“Holy Christ,” Bertrand said.
“Wow,” Paulina said, breathing heavily. “Wow.” Then she added, “I’d like a little wine.”
Bertrand did the honours and brought us our glasses of wine. He topped us off with more Font-Mars and then we clinked our glasses in a toast. “To the baby eggplant,” I said. “Cheers, Paulina.”
She took a few sips of wine and then set her glass aside. She stripped off her stockings then scooted her bottom to the very edge of our kitchen island. She planted her heels wide apart and propped herself up in a half-sitting position. She bore down hard, until her anus was pushing open. She pushed and then pushed harder still. She grunted and groaned. She held her breath at times; then let her breath go and panted hard. She spit on her fingertips and began rubbing her clit. But it wasn’t coming. She let her clit alone and pushed some more.
I privately worried that the thing was stuck in there and would never come out; then what would we do? Take her to Beth Israel? It was the closest hospital . . .
“Oh shit,” she finally squealed. “Yes .”
And we saw it, big and purple and round, crowning in her hole.
“Oh God,” she groaned deeply, her whole body relaxing. But then it disappeared again. It still wasn’t coming – it had slipped back up the canal. For a moment, Paulina did nothing. She was pacing herself, it seemed; she caught her breath. Then she bore down again and there it was, pushing her vagina open, really coming out now. She cried out and the pitch of her cry made my heart race. And then, for a few moments, she didn’t move and the eggplant sat there, right in her hole, opening her impossibly wide. I realized then that I was holding my breath, my mouth was filled with wine; I couldn’t swallow. I looked quickly at Bertrand and understood him a little better then. His eyes were glued to the sight of Paulina’s stretched vagina; he wasn’t swallowing either but his right hand was back underneath his apron.
Paulina gave a final grunt, a final push and, to our relief and delight, the eggplant popped out and headed straight for the kitchen floor.
The bottle of Font-Mars was long gone; we’d moved on to a Cavalchina Bardolino. Bertrand had settled on grilled brined salmon fillets for dinner with a fresh dill and fennel relish, roasted stuffed onions, green beans and chive and parsley mashed potatoes. Our amuse-bouches had turned out to be delightful: mesclun and ricotta salata on grilled garlic toasts. The wine suited it all to perfection. We ate leisurely, sitting in the overstuffed chairs by the fire, our plates spread out on the large coffee table before us.
Rather than putting her clothes back on, Paulina passed the remainder of the evening in one of Bertrand’s white, button-down shirts. Of course it was much too big for her and she looked adorable in it. The shirt held the added advantage of falling to the floor in a heartbeat, as well. It wasn’t long after our meal that we were feeling amorous for one another again. We were more subdued after two bottles of wine and a good meal (light as it was) than we’d been earlier in the kitchen, but we still had a grand time.
Understandably, Paulina was too worn out for traditional intercourse, so she and I concentrated mostly on using our mouths on each other. Until Bertrand wanted to have her the back way and she was game. It aroused me no end – watching the two of them together. They enjoyed their passions so thoroughly; they made such noise. Paulina was a good sport all the way around. She spent most Sunday evenings at our apartment after that, usually spending the night. We didn’t always start out in the kitchen on her nights with us but when we didn’t, it was solely because we were dining in bed . . .
In the many weeks that followed, we experimented with all sorts of vegetables, helping Paulina give birth to quite an unusual selection. We had such great times with her, in fact – that and she’d lost the lease on her pricey uptown apartment – that in March, we asked her to move in and were delighted when she did.
One rainy night when we were feeling contemplative – the dinner had been heavy: a beef ragout with a Saint-Emilion – Paulina lamented once again that she had never given birth the real way. “I never got to breastfeed my baby,” she said. “I really wanted to experience that, too.”
As usual, Bertrand and I glanced at each other, reading each other’s thoughts. Paulina’s breasts were so full and exquisite, her nipples so responsive, that nursing would likely have sent her into orgasmic bliss in record time.
“In my country,” she assured us, “women can give milk without being pregnant. It is not necessary to be with child in order to give milk.”
We were sceptical, Bertrand and I. The following day, over the telephone, we consulted with some fetishists we knew on East 9th Street and they, in turn, assured us that it was true. The trick, they said, was to fool the pituitary gland into thinking Paulina had an infant to nurse.
Really? This was certainly news to us. But intriguing news; exciting news!
“It would require constant suckling, of course, maybe even for a couple of months. Do you think you’re up for the task?”
Constant suckling at Paulina’s breasts, her ecstasy so contagious that it would nearly make us come, as well? We hung up the phone. Our mission was clear: we would suck on Paulina’s nipples, night and day, until the milk came out. It was a mission that suited us thoroughly. And as luck would have it, in late spring, when Paulina’s milk finally came, I found myself with child. Bertrand and Paulina couldn’t have been more pleased. With Veuve Cliquot, they joyously toasted the baby’s conception. Though no less joyous, I abstained, however, from the champagne and thought instead of the moment of birth, contemplating ecstasy.
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
The Philadelphia Flyers had come into the new hockey season ranked down at the very bottom of the Eastern Conference, but Connor Moore, a die-hard Flyers fan, knew there was still plenty of time left in the season for them to get back on top. He was determined to get to the arena in plenty of time for today’s face-off – the Flyers were playing the NY Rangers at five o’clock. Another snowfall was heading toward Hellertown, but Connor was undeterred. They would make it to Philadelphia come hell or high water – or even more snow.
Kaylie Moore, Connor’s wife, was less than a die-hard hockey fan. She didn’t hate it; she simply didn’t love it. But she did love Connor and after three years of marriage and two years of steady dating, she’d gotten used to his devotion to the Flyers, to his love of the sport. She saw the home games as a way to spend time with her husband, if nothing else. Still, sometimes his fanaticism drove Kaylie a little nuts. Here they were, already getting into the car.
“Don’t you think that two o’clock is a little early to be leaving, Connor? The game doesn’t start until five. We’re only about an hour away.”
Connor slid into the driver’s seat and pulled closed the car door. “I’m leaving plenty of time for bad weather and – I thought I’d surprise you.”
This perked Kaylie’s interest. “Really? Surprise me how?” She fastened her seatbelt.
“We’re taking the scenic route. I thought I’d go 611 the whole way instead of the freeway. How does that sound? And we can stop at that old barn thing you like – that farmer’s market.”
It was a very nice surprise. Kaylie was amazed that he’d even thought of it – on a hockey day, no less. “I’ll bet 611 will be beautiful in this snow, but I don’t think the market is open in the winter time, Connor.”
“Sure they are.” Connor put the car in reverse and backed down the long graveled driveway to the semi-rural street they lived on, Fullerton Way. “There must be something farmers can sell in the winter. You know, stuff they ship in from California that we could buy cheaper just about anywhere else. It’s the ambiance we’re after here and I’m sure they’re well aware of it, even in winter. Farmers can be pretty shrewd.”
Kaylie smiled in spite of herself. “Pretty shrewd” was her husband’s pat way of describing anyone whose crafts, food, folk art, or furniture were packaged in just the right way to
get Kaylie to part with her hard-earned money. The Amish, the Quakers, and now, apparently, the farmers were all “pretty shrewd.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “Thank you for thinking of it.”
“I just wanted to make sure you knew that I wasn’t totally self-centered. I know I’ve seemed like it lately.”
“It’s not that, Connor. I don’t think of you as self-centered.”
“As what, then – afraid? Is that how you think of me?”
“Yes, maybe a little afraid.” She was quick to add, “But that’s okay.”
“It’s okay because I’m a man, you mean? We’re all afraid of having children?”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“Then it’s not the children we’re afraid of, per se –” Connor drove east on Fullerton Way, past the old filling station that was now called Rosie’s Bar & Grille. “It’s the cost of children, the permanence, the un-ending responsibility of them; that’s what we men are afraid of, right?”
Kaylie looked away from him and made sure not to sigh. Sighing usually made Connor feel guilty and then this never-changing discussion they seemed to have almost daily now would morph into an argument and Kaylie didn’t want that, least of all today when he was trying so hard to be a good egg about everything.
“You’re allowed to respond, you know, Kaylie; you don’t have to sit there and just stare out the window. We can talk about this, can’t we, without getting into a fight?”
It was such a loaded topic that Kaylie couldn’t help herself now, she sighed.
“What?” he said, sounding exasperated already. “I know you want to have a baby.”
She looked at him. “We want to have one.”
“Right. We want to have one. Just not –” Connor caught himself before he said it but it was too late.
“Just not now.” Kaylie finished his thought for him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“What are you saying then, Connor? Just tell me.”
“I’m thinking about it. That’s all.”
Kaylie thought this was either very promising news; that he was seriously thinking about it, about being agreeable, finally, and trying to make a baby with her. Or it was merely another stall tactic. She decided to think positive and leave well enough alone for now. No reason to push him if he was indeed trying to be agreeable. “Thanks, Connor,” she said. And she thought it would be best to change the subject for a while. “So how are the NY Rangers ranked right now?”
“Third.”
“Wow. This should be a good game.”
“It sure will,” Connor agreed. “I’m excited.” At the flashing yellow traffic light, he veered left, toward 611 and the Delaware River; it would be the river and trees and then pastoral foothills from here on out, and all of it, except the madly rushing river, was frosted with a light layer of still-white, two-day-old snow.
Kaylie loved snow, and she loved taking the scenic route anywhere. She hated freeways. She especially loved taking 611, following the bends in the river. In the early days of their marriage, she and Connor used to take a lot of drives along the Delaware, stopping for picnics or to take hikes along the old canal. They hadn’t done anything like that in a long while. Now, seeing it all dusted with snow made Kaylie’s heart happy; her perspective freshened on everything. And it brought back memories, to boot.
“Remember that time—” she began.
Connor cut her off. “Yes,” he said, smiling. “I do.”
She smiled back at him. She was feeling her hormones stirring but she didn’t want to say anything about it. She was ovulating; it would be sure to lead to a huge argument as soon as he found out. Better to change the subject again, but she didn’t feel like talking about hockey. She wanted to have a baby. In all honesty, it was all she thought about anymore.
Not privy to his wife’s thought processes Connor was still on the topic of memories. “We were pretty bold that day, weren’t we? I mean, even for us.”
“I guess so,” Kaylie replied distractedly.
“You guess so? Jesus, Kay, that’s understating it. You know, I think about that day from time to time and I still get off on it.”
This took her aback; she thought she’d been alone in that secret pleasure. “You do?”
“Yeah, I do. That was so hot, don’t you think? I get a lot of mileage out of that memory. You were such a wild little girl that day. Not that you aren’t all the time,” he added playfully. “You just outdid yourself that time – and in public, no less.”
“It was hardly ‘in public’,” she said, suddenly feeling shy about it. “We were simply outside.”
Connor reached over and squeezed her hand. “Hey, you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
The simple touch of his hand on hers gave Kaylie that spark; it ignited somewhere between her heart and her belly, and the sudden clarity of the memory overwhelmed her in its intimate detail. They’d been walking along the tow path of the old canal that day; it was late spring, warm enough to be walking without jackets for the first time that season. The sky had been that perfect shade of blue; the clouds, puffy and bright white. The air was filled with the scent of the first May blossoms and the river itself had smelled of spring; a thing alive and fresh and full of new promises. It had made Kaylie feel hungry for life – insatiable for it, in fact. One minute, she’d been kissing Connor; the next, she’d felt ravenous for his tongue. They were really kissing then – passionately, right there on the old tow path, out in the open. She was clinging to Connor’s neck and his hand was up under her T-shirt. The feel of his fingertips grazing her nipple, even through the lace of her bra, had set her on fire. She’d practically dragged him to the ranger station – a very small, very old clapboard house just off the main path – and thrown him down onto the grass behind the building.
For a mere moment, she’d confined herself to lying on top of him in the grass and kissing him like crazy. But it wasn’t long before he had her shirt pushed up, her bra tugged up over her tits and her tits exposed in the air – her tender nipple suddenly in his mouth and swelling from the intense pressure of how fiercely he was sucking on her.
She couldn’t stand it then. She’d reached behind her and unclasped the bra but even that had felt too constricting. She managed to pull the tee shirt and then the bra off completely. It had felt so liberating, she remembered; that was the exact feeling, to be suddenly topless in the warm spring air, with Connor so eager to devour her nipples. It had become quickly obvious that they were going to have to fuck – there was no doubt about it. She was too worked up.
Her hands were at his belt, unbuckling it. Abruptly, his mouth was off her. “Kaylie,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing,” she insisted – hurriedly, as she fumbled with his buckle.
“Not really.” He was mildly alarmed when he felt his zipper coming down. “It could be a couple things,” he stammered, feeling his cock spring out into the warm air. “Oh, Christ, Kay.” He gasped quietly; his head fell back into the grass as he surrendered to his wife’s mouth in utter delight. Her mouth felt so hot and so wet, and she was so greedy about it. She was really sucking on it, creating too much pressure, letting the head of his cock nudge way back in her throat.
“Shit, Kaylie, I’m going to come.”
It was happening too fast. Kaylie stopped. “No way,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t you do that to me, I’m too excited.”
“Kay, what you are doing?” Connor watched his wife with mixed feelings of shock and absolute arousal as she stood up and unzipped her own jeans and then pulled them, and her panties, all the way down. She kicked off her sneakers almost angrily, as if she couldn’t get them off her feet quick enough, and in a heartbeat, she was completely naked. Right out there in the open.
She looked so beautiful, so swept up in her own desire. Connor pulled her down next to him in the grass, then rolled on top of her and mou
nted her. Her pussy was soaking, completely ready for him. The slick hole opened around his cock and her heat enveloped him. “This is not exactly going to keep me from coming,” he’d warned her; her lips kissing his cheek, his chin, and then even his mouth as he spoke to her. “I hope you know that.”
“I know that,” she insisted quietly. “Just fuck me, honey. Be quiet and fuck me. Come whenever you need to.”
“You mean, in you?” he said in her ear; his voice sounding just as insistent – and just as breathless as hers. “You want me to come in you? It’s okay? It’s not your time or anything?”
“It’s okay,” she’d half-answered, half-cried that day as he’d suddenly gone at her with vigor. “You can come in me,” she’d said, “– oh god.” He was so hard and going in deep. She spread her thighs wider, hiked her legs higher; feeling him going really deep. “Connor, shit – oh god.”
She gripped him tight in her arms and then hugged her knees close to him, letting him go at her very hard and very fast, while she whimpered and cried in his ear in rhythm to every repeated thrust.
Miraculously, he had kept himself from coming right away. Once he’d found his rhythm in her, he’d kept it going, entranced by the sounds of her pleasure. He’d gone at her harder than he usually did; he’d felt that caught up in the rhythm of her cries. He’d never known her to sound so full of lust before. It had finally overwhelmed him.
He came in her, and even though she hadn’t come yet, she’d suddenly felt very exposed out there by the canal bank, on the grass behind some old ranger station – and she hadn’t thought to check if it was occupied or not. She’d hurried to get back into her clothes. It was not a moment too soon.
Connor seemed to be keeping pace with her reveries. “Do you think that the park ranger had been watching us the whole time?”
When Connor spoke, he startled Kaylie back to the present, back to the reality of the car, its heater on high as they drove along 611. It wasn’t spring, it was winter. There was snow out there along the canal now.
The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Marilyn Jaye Lewis Page 5
