to think of me as the daughter he knew he’d never have.
Sometimes at night, when the Imetrex won’t keep the migraines at bay and the Ambien is useless or worse, and I can’t stomach the Sertindole, I take the pendant off my neck and open the little titanium tube. There is a slip inside; not paper and not plastic and not metal, with numbers printed on it. Hundreds of digits, almost too small to read. It makes one number, one very big number. The Doctor said it was the product of two primes, the biggest one his computers could find. That is the key, the one and only key that will stop the Doomsday Machine. He gave it to me, and told me to keep it safe.
He trusted me, and now he’s dead.
Sometimes at night I masturbate, and sometimes I find I’ve forgotten how.
Jack met me for lunch at the tiny little seaside café that catered to the island’s tourists. He had changed into a sleek, well-made black suit, and he moved like a panther. I was still wearing my navy-blue polka dot dress, but this time I had panties on underneath, and pearl earrings set in gold. We sat under an umbrella and drank Mai Tais and talked for what seemed like hours. We were both, it turned out, from Ohio. His parents had owned a small farm, a gardenia plantation on the outskirts of Cleveland. He placed his hand on my knee as he talked about the summers of his boyhood, skinny-dipping in the Cuyahoga River. As we talked, his hand slowly moved further and further up my leg.
He came back with me to my bedroom. Security didn’t even blink. The Doctor was in the middle of presenting his ultimatum to the U.N. and all eyes were on the television. A guard nodded absently in my direction as I scanned my card, Jack in tow behind me.
I thought he’d drag me straight to bed as soon as the bedroom door closed behind us, but he didn’t. He picked out a CD and slipped it into the hi-fi—this was before iPods or anything of the sort; the Doctor himself had a twenty pound ‘laptop’ with the launch codes inside that he had a minion lug around—and we danced together on the balcony, under the equatorial sun.
Oh Man, could he dance! I hadn’t danced much before, other than gyrating around a pole, but he held me and guided my movements. He stood a head taller than me. I felt small and safe in his arms. While we spun and swayed on the balcony to the strains of Tchaikovsky, time seemed to stand still. The chemistry that had sparked between us on the sand that morning grew and intensified. The more we danced, the more ready I felt. And he was ready too. I could feel it.
When Jack finally took me to bed, I nearly wept with relief. He removed my dress and underwear as if he were skinning a deer. Then he took off his own clothes. He had an evil-looking scar just below his shoulder blades that I hadn’t seen before. It was white and raised. Courtesy of the mujahedeen, he told me. His cock was erect, and big enough to be a little scary.
I told him I was a virgin, and asked him, my voice quavering a little, to be gentle.
Oh, he was gentle! It is amazing to me that someone so deadly could also be so patient and careful. He touched me slow soft, until I thought I was going to burst. When he finally did enter me, he did it so deliberately and carefully that it didn’t hurt. Not one bit, not at all. He did it to me slowly, holding my hands and kissing me as if he’d never kissed a girl before, and when he came, he exploded deep inside me. I nearly came right along with him, almost, but not quite. I got nervous at the last second and my orgasm fluttered away.
We talked afterward. I answered his questions. I told him about the secret passage into the command center. He kissed me, and told me he’d come back someday.
I followed him, keeping a safe distance. I’m not sure why I did that. I think I couldn’t quite believe that Jack was going to do what he’d come to do. Maybe he just wanted to talk. Maybe he’d just arrest Nyet. I was so innocent back in those days!
After the deed was done, klaxons were going off and equipment was exploding in showers of high-voltage sparks, and Security was shooting at each other and Jack and at the commandos who were now swarming the compound, dressed up in composite body armor, Spetsnaz or Delta Force I think, but I wasn’t asking and they weren’t saying. They blew up everything in sight, the whole command center, but they couldn’t breach the one door that really mattered, and their higher-ups figured out soon enough that blowing through that door would be a really bad idea anyway. Before he left, Jack squeezed my hand one last time and promised me he’d come back someday.
He must have known he was going to die, or suspected he would anyway. Project X was just too risky, the stakes were too high. So he designed the Doomsday Machine as a kind of insurance plan, or a post-mortem revenge plan, I don’t know which.
The autonomous robots have two modes. In their primary mode, they are hypersonic little nuclear smartbombs the size of motor scooters, capable of destroying any city on earth within an hour of receiving the launch code. In secondary mode, however, they can be set to reproduce, building exact copies of themselves out of raw materials, the population growing exponentially like bacteria in an agar dish, until they reach a certain critical mass.
He is not my Jack. Same species, different animal. He is not my Jack, but he’ll do.
When he walks up to my deck chair and greets me, his voice holds a slight twang; West Texas, or perhaps Arkansas. He is unfailingly polite. He stands by my deck chair and asks if he can join me, and I lick my finger thoughtfully, as if I’m actually thinking it over.
He tells me his name, and I forget it immediately. He puts his hand on my knee, and tells me that he hadn’t expected me to be so beautiful. Base flattery, but it works. I ask him to tell me about himself.
He joined the Navy over his mother’s objections, because he couldn’t face putting the family in debt just so he could go to college. He volunteered for SEAL training half as a joke, and when he got accepted, he discovered that he was too proud to quit, no matter what the instructors did to them. He tells me about giving CPR to a classmate after the kid drowned during an underwater swimming test. He tells me they run training missions against mock-ups of the autonomous robots; they have a kill rate of about one in ten.
He asks me to dance with him. They must have a file on me somewhere, where it says I love to dance. I wonder if all the agents have to take ballroom lessons from an unsmiling old dowager with huge bosoms and an iron spine before they slip off the aircraft carrier into shark-infested waters to infiltrate me. It works anyway. Like a fucking charm.
We dance on the beach, leaving our footprints in the firm wet sand by the sea. He holds me close, guiding my steps, and I feel his hardness pressed up against me, through his damp shorts. I place my hands on his tight, muscular buns, pulling him closer. He squeezes me tight. It is time. I whisper in his ear that he should ask me now.
I’m rich, I suppose. Doctor Nyet left me a big fat 401(k) and an interest-bearing numbered Swiss bank account; but I never bothered to take much out beyond what I need for food and drink. The compound has been falling apart for years. Soon it will be just rubble; jumbled blocks of hardened concrete and rusting rebar. The only part I’ve bothered to maintain at all is my old bedroom.
He’s kind of a tornado in bed, which surprises me because Jack was so slow and deliberate. He undresses me with the urgency of youth, pulling my polka dot dress off over my head and tossing it aside. His erection is straining out from his shorts.
I remove his swim trunks for him, and his cock pops out, glad to be free of the restraining fabric. He’s a little smaller than Jack, or maybe it is just 20/20 hindsight; either way I’m not complaining. His cock has a curious corkscrew twist, and a slight upward curve, and the head was fat and purple. He looks delicious.
He pulls off my lacy white panties, and jams them against his face, inhaling deeply. I don’t think he’s faking this, but if he is faking it, he’s doing a damn fine job. His cock is rigidly erect, and bounces as he moves. His balls are drawn in tight.
He goes down on me for what feels like an hour. He does not hesitate to touch me in my most private places, licking me greedily from asshole to clitoris and back again. He plunges his thick fingers deep inside me, probing me, playing me like an instrument. I come on his face, and I threaten to come again. Finally I push him away, if only because I want some of that dick for myself.
I swallow him whole, and I enjoy every centimeter of it. I lavish my tongue around his swollen head. I lick his balls, and up and down his shaft. I tease his pee-hole with the tip of my tongue. I stick my face between his ass-cheeks and lick his anus until he mews like a kitten.
He offers to put a condom on, but I am way beyond such mundane worries. I tell him to just hurry up and fuck me, and he complies. He fucks me hard and deep and ferociously, and I fuck him right back, pulling him deeper inside, urging him to do it harder, faster. I surprise myself by coming on him, coming on his thrusting dick. Wonders will never cease. He pulls out, gasping, his cock slick and sticky with my juice.
I ask him where he wants to come, and he responds shyly, “Your ass.”
I tell him that what’s mine is his. I get down on all fours on the bed, my rump thrust up and out, my breasts hanging down in a parody of their former glory, and he comes hungrily at me from behind. He eats my ass out, which no-one has ever done to me before, and when he replaces his tongue with a finger, I find myself humping back against it, trying to get more inside. Before long, I am begging for his cock.
He slides it in, easy as slicing Jell-O. It does not hurt. Having his cock in my asshole feels strange… strange, but good. Very good.
He fucks my ass slowly, methodically. One hand reaches down, finds my aching clitoris. I cannot believe how wet my pussy is. I collapse on the bed under his weight. He is slowly losing control, and I am losing it along with him. We are both gasping and panting as he thrusts. Finally he comes, swelling and shooting his semen deep into my asshole, and I surprise myself by coming right along with him.
We talk afterward, snuggling together in the warm and sticky afterglow. He keeps his soft cock lodged up inside me, which feels odd, but nice. He asks me questions, and I answer him honestly. It isn’t my fault he doesn’t know the right question to ask. And then I feel him getting hard, and he is ready to go all over again, and so we go.
Soon, all too soon, he leaves me. Off into the darkness, out into the surf. I go back to my deck chair and my cough syrup cocktails, waiting, patiently waiting. Deep underground, in windowless vaults beneath the island, behind triple-steel doors that would let loose a swarm of nuclear-armed autonomous robots if ever they were breached, the Doomsday machine is counting down, ticking out the hours, minutes, seconds, picoseconds. The hum of their machinations tickles the soles of my feet as the robots forge new copies of themselves, doubling themselves, relentless exponents of two, getting closer and closer to that secret magic number that equals deployment.
Jack will come back for me someday. I know he will, because he is my Love. And I will be waiting for him, here by the sea. He’ll be older, I know, but I will be too. He will know the right question to ask. Even if he doesn’t, I will tell him. If there is still time, I will give him the key, the stop codon. I will give it to him freely. But he’ll have to work a little bit first to get it out of me.
I should have been writing, but I wasn’t. Instead, I was admiring the waistband of Daniel Haite’s tighty-whities, and speculating as to what exactly was kept snug inside them. My boy Danny had an ass straight off a Calvin Klein billboard.
It was Ms. Hasen’s sixth period Creative Writing class, and Dan sat directly in front of me. What he was doing in Creative Writing at all was a bit of a mystery. Danny was an unapologetic football jock. Ms. Hasen had assured us all at the beginning of the semester that this would be no easy A; and sure enough I spent more time on her homework than for any other class. But Danny held his own. His writing wasn’t great, but it certainly wasn’t bad either. He might have been a jock with a gorgeous body, but there was clearly a lot more to him than just that.
I looked him up on Facebook recently. After high school, he went on to be a Rhodes Scholar and a Navy SEAL; apparently he teaches English Comp at a community college in Wisconsin these days. I’ve even contemplated getting in touch with him, but I seriously doubt he would remember me at all.
I squeezed my thighs together, imagining him turning around, asking me out. I would have jumped his bones in a heartbeat. I didn’t think it was going to happen, but it made for a nice fantasy. I started writing. This was definitely not the kind of short story Ms. Hasen was looking for. But I didn’t care.
In retrospect, I probably should have asked him out. He probably would have been thrilled. I think he may have just been shy. When I look back at high school pictures, I can see that I really was actually pretty hot, in a young-and-awkward-librarian sort of a way. If I had taken that leap, a lot of things might have played out very differently in my life. Might have.
By the time the bell rang for the end of class, my panties were seriously damp, and I had eight blank pages that had to be filled before tomorrow afternoon. Well, the pages weren’t quite blank, but what I had written during class, I wasn’t about to turn in to Ms. Hasen.
I fidgeted through dinner, a silent and formal affair with me and Dad at opposite ends of the long, dark dining room table, with place settings as always laid out for three. I was looking forward to cloistering myself in my bedroom, having an epic masturbatory session starring Danny Haite and his penis, and then busting out some homework. But at the end of the meal my dad cleared his throat, and asked to speak with me in his study.
After the dishes were rinsed and put in the wash, I tapped nervously on the door of the study. What he wanted to discuss, I had no idea. Dad and I led very separate lives; on most days I would only see him at dinner. Sometimes we’d sit and read together of an evening, but that was fairly rare. His eyes always seemed to drill through my skull. I preferred the privacy of my own room.
He was sitting in his easy chair, wearing a grey linen suit—I could literally count the number of times I’ve seen my father not wearing a suit—with a tall glass of whiskey close at hand. He gazed at me, aloof and austere, his pale sea-blue eyes unreadable behind his black-rimmed glasses.
Self-consciously, I sat down opposite him, in my reading chair, feeling rather like a specimen on a microscope slide. My mother had left us when I was not quite ten, slamming the door and striding purposefully out of our lives into a waiting yellow cab. Since then it had been a strange and austere kind of life. We didn’t talk much, Dad and me.
“You’ve grown up a lot,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
“So…” he said at last, when the silence between us had become unbearable. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
We’d never had a discussion about dating; I’m not the kind of girl who gets asked out a lot. Hell, we’d never even had the sex talk. Between library books and internet porn, I’d figured it out on my own.
“Yes,” I blurted out. “His name is Daniel Haite.”
“Very good…” he said thoughtfully, letting it hang out there in the air between us. I squirmed uncomfortably as he sipped his whiskey. “Are you two doing anything together?” he asked placidly. “Sexually speaking?”
I was blushing furiously. “No,” I told my father. “Not yet anyway.”
“I see,” he went on after an awful long pause that seemed to stretch out like a flat, unbroken stretch of Midwestern highway. “Well, have you started to masturbate yet?”
It was all I could do to shake my head ‘No’.
It was a lie. I had, of course been whacking off for years, ever since I had found a copy of Buttman’s European Vacation that my dad had left in the VCR. And before that, even. My preferred method usually involved one or two fingers sliding in and out my pussy, with the heel of my hand pressed hard against my clit. And sometimes a hairbrush handle up my butt at the same time. I was just that kind of a girl. Still am.
“It’s completely normal and nothing to be ashamed of,” Dad went on, as casually pedantic as if he was explaining how to program the dishwasher. “Take your pants off and I’ll show you how to do it.”
I still don’t know why I did it. I should have told him it was none of his business, and walked right out of the room. But I was so flabbergasted that I found myself doing exactly what he said, unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down my legs. “Panties too,” Dad added pedantically.
Mortified but compliant, I rolled my underwear down my legs, kicking them off my ankles, keeping my knees pressed firmly together.
Dad took another sip from his whiskey. “Good,” he said. “Now show me how you think it should be done.”
I may have been mortified, but I was also inexplicably sopping, dripping, droolingly wet. I allowed my knees to part, reached down between my legs, and slowly inserted my middle finger all the way up to the knuckle in my hot, slippery pussy. I couldn’t believe I was doing this in front of him; I couldn’t believe he was watching me do it. It was somewhere between unbelievably horrible and unbelievably hot.
“No, no, no,” my father chided. “Show me your clit. You do know where your clitoris is, don’t you?” I nodded my head meekly.
“Show me,” he said. Blushing hard, I pulled back the folds to reveal my pink little button, which, despite—or because of—the bizarre situation, was swollen and erect.
“Wet your finger,” he instructed. His pale blue eyes felt like lasers burning holes in me. My feet were up on the seat of the chair, knees apart, all modesty temporarily forgotten. I licked my index finger, trembling under his steady gaze like a poor, doomed bunny rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming semi.
“Now draw little circles around your clitoris,” he said, “Softly! Don’t touch it! Just circle close. Closer… Yes, that’s it. You can play with your breasts too, if you want.”
Yes, that was certainly doing the trick. Dad had simultaneously shown me a more efficient method of masturbation, and ruined it for me forever. Either way, I was going to fucking come. I reached up under my t-shirt and tweaked my nipple. Faster and faster, I drew tiny concentric circles around my swollen, aching clit. The sensation was amazing, I was drenched, juice was leaking out of me like Niagara freaking falls, and Dad’s eyes staring at my wide-open cunt just made it all the more intense.
“Now touch it,” he said, “Touch your clitoris and come for me!”
And I did. Just barely brushing my finger across the top of my little button set me off. I rubbed it like a fiend, abandoning any remaining restraint, choking down a guttural cry and blasting off into high earth orbit as my finger skated back and forth across my clit.
“That was very good,” Dad smiled benevolently, “for a first time. Now, off to bed with you.” There was an enormous and obvious lump in the front of his grey linen pants, and it disturbed me just how interested I was in finding out just what exactly was going on inside my father’s trousers. “I really think you should start exploring your sexuality with this boyfriend of yours. Of course, I’ll want to hear all about it.”
Without another word I pulled my pants back on and went up to bed.
I stayed late at the library after school, scribbling dirty stories in my yellow notebook and furtively petting myself under the table, through the soft material of my panties. For dinner, I ate Taco Bell all by myself. My pussy was wet and my clit just wouldn’t settle down.
Dad was waiting for me when I got home.
“Well,” my father asked, aloof and unreadable as always. “How did it go?”
I felt myself blushing despite myself. “It was nice,” I said. “We went out for burgers and cokes after the show.”
“Is that all you did?”
“Well, after that he wanted to find somewhere to park and fool around a little.”
“And you agreed to this?”
“Well, we found somewhere to park, next to a construction site. We kissed for a while. He wanted to… see my breasts. And touch them. So I let him. He also wanted to… touch my, um, pussy.”
“And you let him?”
“What happened then? Touch yourself while you tell me.”
That’s what I was waiting for. It was almost a relief. My panties we already sopping wet. I shucked down my jeans and my underwear and put my feet up on the arms of the chair, exposing my sex. I could feel the intensity of my father’s gaze on my cunt, and that only made my clit bulge out more.
“He fingered my pussy, but it was kind of annoying because he couldn’t find my clit. He just kept shoving his big fingers inside me. It felt kind of nice, but it wasn’t really doing the trick either.” I drew little circles around my pink, swollen clitoris while my dad watched, making up the story as I went along.
“It was so frustrating, and I was getting so horny! I reached over and unzipped his pants, and fished out his penis. It wasn’t as big as I expected it to be, but it felt nice in my hand. We kissed a little more while I handled his penis. He kept fingering my pussy, and I was starting to get sore, so I figured that the best way to make him stop was to make him come.
“It worked. When I wrapped my hand around his shaft and started sliding it up and down the silky-soft skin of his hard penis, he lay back in the driver’s seat and pulled his fingers out of my pussy. They were all stuck together with my juice. I was kind of shocked at how wet he’d made me!”
There was a large and prominent lump in the crotch of my dad’s grey suit pants. A part of me, a shamefully large and perverted part of me, really wanted him to fish out the cause of that lump. It must have taken a lot of willpower on his part not to touch himself. I kept on masturbating while I told my story.
“I moved my hand up and down the length of his shaft. His penis seemed like it had grown a little since I first wrapped my hand around it. His breathing changed, getting shallower and more rapid. His stomach flexed. His balls tightened up. He started to beg me. It was really hot.”
It was really hot. I was getting extremely turned on describing a scene that had never happened. What I really wished was that it had, on a real, actual date with a flesh-and-blood Danny, and that I wouldn’t have had to relate every last gory detail to my father afterward.
“Faster and faster I moved my hand. He wrapped his own hand around mine, guiding me. My arm was starting to ache. Suddenly, without any warning, he made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. I felt his penis swell up under my hand, and he exploded. He shot white sticky stuff all over his bare stomach and all the way up the front of his shirt. Oh… fuck!”
Without meaning to, I had totally brought myself off. The image of me jerking off Danny Haite in his car, making him squirt semen all over his nice clean t-shirt was just too much for me. I didn’t process until much later that this was the very first time I had ever used the word ‘fuck’ in front of my father. He watched placidly as the orgasm rocked through me, his erection straining against the thin fabric of his linen pants. I could make out the contours of his glans, outlined in stark relief through the thin fabric. I clenched my teeth, petting my sensitive, engorged clitoris, trying not to moan out loud.
“And then we cleaned up and he dropped me off at home…” I panted. “Fuck.”
“Next time,” my father said pedantically, “You should suck his dick.”
Next week, I described to my dad how at first I’d been nervous about going down on Dan, afraid I wouldn’t like the taste, afraid that I wouldn’t know what to do. I described tentatively licking his cock, finding that I didn’t mind it at all, opening my mouth wide and trying to get him all the way down my throat, with semi-disastrous results. I described finding the happy medium, wrapping my lips around the swollen crown, trying to keep my teeth tucked safely out of the way, bobbing my head up and down while stroking the shaft of his penis with my hand at the same time. That, I told him, seemed to do the trick quite nicely.
In my story, though, I’m not quite able to push him over the edge. He apologetically pulls away from me, his engorged cock slick and dripping with my saliva. He climbs on top of me, straddling my chest, and jerking off onto my bare boobs. He comes, squirting his jizz all over my breasts, all the way up my neck and onto my chin.
The image was enough to set me off, and Dad watched patiently while I writhed through an orgasm, my slippery fingers dancing gingerly on my clit, biting down hard to keep from howling out loud. For whatever reason I hated making noise when I came in front of my dad.
When I had settled down, Dad took a big fat sip of whiskey from his tumbler. His erection was straining visibly in the front of his grey pants.
“Try just keeping the crown inside your mouth while you stroke the shaft; swirl your tongue around the head,” my father suggested, “Gently play with his anus with one wet finger and see what happens.”
After my next fictional date with Danny, I described the blowjob I had given him after the movie we had supposedly gone to together. I wrapped my hand around his cock and pumped, slurping hungrily at his swollen, crimson crown. When I sensed that he was close, I wet one finger and carefully slipped it up his tight asshole. He made a cute little sound like a puppy dog, and exploded into my mouth. The taste, I reported, wasn’t bad at all.
Back in the study, I focused on the lump in the front of my dad’s trousers as I brought myself off, circling my clit the way he liked me to do it, occasionally letting a finger or two slip up inside my hungry, juicy pussy. Once again a part of me; a large, horny, and perverted part of me; wanted to see just exactly what was causing that lump, and maybe just maybe do something about it. Maybe he was just waiting for me to ask him to unzip and show it to me.
Don’t think that I never thought about it, because I did.
I had this whole fantasy worked out where, for whatever Freudian reason, I would come to his bedroom late at night, wearing my mother’s old wedding dress. I’d pull down the zipper of his trousers—in my mind’s eye he was always still wearing his grey linen suit—and use my hands, breasts, and tongue to bring his cock to its full state of hardness. When my father’s dick was completely erect, straining up toward the ceiling, I’d climb on top of him, and straddle his crotch. I’d rub the swollen mushroom-shaped head up and down the length of my vulva, smearing my wetness all over his cock. When neither one of us could stand it any longer I’d slowly, very slowly lower myself onto his cock. I’d savor the sensation of him penetrating my pussy. When he was finally all the way in, I’d ride him like a cowgirl, gratuitously taking my perverted pleasure from his incestuous prick, bucking, moaning, and grinding my way to an outrageous screaming orgasm. He’d come at the same time as me, and I’d feel him shoot his hot semen into my grasping pussy. I’d reach down and scoop up a big gob of his come, feed it to him with my finger, and then kiss him full on the mouth.
Looking back, I’m honestly not sure why I never did that, or something like it. I’m pretty sure that’s more or less exactly what he wanted. In the end I think I just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
I did ask Dad once if I should fuck Danny. He told me no, that I should make him wait.
The whole charade was just too weird and too stressful. I finally told Dad that Danny had jilted me. He’d been kind about it, I said, managing to sound as if I was trying not to cry. He’d said that he liked me, but he felt like it just wasn’t working out. He thought we should just be friends.
“Are you alright?” Dad asked.
I nodded. “I think he was just disappointed that I wouldn’t fuck him,” I said.
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” my father said, indicating for me to pull down my pants. “Tell me what it would be like to fuck a boy.”
I left home shortly after that. Moved in with my friend Katri. Relations with my dad remained cordial, but weird and formal. He paid for my college education without complaint, and he never forgot my birthday, but aside from that we were strangers.
I went over to see my dad when I was home for Christmas break once, in the middle of undergrad school. The house looked exactly the same. I hadn’t been there in a long time. Dad’s forehead was a little higher, his hair a little more grey, and he moved a little stiffer. He now had just the suggestion of a pot belly under his grey linen suit, but mostly he was the same as always: dry, terse, and authoritarian. He poured himself a tall snifter of brandy and offered me a glass. I declined. I was more of a beer drinker, in those days.
“You look good,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“College is treating you well, I see. So, have you lost your virginity yet?”
I had, as a matter of fact. I’d taken care of that bit of business the first semester I was at school.
It was a Friday night, and I was out in the quad. It was hot, and it was humid, and I couldn’t sleep in the non-air conditioned dorms. I was sitting on a bench, composing a short story by the light of the gibbous moon. I had words that I needed to get out of my head. I had started writing erotica, really raunchy sex stories, scribbled in my nearly illegible handwriting on a yellow legal pad; the basis for my first published collection.
Everyone else was out doing whatever college kids do on a Friday night: playing beer pong or trying to get laid. The only person out in the quad with me was Nate, this kid from my poetry composition class. Nate was very tall, very skinny, very pale, and had oversized hands, hollow cheeks, and big brown eyes. He would end up being one of my best friends, and sometime fuckbuddy, but at the time I barely knew him.
I felt like being alone, so of course, he came over and asked if he could share the bench with me. “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m not interested in hooking up with anyone. And I’m definitely not looking for a boyfriend.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not like that.”
“You don’t want anything to do with me,” I said, “I’m damaged goods.”
“Damaged goods?” Nate laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you about damaged goods. My dad used to come home drunk and make me watch him jerk off….” He paused and gazed up at the fat, orange moon. “Fuck it, I’ll tell you. Sometimes he used to make me jerk him off too. He’d pour baby oil all over my hands and close his eyes while I jacked him off.” He held his big hands out, palm-up, for me to inspect. “He called me his little faggot.” Nate stuck out his chin defiantly. “He always threatened to fuck me up the ass, but he never did. He said if I ever told anyone, he’d waterboard me. He said nobody would ever believe me anyway, he said they’d just laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing,” I said. “I believe you.”
We sat together under the moonlight for a while. He put his arm around me. We kissed a little bit. It felt nice. I put my hand in his lap. His dick was hard.
“You should come on back up to my dorm room,” I said.
Up in my dorm, Leslie, my roommate, appeared to be sound asleep. That girl seemed like she could sleep through anything. Nate and I got busy on my bed. We kissed a lot, and touched. He was a good kisser, but a little shy about the touching. I made up for that in spades. I stuck my hand right down his pants, and liked what I found.
Our clothes were sweaty and in the way anyway. We got naked. I got a look at what I had groped before, and I liked what I saw. Nate seemed to like what he saw as well.
He knelt on my bed, his nearly-hairless dick pointing straight up and out, like the prow of a ship. It was my first look, in person, at an actual, naked penis. The tip was bulbous, red and swollen. A strand of clear drool leaked out the end, forming a gossamer thread that threatened to drip onto my sheets. His balls hung heavy and low. His skin was flushed and sweaty. He looked delicious.
And then I thought of my dad, and imagined him watching us, sitting in his easy chair, directing our actions like my own personal film auteur, instructing me in his calm, pedantic tone exactly what to do next and when and how, and gently correcting me when I strayed from the script. It was a bit of a buzzkill. I tried to block him out of my head.
“Should I lick your pussy?” Nate asked me. Over the next four years, he would spend a lot of time doing exactly that, and he would get quite good at it. For a gay guy.
“No, I think you should just fuck me.” His cock seemed to swell and grow. I could almost see it throbbing in time with his heart.
“I’m sort of a virgin,” he said apologetically.
“I am too,” I told him. My knees were as wide apart as I could stretch them. I could feel my clit bulging out. I reached down and parted my labia apart for him. I was soaking wet.
“Shouldn’t we use a condom?”
“Fuck it, just screw me!” As long as I was being idiotic, I might as well go for it.
He positioned himself between my spread legs, and plunged inside with a huff of sharply exhaled air. It hurt for a second, I’d been afraid it would be much worse, but it wasn’t bad. It was like the pinch of a needle when you get an injection. After a second the pain melted right away, and it just felt good.
He was thrusting slowly in and out, his jaw tight, and his eyes locked on mine. “Uh, fuck. Shit, I’m not going to last. I’m going to fucking come.”
“Fuck me hard,” I told him, and he did, bucking up and down on top of me, sliding his dick wildly in and out, making a delicious squishing squelching sound, battering my pussy, and nearly, but not quite pushing me over the edge along with him.
I felt him swell and explode inside me, and I relished the sensation, and the dazed look of pleasure on his face. Slowly and carefully, he extracted his slippery, wilting penis from my cunt. I had bled like a sacrificial lamb; all over his cock and all over my sheets.
“Thank you,” he gasped, and I kissed him on the lips.
“No, thank you!” I replied. Over in her bed, Leslie was still snoring softly.
After Nate was gone, I masturbated; a finger in my asshole, a finger up my tender pussy, and the palm of my hand mashed hard against my clit. I came hard, screaming softly into my pillow.
I kind of lost track of Nate after we graduated. I know he moved to San Francisco and got a boyfriend, and I think he got ordained as a minister, but we haven’t really kept in touch.
“Tell me how you lost your virginty,” my dad said, sipping his brandy and watching me intently.
Either from force of old habit, classical conditioning, or something else, my pussy was damp and my clit was fat and tingling. I lifted up my skirt and peeled my panties off down my legs. The ghost of a smile flitted across my father’s face as I exposed my clitoris. I started drawing tiny little circles around my bulging pink button, circling close but not quite touching.
“It was at a party,” I extemporized, “a beach party. The moon was full, and a bunch of us decided to go skinny-dipping.
“I swam out to a dock and climbed out of the water. There were two guys there already. They were naked, and they were kissing, and their bodies glistened in the moonlight. Both their cocks were already big and hard. They were beautiful together.
“When they noticed me watching, they both started kissing and touching me. One guy had his hand on my breast, the other guy slipped his hand between my legs. It felt really good. I reached out and grabbed a cock with both hands.
“One of the guys offered me his dick, and I got down on all fours and started sucking it, just the way you taught me. It felt really good to be naked and sucking him, under the sky, out on the water. The other guy came from behind me, and started rubbing his penis up and down my pussy. I was soaking wet and slippery.”
“Did he have a condom on?” My dad interrupted.
“Of course,” I said, “They had brought a fanny-pack out to the raft with them. It had condoms in it.”
“Excellent,” he said, “Please, go on.”
My cunt was swollen and juicy with the fantasy. I let my fingers stray inside, sliding my digits up into my hot and slippery hole. My dad raised an eyebrow, and I returned to circling my clit.
“Slowly and carefully, he slid his dick up inside me. ‘Damn, you’re tight’, he grunted. I wondered if he could tell I was a virgin. It didn’t hurt at all, and I moaned onto the other guy’s dick.
“They flipped me over so I was on my back. The other guy put on a condom too. They took turns fucking me; and the whole time they were kissing and jerking each other off. It was incredibly hot.”
Back in my dad’s study, my heels were up on the seat cushion, and I was strumming my clit like a banjo. “I can’t tell you how many orgasms I had. I just kept going off, like it was the Fourth of July. I really wanted a dick in my mouth, and I was just about to tell them that, when another guy climbed up onto the raft. This guy was younger, my age, and black. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, and his dick stuck straight out from his crotch. He didn’t hesitate, but climbed right aboard, straddling my chest and feeding me his cock. I sucked him hungrily, licking the shaft, his balls, and tracing my tongue around his asshole while he masturbated and mashed the head of his dick between my lips.
“Meanwhile, the guy who was fucking me pulled out, tore the condom off, and came with a shout, splashing come all the way up my belly. His buddy took his place, fucking my pussy, while the first guy lapped up his own come and tickled my clit with his tongue. The second dude came inside his condom, grunting like a bear. Oh fuck.”
Without meaning to, I had pushed myself right over the edge of the precipice, and I came hard and sudden. I had to bite down hard on my own shoulder to stop from yelling out loud. The next day, I had a wicked bruise.
After I had calmed down enough, I went on with my story. “The two guys watched while I sucked off the black kid. I buried a finger in his asshole and wrapped my lips around his purple head and jerked him off until he came. I sucked every drop of come out of his dick. Then the three of them slipped back into the water and swam off into the night, leaving me gasping for air like a stranded mermaid.”
My dad emptied his snifter. The lump in his pants bulged prominently. “You’ve come a long way,” he told me approvingly. “I’ve taught you well.”
One year, for my birthday, my dad sent me a vibrator; one of those ‘rabbit’ ones with all the whistles and bells: a wiggling, waggling, squirming, rotating dildo and a built-in clit stimulator. I threw it away unused.
Afterward, I kicked myself for doing that. Those things ain’t cheap, and I was going through a long dry spell.
Just before I turned thirty, my dad suffered a stroke. It was a pretty bad one; it left his mind intact, but the entire left side of his body was paralyzed, and he was confined to a wheelchair. He had to move into a home. It was almost impossible for me to imagine my father being anything but independent.
I went to visit him in the assisted living facility. The place was bare, utilitarian. It reminded me of a Marine Corps barracks.
He was still wearing his trademark grey linen suit, but he seemed diminished. He looked different, His hair was greyer and more sparse, but his eyes were just as intense as ever.
“I’ve been dating a girl,” I told him. He smiled a weirdly lopsided smile, and it took me a moment to realize that it was because the muscles on the left side of his face were all slack.
Janie was in my writing group. We’d been flirting for months, with less and less subtlety. At the last meeting, where I’d presented a fairly raunchy and highly personal short story, her feet had found mine under the table. We’d gone out for drinks afterward, and the veiled attraction between us came bubbling up to the surface. She put her hand on my lap. My nipples strained inside my bra. This could no longer be ignored; it had to be dealt with. One way or another.
We took a cab back to her apartment, and made out in the back the whole way. She was a good kisser, and at least as horny as I was. I’d never done anything with a girl before, though I’d certainly masturbated to the idea plenty of times. That was about to change.
Up in her bedroom, Janie more-or-less threw me onto her bed, and pounced on top of me. Her shirt had somehow come off, and the bra underneath it. Her breasts felt really good pressed up against mine; I could feel the heat of her crotch near my own. She kissed me fiercely, pulling my hair and biting my lips while she fumbled in her nightstand drawer.
She came up with a pair of shiny, nickel-plated handcuffs, and proceeded to shackle my wrists to her headboard.
“I didn’t know you were into S&M,” I said, a little nervously, but not unhappily.
“I’m not especially,” Janie replied. “I just want to make sure your hands don’t get in the way.”
She tugged off my jeans and panties, leaving me naked and exposed from the waist down. My pussy was soaking wet and drooling, and my clit ached.
Janie stuck her head between my thighs, and spent a lot of time carefully and enthusiastically licking my pussy.
Nobody other than Nate had spent more than two minutes licking my kitty before. He used to spend what seemed like hours going down on me in my dorm room (after freshman year I’d had my own tiny private room in the old dorm building). He used to concentrate on my clit, like it was a tiny penis, giving me a mini-blowjob. He was never able to make me come that way, but it was always deliciously, excruciatingly good, and he never seemed to get tired of trying.
Janie was really good at it too, although her technique was utterly different from Nate’s. She had more of a butterfly, scatter-shot style, flitting and teasing up and down and all around my hyper-excited vulva, rarely pausing at any one location for more than a lick or two. It felt really good—amazingly good—but it wasn’t going to make me come.
She finally came up for air, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re delicious!”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. Getting eaten out like that was like surviving a severe attack of tickling. My cunt was so horny it hurt, and if my hands hadn’t been cuffed, they would have been busy between my legs.
“I am going to make you come,” she went on, “One way or another.”
She fucked me with both hands, two fingers of one hand in my asshole, two fingers of the other hand pistoning in and out of my pussy. At first she would bend over from time to time and lick my clit while she double-fucked me; but as we both got more and more into it she stopped that and just concentrated on fucking the living shit out of me. She was pounding my asshole and my vagina, alternating thrusts like a cybernetic fucking machine, her tits shaking, and her forehead wrinkled with concentration. I saw sweat running down her chest between her breasts.
It worked. The thing snuck up on me, and before I really realized what was going on, I was coming. My entire body shook and strained, and I screamed like she was murdering me, screaming out loud for all of New York Fucking City to hear, and she stayed with me, fucking me slow and deep all the way through my orgasm.
It was the first time I’d ever come from another human being touching me.
I was shaking. “Are you alright?” She undid the cuffs and held me tight, hugging me close. I wept onto her shoulder for probably half an hour.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized that while she’d given me an orgasm, I hadn’t returned the favor. When I pointed this out to Janie, she said “Oh, not to worry… there will be plenty of time for that!”
I slept over that night. It was good.
“It’s a good idea to experiment a little,” my dad said, smiling his weird half-smile benevolently at me from his wheelchair. I could already see the erection rising in his pants. “So… tell me all about it.”
I pulled down the collar of my shirt and peeled back the bra cup, exposing my left breast, and the shiny steel barbell that bisected the nipple. Janie had held my hand while I got them pierced.
“Use your imagination,” I said to my dad, and turned around and walked out of the room, out of the assisted living facility, and out onto the street. I never looked back.
It was midnight over the Arctic Ocean, and the moon, my oldest and best friend, shone down from a cloudless sky, casting her soft light over miles upon miles of shattered ice. A wide white frozen ocean, still as death.
“The whole back cabin is empty,” the stewardess leered down at me, “if you want to stretch out your legs.”
She could have been my age, or older, or younger. It was hard to tell under the flame-retardant polyester uniform, the caked-on makeup, the frazzled, hairsprayed hair. She might even have been attractive, I honestly couldn’t tell. Plastic-looking freckled cleavage peeked out at me from under her blouse; the top two buttons were undone and I could see the black lace of her bra.
Why does everyone always assume I’m a lesbian? I’m not, though I was momentarily tempted to take her up on her offer. I hadn’t been properly laid since I split up with Travis, my New York City boyfriend. He couldn’t deal with all the travel; he couldn’t deal with the academic knife-fighting; he couldn’t deal with having an open relationship; but he could deal with fucking nineteen-year old undergrads behind my back.
I wondered if she shaved her kitty. She probably did. Everyone does these days, everyone but me.
It was a charter flight and there were only us three passengers, and we were all up in first class where the comfortable seats are. Bud was sprawled across three seats, reading a book and chewing gum irritably. Tiger was dicking around on his computer. If I slipped back into coach with—I read her nametag: Christie—the boys would never let me hear the end of it.
I smiled and shook my head ‘no’, and asked for another bottle of water. Christie brought me a small Evian and gave me a smile and a look that said ‘Offer’s still open. Are you sure?’ I was sure. I closed my eyes for a while and pretended to sleep, and nearly succeeded in fooling myself.
We touched down in Narita just as the sun was rising, and I wanted to curl up and dry-heave, but I pulled my carry-on out of the overhead compartment and got off the plane instead. Christie squeezed my hand and gave me a pouty look on the way out. Her loss.
Our plane was waiting for us across the terminal. Another charter. We got on and sat for an hour while they located the pilot, and then deplaned and sat around the airport for another six hours while they replaced a bum hydraulic line.
Bud got drunk. Tiger alternately napped and dicked around on his computer. I went exploring.
In an out-of-the-way corner, past a forlorn Pizza Hut and a kilometer of empty gates, I watched a young Japanese couple fuck.
They were young, early twenties maybe, and good-looking in a non-descript sort of way. Their clothes were neatly folded up on the floor next to a courtesy phone. They didn’t look like the type to screw in public at the airport; they looked like a pair of eager go-getters working their way up the corporate ladder. Mitsubishi, Sony, Honda. Middle-managers or junior project leaders.
He had tan lines, which I suspect is rare in Japanese businessmen; a sunken chest with a few stray hairs around his nipples; and a really big dick, which may or may not be a good thing in bed, but certainly makes for entertaining watching. She was a petite little thing with small, conical, bouncy breasts. She didn’t shave her pussy either. There was a thick, dark triangle of hair between her legs.
He was flat on his back, behind an empty Nakanihon service desk. She was straddling him, bouncing up and down on his oversized penis. He wasn’t wearing a condom, and his dick was slick and shiny with her juices. She would lift herself up so just the head was nestled between her plump lips, and then slowly drop down until the whole appendage was buried inside her cunt. I was kind of shocked that the whole thing fit inside. Guys get to brag about having a big dick, but girls don’t get to brag about having a deep pussy. Personally, I like them medium or smaller, and I like girth. But, damn, it was hot to watch. She enjoyed every inch of it. Her tits shook as they fucked, and I felt my own underutilized pussy getting wet inside my pants.
She noticed me watching and tittered behind her hand in that inimitable Japanese way, and whispered something to her partner. They switched positions, so they were both facing me: her down on her hands and knees, and him fucking her from behind. Her little tits dangled down and jiggled with every thrust. I could hear his cock squelching in and out, I could hear them both grunting and gasping. I stuck a hand down my pants. I was soaked.
He pulled out and she spun around, and he jerked off into her open mouth. He came silently, his face screwed up in a Noh mask of passion. He pumped pearly-white semen onto her outstretched tongue, and she clearly relished it, gobbling it all up and cleaning his penis after, lavishing her tongue up and down and all around as he slowly wilted. God, I missed that! Not that particular act so much, but the intimacy of it. Double-As will only get you so far. I missed sex. I missed dick.
Grinning stupidly, his huge cock now very much reduced, he slumped against the wall. The airport P.A. system rattled off a warning about leaving luggage unattended in seven different languages. My hand was still busy inside my pants. She smiled shyly at me, spreading her legs to show me just how wet her pussy was. I could actually see her clitoris, which I thought was pretty hot. She nodded eagerly and beckoned. Why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?
I turned around and fled, losing myself in the labyrinth that is Narita. Stepped into a ladies’ and changed my panties. Maybe I should have licked her pussy. Maybe I’d like it. I’ve been told that before. Maybe I’ll try someday. At the moment all I wanted was to get some dick and finish my dissertation. I’d been called out for fudging some numbers, just a little, just enough to make the dataset fit the predictions, and my advisor had totally lost his shit and my funding got pulled and now it was back to square one. Or maybe square zero.
They got a new plane for us, and we crawled onboard like refugees and took off. Mercifully, I slept a little on this leg: weird, surreal, semi-erotic half dreams of fucking in airplane bathrooms and airport corridors. Riemann sums and zeta functions and beta particles and oversized cocks.
The landing in Damascus was one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced. We came in steep and we came in fast, and when the gear hit the tarmac, I thought the plane had broken in half. We taxied to the gate, and they hustled us off the plane and onto another charter, an aging A300, and it was one more flight to Tehran, through Iraqi airspace up above a thick layer of cloud that could have been anywhere in the world, and then it was a quick puddle-jumper turboprop to Ardakan, and then a bouncy ride in a white SUV with black tinted windows to the hotel. My insides felt like microwaved scrambled eggs.
When we got off the plane in Tehran, they had given me a veil, and now, stepping out of the SUV into the brief intense Persian sun, I put it on. I felt faintly ridiculous, like I was getting dressed up to go trick-or-treating, and I had to suppress a wicked case of the giggles.
As we schlepped into the air-conditioned hotel lobby, the azan was called, piped in through loudspeakers, calling the faithful to prayer. We stood around in the plush lobby, feeling like fools, weary and jetlagged fools, the only people in the room not kneeling down and facing Mecca.
Prayer finished, and we were shown to our rooms, and then we were brought down to a conference room where Farhad, our contact, apologetically told us that he was waiting for the paperwork to come back authorizing us to do our work, and that there would be a slight delay. That was fine by us: we had been ready to go to work on the spot, but they were paying by the day, and if they weren’t ready for us, that was their problem. He advised us to go up to our rooms and get some rest; the matter would certainly be cleared up by the morning. That sounded OK by me. Farhad glanced at me, and his look contained a question and a suggestion that would probably have made his Supreme Leader blush and might well have earned him a public whipping.
I didn’t seriously consider inviting Farhad back up to my hotel room; I may have been horny and hungry for dick, but I did have standards and Farhad wasn’t my type. He was slick, greasy, and effeminate, and he had a big black bushy beard. I returned his gaze with a look of uncomprehending indifference. Anyway, I needed my beauty sleep.
Up in my hotel room, I stripped off all my clothes—I always sleep naked, when I’m not actively bleeding—and luxuriated in the fresh, clean high-thread count sheets. I briefly considered masturbating, but before I could even get down to business, exhaustion won out over jet lag, and I fell asleep. At least for a while.
I was woken up by a tapping at the door, soft but insistent. Outside, it was still bright and sunny, a fact that punched me in the gut. I assumed that the paperwork had come through, and Farhad was summoning us to the facility. I sleepily pushed the button next to the bed that unlocked the door.
It was, in fact, Bud. Hunky, beefy, gruff and taciturn Bud, with his Fu Manchu mustache and soul patch that our hosts seemed to find quietly hilarious.
I didn’t know Bud all that well: we were acquaintances academically, and had worked together a couple times now, but we’d never hung out or talked much. I knew he’d been drummed out of MIT for, of all things, boinking an underage undergrad.
I realized, belatedly, that I was stark naked. I realized, as well, that Bud was just fine with that fact.
We retreated to an entrenched position on my bed, where we proceeded to set about kissing and making out, for what seemed like a very long time.
I really liked being held in Bud’s arms; he was strong and solid. I really liked the way he kissed and touched me. I liked his hands. I liked the attention he was paying to my breasts. The only thing I didn’t like was that I was undressed and he wasn’t. So I took it upon myself to remedy that situation.
He had a firm, round belly, a deep navel, and a short, fat dick. The crown was juicy red. It felt really nice with my hand wrapped around it, and Bud’s kissing took on a new level of urgency. His large, hairy hand slipped between my legs and found my scalding hot slick wet pussy.
There was a knock at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat. Definitely Farhad this time. Well, he would just have to wait until I had an orgasm. My hand was moving insistently up and down Bud’s stout, stumpy erection. One of his fingers had just slipped inside me, and it felt delightful. My clit was bulging up and out, eager to join the fun.
I certainly didn’t buzz him in, so Bud must have. It wasn’t Farhad after all, it was Tiger, and he moved purposefully into the room, as silent and focused as a hunting cat, letting the door clunk shut behind him.
I didn’t know Tiger well at all. We’d worked on one project together before, that was it. He was young, crazy young for a post-doc student, in his very early twenties at most. He was short and angular, with spiky hair and intense brown eyes behind square glasses. I don’t know what he’d done to get booted out of Stanford, but it must have been pretty awful, because he was genuinely fucking brilliant.
He stalked silently across the room, almost gliding. He shed his clothes by the side of the bed. He had a nice, taut body; chunky muscles like he worked out in a gym; a fluff of dark hair on his chest and under his arms; a shaved set of cock and balls. His dick popped out of his tight white briefs, nice and hard already; not too long, with an aggressive upward curve, a drawn bow. I wondered what that serpentine cock would feel like up inside my pussy. Pretty damn good, I bet, especially with Bud’s stubby one lodged in my butt.
He crawled into bed with us. My hand found his dick, and I squeezed. He was hot and hard and smooth. Bud’s finger was moving incessantly in my cunt. I was in heaven: a nice thick dick in each hand! I rolled over onto my back, spreading my legs wide. Tiger’s hand joined Bud’s, and now I had two fingers, belonging to two different guys, up my twat. I wanted some of that dick inside me, and I wanted it, like yesterday.
Bud broke off our kiss, and Tiger leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. The two boys necked while I continued to jerk them both off. Then they squirmed away, sliding their wet fingers out of my gasping, engorged, juicy wet cunt.
The boys maneuvered into a 69 position next to me on the bed: Bud on the bottom, Tiger perched on top, feeding each other cock. I had an excellent view of fat balls, hard wet dicks, slurping tongues, tight buns and assholes. The only thing missing from the picture was me. I stroked Tiger’s compact little ass while my finger slowly circled my own swollen clit. I watched as Bud licked Tiger’s crinkly, hairless ball sac and tongued his tiny little asshole.
They rolled over, dicks wet and hard and urgent, and Bud scrambled around, manhandling Tiger into position. One hairy paw on the boy’s throat, the other one guiding his own cock. There was no condom. I wondered if they’d done this before; the routine seemed practiced and familiar to them both.
Bud speared Tiger with his short, fat dick. Tiger grunted out something unintelligible as Bud penetrated him. It might have been “more”. Bud started fucking his ass, nothing slow, nothing subtle, slamming his asshole hard and viciously. He had one hair in Tiger’s black hair, the other was wrapped around his curvaceous dick, busily jacking him off. I lounged against the head of the bed, watching the show, diddling myself slowly. I didn’t want to come until they did.
It didn’t take long. Bud was huffing and puffing like a prizefighter, fucking Tiger hard, handling his lithe young body like a rag doll. He growled and skewered Tiger one last time, crammed his thick short dick all the way up the kid’s anus, and held him close while he came deep inside his asshole. Then he yanked his dick out, spun Tiger around, and wrapped his lips around the livid red crown of his cock, frantically jerking off Tiger’s C-shaped shaft. Tiger threw his head back and roared, shooting off into Bud’s mouth. Bud sucked it all up, I didn’t see one drop of semen escape his lips.
Very conscious of the guys watching me, I started to masturbate in earnest. It didn’t take me long either, I was way too worked up. I wished I had a dildo, or maybe two dildos, or at least a vibrator, but of course I had packed nothing of the sort. I slid a finger up my own asshole, jammed a finger up my pussy, and used the palm of my hand to grind against my swollen clit. I came, and I came hard, writhing on the bed, riding the wave that rolled through my body, tossing and tumbling over me, overwhelming me with pleasure.
We fell asleep like that, though it was only late afternoon and the sun was still shining; a sticky, sweaty, intertwined mass on my bed. When I woke up, it was dark and they were gone. There was no sign that they had been there at all. The whole episode might have been a dream, a hallucination brought on by jetlag and pent-up lust. I lay in bed the whole night and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. I whacked off again, and while it felt good, it didn’t help. I lay there under the soft hum of the air conditioner, staring at the ceiling and pondering sketchy numbers and fudged datasets and enriched uranium until long after dawn.
As predicted, the paperwork came through bright and early. Farhad packed us all off to the facility, past big, stony-faced men in robes with beards and Kalashnikovs. We made the necessary adjustments to the centrifuges. It didn’t take long; their own grad students should have been able to do the work, but we weren’t about to say anything. This would make a nice fat dent in my student loan debt; the fee would come from a Swiss consulting firm that nominally provided services to the Brazilian aerospace industry.
We were whisked back to the airport and aloft, back home via Indonesia and then Amsterdam; a big fat credit lodged safely in our bank accounts. Back to New York City; my messy studio apartment, my laundry basket overflowing, my sails in rags, my dissertation shattered, my drawer full of sex toys, my ex-boyfriend who might or might not be up for having casual sex with me.
Deep down in my abdomen, I felt the first twinging cramps of my impending period. I gazed out the small oval window of the airplane and saw the moon, my oldest and only friend, flying high above the languid waters of the Arabian Sea.
The first time I ever saw her was on a junior-high field trip to the City Museum. I remember it clearly, even though most of the rest of that period of my life is an unpleasant adolescent blur, a hormonal hangover.
I was already enough of a geek that I was really into the museum. Other than my friend and fellow dweeb Emily, my classmates all thought it was boring, or just a chance to goof off. I loved the old artifacts, the pottery shards and medieval weapons, the old paintings, especially the portraits of people long dead, and the big moody romantic landscapes of mountains and tangled dark forests.
And then I saw the statue. It was toward the end of our excursion, the other kids were hungry and irritable, and the teachers were frazzled. She was carved out of white marble, and sat atop a low pedestal. She was looking over her shoulder, as if she was checking to see if anyone was watching, and she was completely nude. Her breasts were out there for anyone to see.
I was at the unfortunate age where the sight of bare breasts was both unbearably fascinating, and somewhat mortifying. The sculptor had done a fine job with hers: they were beautiful, petite and round with perfect little nipples. Her legs were crossed, but you could see, just below the slight swell of her belly, the etched suggestion of pubic hair.
There was a slight smile on the statue’s face, a mischievous look, and I swear her eyes twinkled.
I left the museum feeling deeply self-conscious about the hard-on that was jutting out from my crotch like a signpost. Apparently my classmate Emily, friend, fellow nerd, and sometime co-conspirator, noticed. According to her, I narrowly missed losing my virginity later that afternoon, or if not my virginity per se, I might have at least gained some valuable carnal experience. All I would have had to do was say something. But I didn’t.
I didn’t see my statue again for several years. But I didn’t forget her either. Sometimes when I masturbated, alone in bed at night, she’d be there, peeking over her shoulder at me. As if things weren’t confusing enough.
It was another field trip. This time it was Art I, a high school elective, and we were supposed to pick one thing from the museum to sketch in our notepads. I went straight to her, half afraid that she’d be gone, or that I had made her up in the first place.
She was still there. She hadn’t moved. Or had she? She was in the same place, a non-descript corner near the exit, and she held the same pose; still naked and looking over her shoulder with that ghostly smile on her face; but this time I noticed that her legs were slightly parted. If you looked, you could just make out the crease of her labia. And I did look.
I sat down and tried to sketch her. It didn’t go very well. First of all, it was hard to sit comfortably with an erection bulging in my pants. And secondly, without really meaning to, I kept sketching all her naughty bits in excruciating detail. I’d start trying to capture her neck and shoulder, and find myself drawing her breasts; I’d work on the line of her legs, and end up focusing on her half-hidden crotch. Eventually, I gave up and tried my hand at copying one of the renaissance portraits that I loved. It was harder than it looked.
Emily caught up with me after class. “I saw what you sketched today,” she said. I turned the color of a ripe tomato.
“It’s OK,” she giggled. “I thought it was a pretty good drawing. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Meet me back at the museum after school. I’ll tell you then.”
I hustled my butt over to the museum right after sixth period algebra, but Emily was already there waiting for me. It was close to closing time, and the museum was nearly empty; all that remained were a few old ladies and a more-or-less equal number of security guards.
“What’s the big secret?” I wanted to know. She just smiled guiltily and told me to follow. She led me to the Hall of Antiquities.
We stopped in front of an out-of-the way statue in a far corner of the Hall. It was a white marble figure, a young man carrying a bucket. The plaque next to the statue said ‘The Water Carrier”. It seemed like a pretty innocuous statue; he was nude, but they all were. You could see his penis, but it didn’t seem like anything to get excited about: a small and limp-looking noodle resting on a round bulge that suggested his scrotum. But Emily was blushing furiously.
She looked quickly around, checking for little old ladies and security guards, but the coast was clear. Then Emily reached out and touched the noodle with the tip of her index finger. I swear to God the statue twitched.
She stroked it, like she was petting a tiny baby kitten, drawing her finger lightly up and down, back and forth; and slowly but surely the stone penis engorged and grew erect. I was fascinated. It was big, but not huge. It was roughly the size of my own gear. Eventually it was standing straight up, the white marble head peeking out from inside the white marble foreskin. The statue had gone from an ordinary, unremarkable figure study to an obscene pornographic masterpiece, fit to give a House Republican conniptions.
“Lick it,” I heard myself say, and after another quick check to make sure we were alone, Emily did. She bent over, stuck out her tongue, and flicked the tip of the statue’s cock with the end of her tongue. I swear, the statue twitched again, and his penis seemed to grow another half inch.
“Come on,” Emily said, “Let’s try yours!”
We waited while a little old lady with an oversized black umbrella shuffled past. My statue looked perfectly ordinary, her legs crossed primly, her head turned, looking over her shoulder behind her. The octogenarian finally tottered out the end of the hall, and when I looked back at my stature, something had changed. Her legs were no longer crossed, but were in fact slightly parted. The hint of a crease between her thighs was no longer just a suggestion, but a carven valley, a crevice between puffy sculpted labia. When I looked closely, I could even see a tiny white marble clitoris.
“Touch her!” Emily urged.
Hesitantly, I reached out my arm and did just that, insinuating my outstretched arm between her thighs and petting her stone crease. She was cold and hard and smooth as polished glass.
As I ran my finger up and down her stone labia, she blossomed. It was like watching one of those time-lapse films of a white flower, a lilly say, blossoming. Her lips puffed and pealed back, her clitoris emerged from its carven marble hood.
“Put a finger inside!” and I did. It felt weirdly non-erotic, my finger slipping into a tunnel of finely polished marble. The statue sighed softly and her legs parted a little wider.
Just then, the loudspeaker informed us that the Museum was now closed, and a security guard ambled along to kick us out. We high-tailed it out of there, double-time.
I still can’t believe we did it; I can’t believe how easy it was; I really can’t believe we got away with it. We just ducked into the Museum later that same night through a propped-open side door while a security guard took an illicit smoke break.
Once inside, we both got a wicked case of the giggles. “Who goes first??” We couldn’t decide, so we played rock-paper-scissors for it. Emily picked rock. I picked paper.
Together, we went into the Hall of Antiquities. Our footsteps seemed to echo all out of proportion.
We found ourselves in front of Emily’s statue. He looked normal and unassuming. His penis had returned to its original state; small and flaccid but not soft.
“Touch him!” Emily said, and I did, reaching out and petting his marble penis. He twitched visibly under my touch. “Lick it!” Emily urged. Why not, I thought, it’s only a statue. I got down on my knees, stuck out my tongue, and slurped the marble of his penis. This time he definitely twitched, jumping and growing in response to my touch. I gave him another experimental lick. His dick was pointing up at the heavens now, carved in exquisite detail and, of course, hard as stone.
“I think that was the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day,” Emily said. “I’ll just take it from here.”
I moved out of the way, and she got down on her knees and starting slurping up and down the statue’s penis, taking him between her lips, swallowing most, if not all, of his shaft, swirling her tongue around the alabaster head, playing with his stone balls. My own cock was at least as hard as the statue’s.
I opened my big fat mouth. “You should take your shirt off.” Emily stopped what she was doing and gave me a sharp look. She didn’t say anything, but she did pull her t-shirt off, up over her head, and she unsnapped her bra.
Her breasts were small, freckled, almost conical affairs, with tiny, dimpled, pink nipples. They jiggled as she moved. I thought they were beautiful.
Emily sucked his dick a little bit more. By this time, his penis was straining skyward, fat and thick, and it glistened with her saliva. She got up off her knees, glanced around and shrugged. “Here goes nothing.”
She shucked her black pants down around her ankles. Pink panties emblazoned with white unicorns followed. She had a fluffy puff of pubic hair, and I could see her pussy pouting open. A glistening strand of wetness lingered, stretching from her pink pussy lips down to the crotch of her panties. This is actually happening, I thought, this is for real. It was far and away the sexiest sight I had ever seen.
She waddled forward, stood up on her tippy-toes, and nudged the crease of her pussy up against the tip of the statue’s cock. “Mmmmm,” she whispered to me, “Shit yeah. It feels amazing.”
Slowly, gingerly, Emily lowered herself down his dick, impaling herself. “Shit yeah,” she said again, “It’s so fucking good!”
She started moving up and down, lifting up until his penis was just barely nestled between her labia, and then plunging down again. Faster and faster she moved, her breath becoming husky, her breasts bouncing, her skin flushed, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She looked gorgeous like that, awe-inspiring. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid. I wasn’t sure what she’d think.
“Oh,” Emily cried in a small voice, “Oh, I’m coming!”
She bore down hard on the statue, burying his entire cock in her pussy, scrubbing hard between her legs with her head thrown back, her eyes clenched shut. Her entire body shuddered. It was amazing to watch.
Finally, almost sheepishly, she disengaged herself from the statue and pulled her pants back up.
“That was SO hot!” I told her.
She gave me an unreadable little smile, located her bra, and pulled her t-shirt back on.
My statue was back to her more-or-less prim self, lounging with her legs crossed at the ankles, looking back over her shoulder with a secret little smile. I swear I saw her legs part a little bit as we approached.
“Lick her pussy.” Emily told me. The way she emphasized the word pussy punched me in the gut.
Indeed, the statue’s legs had parted just enough that I could squeeze in between her knees. I crawled in between her stone thighs, and found myself face-to-face with the crease of her marble vulva.
I felt faintly ridiculous, down on my knees, licking the sculpted marble. It was cool and smooth under my tongue, and tasted like nothing at all.
My licking, however, had an immediate and dramatic effect. There was no shade of primness now, my statue’s legs were splayed wide apart. Her pussy was wide open, her marble clitoris was bulging out, and her inner lips practically glistened.
“Fuck her,” Emily urged. “Fuck her pussy.” She savored the word, enjoying the sound of it rolling off her tongue.
Feeling a little bit self-conscious, and more than a little bit ridiculous, I unzipped my jeans, and fished out my straining erection. I could feel Emily’s eyes on me as I maneuvered myself in between the statue’s wide-spread legs. “Here goes nothing,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. I slid my dick straight up that stone pussy.
The sensation was amazing. At the time I didn’t have anything to compare it to, other than my own hand, which it felt nothing like. She was smooth as silk, hard as granite. It was a little like fucking a tube of Reddi-Wip, straight out of the refrigerator. It felt so damn good!
My statue’s head was now lolled back. Her nipples strained out, her toes pointed at the ceiling. If Emily’s statue would give House Republicans conniptions, my stature would give them a collective heart attack in its current pose. I glanced over at Emily. She was staring at my cock, watching it slide in and out of the white stone portal. One hand was down the front of her pants.
“Play with her asshole,” Emily whispered.
I reached under the statue’s buttocks and found her carven anus, which yielded to my probing finger.
“Oh fuck Emily,” I swallowed hard, “I’m not going to be able to last much longer…”
“Fuck yeah,” Emily responded, never once taking her eyes off the action, “Come inside her. Come in her fucking pussy.”
I was already there. It just felt too damn good! I was fucking her faster and faster, grinding my cock in and out of her tight stone orifice, bucking my hips in an over-excited frenzy. A part of me felt like I must look ridiculous, a goofy-looking kid with his jeans down around his calves, humping away like a madman at an old Greek statue; but mostly I just surrendered to it. I came, gasping and grunting, pumping what felt like gallon after gallon of semen deep into my statue’s vagina.
When it was all over, when my dick was finally waning soft, I reluctantly withdrew. My come leaked from the statue’s vulva like the trail of a slug. My heart was thumping and I was all sweaty and sticky. I felt sheepish and un-sexy, but Emily was grinning from ear to ear!
“Now, THAT was the second-sexiest thing I’ve seen all day!”
While I put my dick back in my underpants, and pulled up my jeans, Emily got down on her knees and gingerly stuck out her tongue and lapped a little of my come off of the marble pussy. She noticed me watching and turned bright red. “I just wanted to know what it was like!”
We slipped out the back of the museum, out into the night. It was late and the stars were out and the moon rode high above the city. We walked along cracked and deserted sidewalks, hand in hand and hip to hip. I don’t know about Emily, but I felt like I was glowing.
I always dread Monday mornings, but this one was worse than usual. What a crap weekend it had been! Saturday was my Aunt Flora’s memorial service; what a disaster. Plastic sunshine, and bottled saccharine; half-truths and blatant lies; and it had dragged on for hours. They made her out to be some sort of saint, when in reality she had been a crabby, alcoholic old biddy. To make up for that torture, on Sunday after church I had locked myself in the apartment with my illicit vibrator, about forty gigs of confiscated porn, and a jug of bathtub vodka. And now I was paying the price.
At least the coffee was hot. I looked at our list for the day. It was like a thousand names long. My Chief Inquisitor and I exchanged a look. Melinda knew just as well as I did that there was no way we were making it through that list in one day, and tomorrow there’d be a fresh one, just like it. Ah well, we’d do what we always do: start at the top and work our way down.
Melinda put in her earbud, and I took my seat in the control room behind the mic, and I had them bring in the first client.
A pair of burly Adepts walked him in. He came along meekly, already naked of course. I checked my list. Ezra E Elmendorf, 25, single, male. Occupation: Topiary Artist. Topiary artist? For real? It was either a joke or the perfect cover story. This guy had no red flags against him, but a list of yellow ones a mile long. The usual collection of questionable, but not quite illegal, internet hits. He’d been suspected, but not actually accused, of writing anonymous erotica in high school. He went to the same church as Samuel Sikes, the Seattle bomber. Again, in high school he’d been friends with Damien Davies, the convicted pornographer. His name had been mentioned ‘under extreme duress’ by both a defrocked librarian and a female ex-coworker. A short list of girlfriends, all of them with dodgy, but not quite loose, moral ratings. He’d been in Boise two weeks before a bomb blast that had killed sixteen people. And he’d just bought tickets to Denver. Holy shit, no wonder they’d hauled him in.
He wasn’t bad looking, not at all. Even naked and in custody, he stood tall and defiant, doing his best to look unafraid. His genitals betrayed him, though. His gear was all shrunk up, tiny and wilted and trying desperately to hide. One of the nifty things about male equipment is that the flaccid state tells you almost nothing about the excited version. Under the right circumstances, this shriveled and cowering frightened little penis might well blossom into a proud, solid, aesthetically pleasing erection.
I spoke into the mic, “Warm him up.” And the Adepts did their job, bouncing him off the plywood walls like a dodge ball; punching him in the kidneys and gut; and kicking him roundly once he went down and stayed down. I liked these guys. Very professional. Some Adepts take way too much pleasure in their jobs; these fellows were all business.
“Let’s see what Mr. Ezra has to say,” I said, and in the room Melinda took over. The Adepts backed off, leaving him prone and gasping.
She nudged his penis with the tip of her boot. Classic. Implied threat. I love working with Melinda. “Let’s talk,” she deadpanned.
She worked him for the full twenty-five minutes, occasionally letting the Adepts step in and dribble him off the walls and floor, or hose him down with cold water, but mostly just asking questions: Where were you, when? What did you do there? Why did you make that trip? And always: names, names, names. He gave her nothing. He was either completely innocent, or doing a very good job of playing dumb.
We had a list to get through. “Let him go,” I said into the mic, “We’ll bring him back in tomorrow.”
Next up was a weepy adulteress from East Brooklyn. She was easy, but loud and shrill. I finished my first cup of coffee and poured another. The hangover was pounding between my ears. It was going to be a long old day.
I looked Ezra up after work. He was exactly where his personal file said he would be, in a medium-sketchy coffee saloon on the Lower East Side. I sipped decaf and watched him from across the room. He showed no sign of having been worked over that morning; but our Adepts are well-trained, and a Derma-Patch will work wonders on bruises and abrasions.
I went up to him. This was all way outside my brief, total yellow flag territory. “Pass the milk?” I bent over, practically dangling my cleavage in his face. Nothing. He looked up at me, smiled, handed me the little metal carafe. He was reading a novel; not exactly scripture, but nothing too racy either. I took the cream and went back to my seat, quietly seething. I sat and watched him read his book and sip his latte for the next hour.
He was a good looking man. I tried to picture him naked. I had, of course, already seen him at his nakedest, but with male nudity, it is all about the circumstances. And, I thought, under the circumstances of my bedroom, he’d look pretty good indeed.
The next day, I had the Adepts spend the first fifteen minutes of the session working over the soles of Ezra’s feet with rubber straps. He screamed until his voice was a ruined husk. “Please! Stop! No more! I’m a gardener, for God’s sake! I take care of plants!”
Melinda dumped a five-gallon bucket of ice water over his head, and the Adepts stepped out of the way. “Well, let’s talk then.” She squeezed his scrotum; technically in violation of protocol, but she always knew exactly how far to push it. “Give me some names.”
“I don’t have any names! I don’t know anything,” he sobbed. “I don’t know anyone.” I was embarrassed on his behalf.
I had the Adepts go back to work on his feet, beating them left-right-left with all the regularity of a metronome while Melinda waited, one eyebrow slightly raised, shadow of a smile on her face, pencil and notebook in hand, just waiting for him to name some names. We went four minutes long, and he screamed until his screams were a hideous choking croak, but not one name did he name.
Not that night, but two nights later, I saw him again at the sleazy coffee dive. He sat there, calm and composed as the Buddha, reading his novel and sipping his latte. He’d discreetly slipped his shoes off under the table.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Be my guest,” Ezra rasped. His larynx was still trashed.
I sat down next to him, letting my knee brush casually against his. He flinched as if I had just touched him with a live electric wire. I did it again, pressing my flesh against his, just to let him know it wasn’t an accident.
“This drip coffee isn’t too bad,” I said, “but I have a new espresso machine at home. Would you like to come over and try it out?”
As far as dropping hints, it was only slightly more subtle than pulling off my panties and waving them under his nose. Ezra wasn’t stupid, nor was he gay. He took the hint. He gingerly put his shoes back on, and we walked out the door together, arm in arm, and took a taxi back to my place.
Premarital sex is straight-up illegal, a big fat red flag. Fooling around, on the other hand, is a grey area, a statutory demilitarized zone; officially frowned on, unofficially permitted. As long as it is done discreetly, between a man and a woman, a little heavy petting is generally tolerated as a kind of pressure relief valve. Yellow flag at worst. We shamelessly and un-discreetly made out in the back of the cab all the way back to my place in Park Slope, while the driver tried hard to look like he wasn’t watching in the rear view mirror.
Ezra was a good kisser: neither too tentative, nor too sloppy. He kissed like a man who had some experience kissing, and I liked it. I snuggled up next to him in the back of the cab, enjoying the warmth and solidness of his body next to mine. I squeezed his erection through his pants. “I am going to eat you alive,” I whispered in his ear.
Back at my apartment, we wasted no time. His shoes came off first, followed by the rest of his clothes. He looked beautiful in this context; tall and lithe, he reminded me of some graceful bird. A crane, perhaps. His cock jutted out eagerly, thick and taut and proud.
I stripped down to my panties, leaving them on out of some vestigial sense of modesty, and we curled up together on my bed. We kissed and touched a little more. It was delectable. His cock got even harder than it had been before, straining purple and urgent. His balls were plump and warm. His feet were swollen, and there were bruises around his thighs from the restraints, but we didn’t talk about that. I got down to the business of sucking his dick.
It was a real pleasure to go down on him. He tasted clean and male, and he was trembling with excitement. Just trailing my tongue down the underside of his erection made him groan with pleasure. I kissed his balls, kissed his perineum, kissed the underside of his drooling glans. Then I swallowed him whole, lavishing my tongue all around the head while my hand stroked his shaft. He came hard, and he came fast, filling my mouth with his salty-bitter semen, hot and sticky and sexy beyond measure. I held him between my lips until he finally popped out, soft and spent.
We drank a little bathtub vodka, and kissed some more, his come fresh on my lips. He fingered me through my panties, and found my pussy wet and ready. As he probed my juicy pussy, his cock slowly got hard again, rising like a phoenix.
“I want you to fuck me,” I said, and I meant it.
“What?” his voice was painful to listen to.
“Fuck me,” I repeated. “There’s condoms in the top drawer.” Funny. Condoms are illegal, but everybody has them. Even the Inquisitor has a stash, tucked in under her prim and proper undies.
He pulled back hard. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I’m not sure I can do that for you. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Are you for fucking real?” I pulled back the crotch of my panties to reveal my hungry hole.
“I’m just not sure I’m comfortable with that… I’ll go down on you if you want.”
“Forget it,” I said. The moment had passed, my mood was shot. “Get dressed. Go home. I can take care of myself.”
Sullenly, I watched him get dressed and hobble out of my bedroom. I suppose I should have let him stay and have a go at licking my kitty, but that was not what I was in the mood for. My mail-order Canadian vibrator did the trick. It did the trick very nicely indeed, and when I was done I slept harder and deeper than I had in a long time.
I had Ezra pulled in again. Bumped him to the top of the list, and then skipped a few names past him, just to make him wait. We came back to him just after lunch. The Adepts brought him in, naked and obedient. I could smell his fear, all the way through the thick plexi window.
“Dunk him in the bucket,” I whispered to Melinda through my headset, “Four minutes.”
“Three minutes is the legal limit,” she subvocalized back, not telling me anything I didn’t know already. “Do you want to kill him?”
“Four and a half,” I said, “He’ll live.”
The burly Adepts crammed his head into the five gallon bucket, and held him there while he kicked and struggled. As the seconds ticked by, I felt my cunt getting wet and my clit tingling inside my uniform pants, and I know Melinda was feeling the same thing too. Four and a half minutes, not a second longer, and they yanked him out and dropped him on the floor, where he vomited profusely, coughing, choking and convulsing in a puddle of his own urine; his bladder had emptied involuntarily.
“Talk to me,” Melinda urged gently, towering above him.
“Fuck you,” he croaked.
“Take his fingernails,” I said.
Melinda did it herself, with a pair of stainless steel pliers. It only took three before he started singing. He named names for the next twenty-six minutes, as fast as she could write them down. He left the room a broken man, hands bandaged, head bowed.
Melinda and I screwed that weekend. I went over to her place, an austere apartment in a neo-art deco high-rise on the Upper East Side. I brought a briefcase full of files with me; if anyone asked, I was there for a business meeting.
We had been together before, but this was the first time we had ventured into full-on unadulterated red flag territory, which only made it all the more exciting.
Melinda possessed an exquisite, hand-carved strap-on walrus-tusk dildo, smuggled in from Canada, and she proceeded to fuck me with it. She did it exactly the way I had imagined Ezra doing it to me: from behind, tucked in close with her breasts pressed against my shoulders, tugging my hair and nipping at the back of my neck while she fucked my hungry pussy.
She fucked me hard and mercilessly. She pulled hard on my hair and drilled my cunt. She fucked me until I didn’t think I could take any more, and just as I was about to ask her ‘Please’, she released my hair, put one hand over my mouth, and reached down between my thighs with her other hand and found my clitoris. I came, screaming silently into her hand, impaled and writhing on her ivory phallus.
I gave just as good as I got. Melinda didn’t feel like getting fucked, so I licked instead, starting with her firm, perfect breasts, and working my way down to her petite, wet and slippery, red-hot little pussy. She was so sopping wet down there my face was more or less instantly coated with her juice. She tasted fresh and musky, a little bit salty, a little bit tangy. Her pea-sized clitoris was pink and swollen. I lapped up and down her vulva, parting her labia with my tongue, teasing her clit. I ventured down between her ass cheeks, experimentally brushing her tight, crinkled anus with the tip of my tongue. I was rewarded with a husky moan as she pressed back fiercely against me, spreading her cheeks wide for me. I drilled at the tight little hole with my tongue, straining to get deeper up her ass.
I ended up finger-fucking her asshole and her pussy at the same time, the flat of my tongue pressed hard against the bulging button of her clitoris. She came hard, her entire body shaking, chewing hard on her pillow to keep from screaming out loud. Her body squeezed my invading fingers spasmodically. It was deeply gratifying.
Afterward, we kissed and cuddled for a long while, and inevitably, we both got excited all over again. This time we both did it with our fingers, lying face to face on her bed, kissing throughout as we molested each others’ wet and slippery pussies, and when we both came, our lips were pressed together, and we moaned softly into each other’s open mouth.
I would have liked to have spent the night, wrapped comfortably in her arms, but that would have been far too dangerous, so instead I got dressed, packed up my briefcase, checked my hair and wiped my face, crotch, and pits with a moist towelette, and took the elevator down to the lobby, past an impartial-looking doorman who, I’m sure missed nothing, and out into the street. I hailed a taxi, and rode back to my place in Brooklyn. Alone.
Her scent still lingered on my fingers.
Early on Monday morning, a bomb went off at the Denver office of the Department of Moral Hygiene. Six people were killed outright, dozens more wounded. Try as I might, I just couldn’t bring myself to care.