It is the space between their skins, the hair skin space of expectation and anticipation of touch that he dwells in like an amorous ghost between worlds, moving his hands as lightly as butterflies over her, exploring hands, gentling, warming, caressing and lingering. He reaches both his hands together under her little pot belly and hefts it. “This is mine,” he says, gently rolling her belly in his huge fingers. He scratches his fingernails lightly over the skin and down below, brushing the hair between her thighs and feels her thighs move apart for more. He brings his hands up instead and passes them around the rolls and curves of her breasts. “These are mine.” Her lips brush his face. He presses his mouth to her tensed lips and sucks her roaming tongue.
She pushes him away; her fingertips travel over his face, linger at his lips. “This is mine,” she whispers back, runs her hands over his body for a moment and slides down his massive arms. She stretches herself supine on the floor. She bends her old knees and lets them fall open.
He lays down between her legs, as he must, he knows exactly how, draws her knees apart and sees how wide her pink rose has blossomed under his caresses. Pausing, he calms himself and lets the blood pound in his head. He brushes the inside of her thigh with his lips. His right hand moves above her rose and feels there, her wiry hair. She opens her legs more, rolls her hips up inviting, but he puts his face in her hair and lets himself rest there. There’s no hurry. Breathing the musky smell of her, gloriously unwashed and odorous after a long day of laundry, letting it inside of him to harden his cock. Now snuggling his face into her belly; she gently closes her legs around his neck.
He draws back a little and stretches out his tongue, the great lavender tongue that came from somewhere and presses it flat against the lips of her vagina, presses it tight and holds it there, breathing hot steam. He hears her grunt up above. Her hips wriggle as if trying to escape and suddenly push back hard against his tongue.
“Jonah!”
She’s making strangling noises and now her hips are thrusting wildly like a boy. Her frantic hands are searching for him. He holds his tongue pressed hard as she grinds herself against it, and then draws back and he sucks her bud between lip and tongue, pinches it gently as she grabs his hands and puts them on her breasts and presses her hips into him. He finds her nipples, all the time pinching her, then sucking, then pinching, then sucking as if he would suck the juice out of her. His hands move over her breasts, softly, barely touching, making her come to him so that in her exasperation she pushes her breasts at him and the frantic thrusting goes on below. With thumbs and fingers he pinch-pulls her nipples, lip pinches her clit, and her thrusting goes on and on.
He narrows his thick hot tongue and pushes it deep into her cunt, which seems to stun her motionless for a second and then the thrusting takes up again more ferocious than before. He holds his tongue still as she slides the wet length of her cunt back and forth over it. She reaches down and grabs him furiously by the hair in both fists and rides his tongue, bucking against it with her cunt. He reaches up and caresses her face, touches her lips. His excitement recedes and returns in waves, so that he forgets where he is or what is happening. The world has gone away, and there is nothing he is thinking of except her. She is all that exists in this moment for him forever.
He is a man who has lived with losing. To have something precious snatched away is so natural for him that he has brought this into his lovemaking. When he feels the rising tremblers of her pleasure shake the air around them, rather than chase after her slippery orgasm which he cherishes vastly more than his own – he stops.
He takes his tongue away from her shivering cunt and lifts up on his arms, and begins a slow pilgrimage up the length of her body, kissing and lingering in her wet cunt hair, kissing her belly, moving up and laying his lips on each breast, taking in a stiff nipple, then mouthing all the breast, a kiss of the throat, a nuzzle at the ticklish spot behind her ear and finally pressing his tensed lips to her mouth, taking her lower lip between his and sucking on it as his fingernails lightly scratch up and down the length of her belly, and then coming from behind to caress the nape of her neck. His mouth is still glazed from her cunt and she tastes her essence from him.
He begins the return journey, kissing her face, kissing her ear and her neck, kissing each breast, then her belly, then points his tongue and pushes in again. Her body unleashed, convulses instantly.
“No . . . no . . . no . . . no!”
She fucks his tongue in and out. He has all the time in the world because the world has gone away. In and out. In and out.
She falls limp and still. She will not stir.
Ah.
He plunges his tongue deep inside.
Her cunt tightens like a fist and she sits up suddenly – “No!” and her belly is shaking under his face. Her body is shaking and her tight scrunched face has turned bright red. “. . . . Oh goddamn . . . goddamn . . . goddamn you . . .”
She drops down limply, and her chest is heaving. His tongue has slipped out but he is ready to take it up again if that is what she wants. He will do anything for her. She rolls onto her side, grinning and gasping.
He climbs up from between her thighs triumphantly and kneels beside her and seizes a hank of hair loosely in his fist. “My woman.”
“Says who? You?”
He slips his arms under her shoulder and under her ass and easily lifts her from the floor. She snuggles against his chest.
He brings her to the bed and lays her down delicately and for a moment holds her wrists over her head, pinning her shoulders, and he looms over her stretched-out body, not touching, only looking. He looks down at her black and white-streaked hair fanned out over the bed, her face, her lips, the peaks of her audacious breasts, the color of her nipples, the valley between her breasts, the fine wrinkles of her belly. “All this is mine,” he says.
She pretends to struggle a little with her arms pinned above her head and crosses her legs. “No.” She is giggling. She’s gone silly. She kicks at him a little.
He lets go of her wrists and drags her by the hips close to him until her ass is positioned on the edge of the bed; stands with his feet on the floor beside, looming over her and his cock is starting to drip impatiently. He grasps an ankle in each hand and pulls her legs apart and holds her feet up high as though he might split her in half.
The knob of his cock touches her cunt lips and gives the gentlest of thrusts. He gives her just the tip. No more. He looks down because he loves to see the way it looks when it’s just touching inside her. He wishes she could see it too. She wiggles her hips trying to get all of it in but he holds himself back. “You have to say it.”
“I’m your woman.”
“Yes!”
He slips inside her with a grunt of pleasure, the huge stiffened length of him, her receiving him in and in as her mouth falls open, until he feels the hair of their groins press. This first moment of slipping it into her is the most precious moment, feeling her holding him all around fatly and wetly. For a minute he stands quietly, feeling it snug inside the easeful depth, feeling welcome and whole and healed of all rage. This is the moment and the place in all the world where he feels most perfectly like a man. He lifts her ankles up higher over her head, pressing her down and he begins his motion. He’s pistoning the great thick length of his cock in her now, and there’s no holding back, he’s going to let it all pour into her.
Moving the slickened length in and out, feeling himself move in her, enormously, plunging deep, pressing his weight on top of her, his lightning-filled body rejoicing with the raw rapture of his male vigor. “My woman,” he says. “I love my woman.” He looks down and watches his glistening wet penis vanishing in and out.
On the other side of the room the door swings open and the snow blows in; it’s her cheerful son and daughter-in-law, holding the baby and a basket with a warm holiday dinner and the son carrying a shotgun. There are screams from the door. Though she is blind, she looks up from under his deep cock str
okes swaying the big bed; he glances up from the horizontal bobble of her breasts with such a look of puzzled despair, peering out over her pleasure-curled toes at the people in the door, just as the barrels of the shotgun explode.
The storm is thundering far away and a damp breeze is blowing, making everything cool and vibrant. He looks down at her mismatched breasts. She knows no self-consciousness or shame. The sylphy girl no more cares about her nakedness than a new baby. He runs an exploratory hand down his creation’s breasts, first one and then the other.
“They can’t take you from me,” he says, and kisses the delicate lightning burn between the swell of her breasts, which makes her wince. “You’ll be my woman. Yes.”
Bending down, he kisses her lips exactly as he has been taught. Her mouth does something, trying to smile or maybe grimace, but it’s impossible yet to tell.
Into the Baptismal
Peggy Munson
Kay was the one who broke my virginity pledge, when I was just fifteen.
Barreling through the country in a bus, I stroke myself as I think about seeing her again. My pussy is a glistening nightlight beneath my old brown coat, guiding my frantically rubbing hand. Across the aisle, a curdled man chews his floppy lip in sleep. Through the windows, the taffy of headlights stretches between mile marker signs. We near a leaning, eavesdropping barn as I jiggle my clit to come. Oh God, I moan into the travel pillow fluff. The barn listens to a clothesline of flapping shirts that flirt with midnight sylphs.
We were naive at fifteen, grappling for our own religion. A pair of plaster prayer hands sat on the dresser, as small as elm leaves. Midway through a languid summer of walking beside lanky corn, we bull rode the old propane tank on sunny days, hot metal against our cotton underwear, trying to feel sensations down there. Kay’s dad had been a rodeo clown, and we still pretended to be cowgirls. Some nights we threw Kay’s sister’s Barbie clothes in gas can-fueled fires and made “polyester pyrotechnics,” as Kay liked to say. She had flint eyes that promised a hot meal on a shipwrecked island.
Our hormones were rising, mercury-like in the hot tube of summertime. “Dare you to moon the moon,” she said one night, when the moon – as my aunt used to say – was in estrus. So full you want to jab it with a stick.
“You’re on,” I replied, and dropped my pants to my knees. I thrust my butt up and shook it. That’s when Kay ran her finger up my crack and said, “Check out your furry caterpillar crack,” and made my asshole shiver.
It was my first inkling that I liked my cousin Kay. I had never felt that kind of want – the kind that leaves you trembling.
But we had signed virginity pledges with Faith Baptist Church, and we were also big recruiters. We used to troll through school and find some limp-haired Mary and wax hellfire and brimstone until she contracted her body to Christ. Still, things had shifted in Davis City, and our best recruiting happened before the paper screens came to town – before the car plant rose amongst the cornfields and Japanese businessmen demanded restaurants with shoji screens. The first time I tasted raw fish, I watched a boy punch his fist through the shoji paper and saw how much disdain boys have for flimsy white contracts. The sushi chefs circled the boy with choppy words but what did they expect? The puppetry of shadows made boys stiff with rage. Boys spent hours tocking lampshades, wishing they could punch their way through skirts. Girls needed more armor than pulp and ink.
“Feel mine,” said Kay. “Seriously. It’s a wooly caterpillar.” She took my hand and thrust it down her back end. “Tell me if you think I’m revoltingly hairy.”
It was a sinful invitation. There were too many potential butterflies down there. Then, my hand slipped down her crack to her wettest spot. “It’s not worth pissing yourself over,” I teased, yanking out my fingers. I pushed her away with so much freaked-out force she fell against the clothesline and grabbed a pair of shirtsleeves to steady her body. I dove after her, giggling. Before I knew it, we were wrestling the phantasmal shirt on the ground, playing sumo with thread ghosts instead of shoving the men of the cloth from our minds. At one point, Kay slipped her hand under my waistband. She tickled my badlands. Her finger flitted against a nerve that shot through me like a diamond blade, and I couldn’t help but gasp – her hand down there felt amazing. The sun surrounded her molasses skin and tight braids. I thought about dunking her in the swimming hole, and making her translucent so I could see all the way through. I reached for her face. I leaned close like I was going to kiss her.
Then the screen door banged. “Kay? Ally? What are you two goofing about?” It was her dad. He still resembled a rodeo clown. He knew there were bulls that needed the distraction of hyperbole. He squinted at us on the lawn, the shirt and our bodies all akimbo. “The shirt attacked us,” said Kay hastily. “It was an ambush, Dad.”
“Stop your tomboy roughhousing and run it through the wash,” he chided. “I need that shirt for church tomorrow.” Then his eyes crossed from Kay to me, and I saw his shoulders buckle, the invisible oxbow of insight bearing down on him. I hated watching men go limp. It was easier to see their rage, the way they punched their hands through the veneering of thin signatures, goading girls along. That night I curled up next to Kay in Grandma’s spare bed, rubbing on a pillow between my legs as she slept. I felt the heavenly spirit light up my groin. I wanted Kay to watch me.
In the morning, Kay and I zipped up our desire in Sunday clothes. Church was a reminder that we didn’t believe in the literal body and literal blood. We didn’t think Jesus inhabited stale crackers the way Catholics did. Instead, we put our faith in symbolism. In the hard pews, our bodies were sterile Mason jars of seductive fruit, in cellars for times of famine. We let hunger build in us until tornadoes pushed us down into places of relief. We waited until the funnel clouds unleashed their angry cunts on tiny houses that fell like paper screens. Then we still ate bland casseroles.
In spite of our lawn wrestling – and whatever he thought he saw – Kay’s dad was kind to us. Kay had washed and ironed and starched his shirt and laid it out that morning. She made him Sunday breakfast of sausage and eggs and orange juice and milk. She put triangles of toast on four points of the plate, like black tabs that hold yellowed photographs. A sweet man, he knew the world was made of bulls and cowboys, and one could only stave off the bulls for so long. He sensed the way things were moving, and he directed the flow then scurried over fences, so as not to be gored. He let Kay go her own way. After church, he wiped his brow and said, “This is some lunatic heat. You girls ought to head to the swimming hole.”
“You think?” Kay said giddily. On Sunday, we always helped our aunts with chores – sorting Amway goods, mashing potatoes, snapping the ends off of beans. Although the city was sprawling, and our church had a brochure in Japanese, life on the farms hadn’t changed much. Kay and I liked the routine, the old houses dotting the landscape and the mores that held us safe and still.
“When your folks were young, it was a veritable tradition,” he said to me. “Swimming after service. They called it ‘into the baptismal.’ I used to go with them too, before I ran off with the rodeo.”
I found it peculiar that Kay and I were still modest enough to turn our backs when we changed into swimsuits. Hadn’t I touched her wet spot the day before? Her father was right about the lunatic heat. Thinking of how I touched Kay made me feel a psychotic hunger in my crotch. I turned my back and stuck my legs through my swimsuit, looking at the prayer hands. When I straightened up and spun around, Kay was gawking. She looked flustered. She gathered her clothes and towel and said, “Your boobs look huge in that, you know.”
I hadn’t noticed but she was right. Our bodies were filling out. I couldn’t remember a time in life when I didn’t feel watched, and yet, the awareness that Kay had ogled me made me unduly shy. We walked on the grass beside the road to avoid hot asphalt but then got scratched by weeds and a few disorderly corn stalks. At the swimming hole, Kay grabbed the rope and swung into the water with a splash. “Come on, co
wgirl,” she said, grinning. It was too early for the gossipy crickets, and the pond was as smooth as a rolled crust. I was self-conscious about the way my boobs jiggled as I flew through the air and splashed in next to her.
“You’d better be careful at the city pool,” said Kay. “If you dive in that suit, those melons will pop out.” She wouldn’t stop talking about tits. She was leading me into a corral of wild horses with her. “How come yours are so much bigger, anyway? It’s not fair.” She grabbed one of her own while she spun her legs underwater like an eggbeater being slowly hand-cranked.
“No, yours are nicer,” I said, a little too rhapsodically. “They’re so even. They’re like halves of a whole.”
“A whole what? A whole ping-pong ball?” she replied. She created a fury of water, pushing it up into high feathers with her hollow palm. “Water fight!” I yelled. I lunged for her swimsuit to pull her under. And then one of her perky tits popped right out, and my hand accidentally scooped around it. Buoyancy directed everything, and I felt out of control, like I hadn’t even guided my own hand until it was feeling her up. Kay looked stunned, staring at my fingers. I felt her nipple harden and I rubbed some friction against it with my palm. “Are you crazy?” she said angrily, and shoved me away.
But it was obvious that my hand and her breast belonged together, the way certain eggshells once held hard-boiled eggs. She was my cousin but was adopted, so the fit did not feel familial. Her skin was as black as night-burned country asphalt, and mine was pale as flour: nobody mistook us for blood kin. I wasn’t hurt by her rebuff. I felt calm right then. Kay was kicking to the side of the pond, her tits tucked properly back in her suit. Until that contact, I had felt the uneasiness of being lost. It was what I often felt when I rode my bike along unmarked roads through the uniformity of cornfields, and then suddenly, saw the sun pass the crest of the sky and fall west, so that west was a definite direction. I always knew to turn west then, even if I didn’t know which road I was on, and the turning made the journey more enjoyable, better than one without the scramble and fear.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 43
